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rocorambles · 3 years

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A Skulk of Foxes

Pairing: Kita x Reader

Prompt: Fantasy

Genre: SFW, Fluff, Fox Shifter Kita, Fantasy AU, Shifter AU

Summary: You moved to the woods to start fresh, begin a new chapter in your life. Little do you know just how much your world is about to change because of a skulk of foxes.

Author’s Note: This is my contribution for my HQ Discord Server’s SFW collaboration. There are so many talented writers on the server and I highly encourage you to check out the collaboration masterlist here to see how everyone decided to run with this prompt. (Masterlist goes live Thursday, October 29th 11:00pm U.K. time!)

You sigh with relief when you finally finish unpacking the last box of your possessions, stretching your aching muscles as excitement finally begins to bubble inside of you when you proudly look at your new home you’ve made for yourself. Reality is finally sinking in and your giddy with the feeling of a fresh start, a new beginning. The quaint little cabin is certainly different from the cramped modern apartment you had in the heart of Tokyo, but different is exactly what you need and you nestle into the cozy armchair by the window in your new living room, a cup of hot tea in your hands as you enjoy the silence of nature and the view of swaying branches.

If anyone were to have told you that you’d willingly choose to live in the middle of the woods by yourself a few years ago, you would have laughed. You were a city girl through and through and the idea of not being surrounded by the noise of traffic and crowds of people was baffling. But after your long-term relationship had taken a nosedive into the ground and crash and burned, suddenly the city felt suffocating, filled with too many memories, too many mutual acquaintances and when you had seen this listing on your way back home from work one night, you had jumped at the opportunity to escape it all and start a new chapter.

Your new way of life takes some adjusting to, but you don’t mind as you pull on your new hiking boots, eager to explore the acres of wooded lands you’re surrounded by. The air is crisp and fresh, and you inhale deeply, soaking in the peaceful quiet only interrupted by the crunching of dirt and grass under your feet. And that’s how your days idle by, you scoping out the area in the early mornings as the sun is rising with your trusty nature handbook you’d bought in one hand, a basket in the other hand as you look back and forth between the herbs and plants you see and the painted illustrations and tips in the book, returning with a bundle of freshly picked produce before signing onto your work computer and dutifully putting in your hours. It’s a tiring grind, but when you finally get to power down your laptop and sit outside under the bright night stars with a glass of wine in your hand, it doesn’t seem so bad after all.

You get savvier and more adventurous, really leaning into country living as you begin to grow your own vegetables and fruit, set up a fire pit, plant flowers that you use to spruce up your living space. It’s a wonderful life, but there’s only one slight concern in the back of your mind.

The foxes.

Growing up in the city, you’d never learned how to handle animals other than the rats and roaches the concrete jungle was infested with. Sure, you love your share of fluffy dogs and cats that you’d pet and play with, but there’s a big difference between domesticized pets and wild animals and you had noticed early on that your neck of the woods seemed to be rampant with foxes. You wonder if it’s just the fact that you’d never seen a fox in real life before, but you can’t help but think these foxes seem much larger than your usual fox, their fur and eye colors ranging far more than you thought was biologically possible. But even though they seem to like hovering around you and watching you intently from a distance, they never draw near and they leave your gardens alone, so you dismiss their presence, letting them do as they please as you go about your own business.

The weather’s getting colder and you figure now is the time to test the fire pit you’d built. It takes a bit of fumbling around, but you beam with pride when you get a flame started, mesmerized by the flickering light and warmth beginning to billow. And although the wind has a bite to it, the radiating heat keeps you comfortable as you roast the chicken you had bought in town, mouth already watering as the smell of cooked meat begins to permeate throughout the air. But you’re startled when two furry bodies suddenly brush up against you and you stay perfectly still, unsure what to do when a gold fox leaps into your lap, curling into a fluffy ball as he stares at you while a silver fox calmly sits next to you, nudging your hand with his head in a silent order to pet him and you tentatively scratch behind his ears, staring in awe as he leans into your touch.

For wild animals, they’re oddly well behaved and affectionate and you’re frankly stunned that they hadn’t just pounced at the raw meat and ran away with your dinner. But you’re not complaining and you continue petting them as your meal continues cooking, only stopping to their dismay when the chicken is ready to be cut up. Your heart breaks a bit when you see them staring expectantly at you and you swear they're both pouting as you make a move to bring the chicken inside the house, but their ears perk up when you leave your door open and beckon them inside and they’re quick to race towards you, rushing between your legs before making their way to your dining table and jumping up on the extra chairs you have set. It’s certainly an odd sight to see two large wild foxes easily make themselves at home, but you can’t help but fondly smile at them when you prepare three plates of food and they eagerly dig in.

They’re surprisingly neat about eating and it’s almost eerie how they seem to purposefully keep the scraps and bones on their plate, almost human-like the way they grab your napkin, using it to wipe their mouths and paws. Maybe they used to be someone’s pets? But you don’t dwell on it, enjoying the company they provide as they curl up by your feet as you wash the dishes, as their feet pitter-patter after you as you do some errands around the cabin and you’re almost sad when they nudge you to the door, waiting for you to let them out before you go to sleep.

You quickly realize there’s nothing to be sad about, not when you have a furry entourage that walks beside you whenever you’re outside, not when bodies are weaving in between your legs, almost threatening to trip you with how excited they are to play with you, not when heads are constantly butting against you, begging for pets. It seems like your two friends had spread the word and now you have a whole slew of friendly foxes wanting to get to know you better and you love every second of it, even building a little door for them to easily walk in and out of your cabin and it becomes a common occurrence for you to wake up to fluffy bodies curled around your body, for foxes to be perched on your dining room chairs at meal times, for you to have a lap full of needy foxes wanting your attention when all your bellies are full.

But there’s one fox who keeps his distance from you and even though he’s not the largest of the bunch, even you can sense the quiet authority he has as the other foxes are quick to lower their heads submissively and run to him when he barks at them. Even the golden fox who you’ve come to pinpoint as the troublemaker of the group seems to quiet down a bit around him and one day when he’s being just a tad too rowdy with you, nipping you harder than usual as he excitedly pounces on you, he immediately whines and sinks his head into the crook of your neck in apology when the light gray leader harshly growls at him. You affectionately pet the sad gold pile in your arms and verbally assure the gray fox that you’re fine even though you’re sure that he can’t understand a word you’re saying, but to your surprise, as if he comprehends exactly what you’re trying to convey, the gray fox relaxes a bit and lies back down, going back to quietly watching his pack and you.

The weather’s becoming frigid and you know it’s silly to worry about clearly healthy and strong wild animals who’ve fended for themselves their whole lives, but you can’t help the pang of concern you have for your furry friends as snow begins to creep in. However, in hindsight, maybe you should have been more concerned for yourself. It’s an especially brutal day and you really shouldn’t be outside at all, not with the wind whipping at neck breaking speeds and torrential amounts of snow pouring down, but like a true city idiot, you’d procrastinated about restocking your wood supply and now with nothing left to keep you warm, you have no choice but to venture out and collect as much as you can to at least keep a fire going on during the worst of the snow storm.

You pride yourself on knowing the woods like the back of your hand now, but the pain of the wind whipping your face and the never ending white in your vision as the snow keeps on coming down makes it hard to concentrate, makes it hard to orient yourself and as the frost begins to get to you, making you shiver, making you lose all train of thoughts other than the fact that you’re literally freezing to death, you panic. You’re frozen stiff as you wildly circle around, trying to calm the swirling dark thoughts in your head as you try to make sense of where you are, but it’s no use. Everything looks the same now and you think you might be sick from the rocketing anxiety inside of you, but you’re pulled back to reality by a harsh tug at your coat sleeve and you almost sob in relief when you see a familiar light gray pelt tipped with black.

Brown eyes look imploringly at you as he gives your sleeve another harsh tug and that’s all the encouragement you need to stumble after him, trusting him to bring you back to safety. Your legs are numb and there’s not a hint of grace in your steps and for a second, you’re afraid of falling behind, but your heart warms at the way he makes sure to never be more than an arm's length in front of you, always turning his head back to make sure you’re still right behind him, nipping insistently at you when you pause for too long. And even when you finally reach your cabin, he practically shoves you through your door with his whole body, almost ripping your clothes as he rapidly helps you remove your soaked through clothing.

You’re shocked to see him still standing outside your bathroom door when you finally step out of the warm water, but still overwhelmed and exhausted by the day’s events, you only briefly acknowledge him as your body barely makes it to your bed before collapsing. And as your eyes shut and you slip under a heavy cloud of sleep, you swear you feel arms and hands rearranging you, carefully tucking you underneath your blankets, propping your head up on a pillow. You swear you hear a male voice scolding you for putting yourself in danger, telling you to rest. But too exhausted to open your heavy lids, you chalk it up to your imagination before completely drifting off.

You’ll never be able to fully explain what happened as you finally wake up only to find that a fire has been started, a healthy supply of dry wood set up by it, your wet clothes hung up to dry, but unable to really remember much after you’d been guided back to your cabin, you think you must have just been working on auto-pilot before you passed out. (Never mind that you certainly don’t remember collecting that much wood.) But with no better explanation, you let it be, just glad to be safe and warm. And it seems like you’re not the only one happy to still see you alive and kicking as familiar visitors come by to check in on you and you have a strange suspicion that they’re worried about you, even the gold fox being more docile than usual as he cuddles with you. To your surprise, their leader also pays you a visit and you can’t help but feel chastised when you thank him for rescuing you, only to get a sharp nip and a growl in return and you swear he’s glowering at you. But it seems that all is forgiven when he shoves the gold fox out of your lap and regally takes his place, curling up and falling fast asleep on top of you.

They never let you leave your cabin alone again that winter and it’s almost comical when they let out a series of howls as you climb into your car when you refuse to let even one of them ride with you. You wonder if an outsider would think you’re crazy as you speak to them, telling them you’d be right back after you pick up some much needed supplies and food from town that you can’t get by yourself in the woods. But eventually they quiet down and you chuckle when you see them all sitting outside your cabin through your rear car window, watching you leave, and you have a strong suspicion that they’ll be in the same exact position waiting for you when you return home.

The town’s small, but everyone’s so friendly and helpful that you don’t mind waiting a tiny bit longer in line as the sole cashier takes care of everyone, enjoying the friendly chitter chatter and catching up on what’s been going on. The sheriff greets you and you smile at the handsome man. Daichi had been one of the first people to go out of his way to greet you. “It’s a sheriff’s duty to know everyone in town,” he had said, but you had a feeling that sheriff or not, he’d still be friendly enough to try and get to know the new person in town. Conversation is pleasant as both of you share what’s been going on in your lives, but your heart drops when he warns you to be careful of poachers in your area. His team is still trying to find and arrest them, but until then, he cautions you from wandering too far from home. He continues rambling on, but you’ve completely tuned him out, your mind only thinking of your new furry family and everything is a blur as you shakily pack your car trunk and race home.

Relief floods through you when you see the foxes still lazing about and lounging in your yard, perking up at the sight and sound of your rapidly approaching vehicle. But their fur stands up and their tails rise in agitation at your distressed state as you usher them into the safety of your cabin and before you know it, you’re surrounded by multiple bodies whimpering and trying to jump on you to soothe you. You know it’s silly to talk to them and try to explain what’s going on, but with no other way to relay your feelings, you tell them what Daichi had told you, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes when you beg them to be careful, telling them they can use your house as a safe shelter whenever they need, and you don’t even realize that you’re almost completely sobbing until their light gray leader leaps into your lap and gently laps away your salty tears, nuzzling his face against your cheek as if he’s trying to comfort you. And whether or not that’s really what he was intending, you do feel better as you hug his large body close to you, burying your face into his soft fur.

You feel lighter after that night, still a little wary and concerned for your newfound friends, but days pass and life seems normal. You don’t hear gunshots. You don’t see strange men roaming through the woods. Daichi and you keep in contact and although he tells you they still haven’t caught the perpetrators yet, slight hope rises in you and you wonder if they’ve moved on to a different area. But your hopes are instantly dashed when you’re abruptly woken by paws frantically clawing at you, loud distressed howls right in your ear and with your heart thumping out of your chest you stare with wide bleary eyes at the gold and silver foxes nudging you out of bed, one leading the way, the other repeatedly rushing you, his head pushing against the back of your legs.

You have a bad feeling about what has them in such an uproar and you hate that your apprehension was warranted when you see their leader crying in pain, an ugly sharp metal contraption digging deeply into one of his front legs and suddenly you’re moving even faster than your furry companions as you lunge towards him, quickly, but carefully trying to assess the damage, trying to figure out how to untangle him from the horrid trap. You’ve just managed to pry open the trap enough for him to free himself and limp a bit aways when you hear the sounds of men's voices and approaching footsteps. And there’s nothing friendly about the way they’re shouting, nothing welcoming about the glint of their guns in the flashlight beams bouncing around, so before you can even strategically think about what you’re doing, you pick up the injured fox, careful not to jostle or touch his wound as you run as fast as your legs can move, not stopping even when your lungs are burning from exertion, even when you want to keel over from exhaustion, urged on and not allowed to slow down by the nips to your ankles the gold and silver foxes give you as they run alongside you.

Gunshots are whizzing around you, but you have the knowledge of the terrain and expert guides on your side and the angry screams get quieter and farther away the longer you race forward before soon enough there’s only your labored breathing and the tiny cries of the fox you’re holding to your chest. But despite that, you don’t slow down, throwing your front door open as you slowly lay the gray fox on your bed, rushing to grab your first-aid box while simultaneously calling Daichi, putting him on speaker phone as you wash the bloody matted fur. You know you must sound frazzled, distracted as you fumble with words, trying to give him the best approximate location you can of where you’d lost the poachers while you tenderly pet the whimpering fox who’s hissing with every wipe you give to his bleeding injury, but you thank whoever’s listening that Daichi makes sense of your stuttered words and tells you he’s on his way to scan the area and for you to get some rest before hanging up and leaving you to give your sole attention to your patient.

You whisper sweet encouraging words in a soft tone, apologizing and stroking his stomach everytime he winces as you continue cleaning his wound, but he stays perfectly still, not budging even an inch despite his discomfort and when you finally bandage him up, you smile as you see him finally slumping into your bedsheets, exhaustion finally catching up to him now that adrenaline isn’t amping him up and you can’t help the affectionate kiss you plant on his forehead as you tuck him into your bed, unaware of the way brown eyes stare at you in shock, unblinking as they process the intimate gesture you’d gifted him. And when you get ready for bed, shooing the other foxes out of your room to give your special guest some space and peace to fully relax, you’re still oblivious to the way a wet snout tentatively returns your gesture when you close your eyes, making light contact with your own forehead before curling his furry head underneath your chin and basking in your natural warmth.

It’s warm when you wake up, which is welcome when it’s frigid outside of the safety of your blankets and you instinctively lean into the source expecting to feel the familiar plush fur of the foxes who come to share your bed sometimes. But your eyes shoot open when you feel warm skin underneath your fingertips and you have to fight back the scream when you come face to face with a man you don’t recognize who’s groggily opening his brown eyes, your body scrambling backwards. Tangled in the sheets, you don’t get far and fear lances through you as you stare wide-eyed at the stranger beside you who’s...panicking even more than you are?

You pause in your escape attempt as you take a closer look at the man who’s frantically wrapping your blanket around his bare body, brown eyes staring at you in fear which is strange considering this is your room he’s intruding in. Common sense tells you to be wary and yet there’s something familiar about his eyes and when you finally take note of his light gray hair tipped with black and the bandage around his arm, disbelief runs through you as you tentatively approach his huddled form.

“Are you- are you the fox I took care of?”

Brown eyes warily observe you as you draw near, but they widen in surprise when your hand gently runs through his hair and you give him the same sweet smile you’ve always given him when he was in his fox form.

“You’re not scared of me?”

You laugh. “If anything, I’m more surprised than anything else. Care to explain?”

And spurred on by the hope that the human he’s come to love might actually accept him for who he really is, he is quick to tell you everything and anything and you listen in amazement as he tells you about shifters, how him and his pack are all fox shifters, how there are different types of shifters all over the world, how they’re much more common than humans realize. He tells you his name, Kita, and the names of every fox shifter you’ve met. He tells you about the awful history of humans hunting them down to sell on the black market which has led them to live as foxes, deep in the woods, away from any living soul. He tells you about how you’re the first human his pack has interacted with for years, the first human to gain their trust after years of loneliness, never being able to access or connect with their human side.

There’s a brief moment of silence as you take everything in, still softly carding your fingers through his hair. But the lingering question in your head finally slips out.

“Why did you reveal yourself to me now?”

And your lips quirk at the shy flustered expression on his face as he buries deeper into your cozy blankets.

“I was too exhausted to keep my fox form after everything that happened last night.”

But before you can tease him a bit more, there’s a knock on your door and you panic, unsure how to explain the unknown man in your cabin. However, it seems that you have nothing to worry about when you spin around, only to see Kita’s fox form nonchalantly curled up in your bed, looking at you with his own smug amusement at your gaping mouth. You rush to the door, Kita padding after you, a slight limp from his front leg and upon seeing the sheriff through your peephole, you greet him, giddy with relief when he tells you that they’ve managed to apprehend all the poachers thanks to your tip last night.

It never crosses your mind how strange it was that Daichi so easily arrested all the men despite your extremely vague directions and despite it being pitch black, but unknown to you, it’s easier than you think to maneuver through the dense night woods when you have wings. However, Kita’s more perceptive than you and when he scents the air, he looks in interest at the man who smells like a crow and brown and black eyes lock for a second as a hint of acknowledgement runs through Daichi’s eyes when the shifter inside of him sees the fox for what he really is. But it’s only a fleeting glance, too quick for your human eyes to notice, and Daichi parts ways, subtly nodding to the fox who’s currently laying on your feet before waving goodbye to you, leaving Kita and you alone once again. Well, maybe not that alone, you think, as a group of familiar foxes come racing towards the both of you once Daichi is gone.

Life is chaotic, in a good way, but chaotic nonetheless after that. It’s a new dynamic for all of you as you try to merge your two worlds and ways of life together. It no longer phases you when you see glimpses of naked men running here and there as they shift between their human and fox forms and you’ve learned to always have spare sets of clothing on hand to quickly throw their way when they do decide to take their human shape for a spin. Atsumu has finally stopped whining about not being allowed to sleep in your bed with you anymore after Kita had put him in his place and your face goes hot when you remember exactly what had transpired during that conversation.

When you had found out they were shifters, you found yourself being a little more self-conscious and self-aware around them. It seemed unbecoming of a woman to be sharing the same bed or changing in front of foxes that turned into handsome men and soon Kita was the only one allowed in your bedroom. Atsumu had howled and complained the first night that Kita slipped into your bed next to you, demanding to also be let in, questioning why Kita was allowed to sleep with you, especially in his human form. And suddenly feeling like a parent who suddenly has to explain the birds and the bees to their child, you grow flustered, unsure how to broach the subject. But sensing your panic, a large hand gently grabbed your chin, turning you until you were facing the serious countenance that you’d come to love, and in front of the still wailing younger man, he had captured your lips in a searing kiss before pointedly looking at a suddenly silent Atsumu.

“That’s why,” he had calmly said, but before he could even fully voice those two words, Atsumu had quickly retreated, closing the door behind him and leaving the two of you alone.

The two of you had skirted around directly talking about what was going on between the two of you, but that kiss had officially sealed the deal and you both stay up late that night, talking about your future life together, as his mate, as your boyfriend and it seems like unsurprisingly, Atsumu has run his mouth off and the whole pack is there waiting to congratulate you two on finally getting together the next morning.

And now here you are, living in a recently expanded cabin, loud and full of bodies, both furry and human. You take a sip of your coffee, rolling your eyes as you hear the twins bicker, a slight smile on your face when you see Aran and Suna in their fox forms, napping on the couch, the others sprawled out here and there as they cook and eat breakfast. But it’s the strong arms that wrap around your waist from behind, the mouth stealing a sip from your piping hot mug before burying his face in the crook of your neck and shoulder that makes your heart flutter and you turn to kiss Kita, melting into his hold as you both survey your new family, your new home.

#haikyuu fluff #haikyuu imagines #kita x reader #haikyuu!!#haikyuu #haikyuu scenarios #haikyuu writing #haikyuu fic #kita #kita shinsuke #kita shinsuke x reader #haikyuu x reader

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restlesslegs-uselesseggs · 3 years

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13years of WTF!?

I will, throughout my writing, try to keep my language as clean as possible but do not expect a rose tinted, rainbow and kitten encrusted outlook on how things are...It’s just not going to happen.

Being a noob, as the kids call it, at this whole blog thing I looked up blog prompts for chronic illnesses. Number 1 on the list was “write a letter to your pain”

uh huh. Well with time and a little exploration that may come later on but at the moment I want to document as best I can what actually has taken me to this point where I feel the need to talk about the issues surrounding chronic illnesses and mental health. Fun huh?

Oh! Before I start, an update on last nights adventures with the teeth and pains. I ended up collapsing on my sofa at around 4am with my body pillow folded over to create a mountain to sprawl on and my hooded jacket on for warmth on top of the heating I finally decided to put back on. This visual delight was after a long haul of microwave bean bags on my jawline, paracetamols, hot chocolates, whole cloves stuffed next to my gums (and when that seemed insufficient, ground cloves rubbed into my gums), raising, stretching and pounding of the legs that would just not give up and when that didn’t work, several trips walking around the ground floor of my little cottage with my eyes practically closed bumping into furniture and I still managed to wake up about half 7 to scramble into some clothes, hitch a lift into college and finish my ceramics class! Boom! Mic drop lol.

Also a good trick for anyone with gum or toothache, Sensodyne toothpaste...not just for brushing my friend! Rub some directly onto the area that hurts and it doesn’t completely go away but definitely takes the edge off. Safe to say I will making good use of Boots special offer of 2 for £7 at the moment.

Anyway, returning to the subject at hand. The title of this post can potentially be self explanatory, but if not here’s the deal. Yes, I spent 13 years of my life undiagnosed and unaware of my fibromyalgia condition. 13 YEARS PEOPLE!!

Reflecting back, my Drs and I feel that it probably started due to the trauma my body went through when I was pregnant and then the subsequent birth. No I’m not going to tell you how old I was but I was quite young. My body had already gone through some trauma however only around a year and half beforehand when I came down with Meningococcal Septicaemia, another one of my magical medical moments lol. About two thirds of the way through the pregnancy I started getting pain in the pelvic area and was finding it harder and harder to walk. Basically my bundle of joy had decided to press down on my pelvis which then subsequently snapped in affect and gave me the delight of continuing my pregnancy with Symphysis Pubis Dysfunction. I’d like to point at this point, I was a single mum to be living at home with mum and dad and my sister was my planned birthing partner. Hubby didn’t come into the equation until a month after the birth when he gallantly fell for me and took on my child as his own, and has ever since.

My pelvis reattached itself as it does with SPD but I then started noticing maybe 6 months into motherhood that I was getting pains in my legs while walking. Initially I was putting it down to the extra weight put on with the pregnancy that just wasn’t shifting but eventually, no matter how much walking I did, things just weren’t getting any better so I went to the Drs who then referred me to get an x-ray (which also was the last time I remember having a period, but that’s another story for the PCOS posts) . Everything was normal.

After that initial investigation most things are a blur as all I did was struggle on and on. We (hubby & I) were focusing on conceiving and with lack of periods etc nothing was happening and I went through countless blood tests and examinations and scans and consultations that I believe my brain has blanked most of it out. I do, however remember asking one of Drs whether or not they thought I was experiencing REALLY early menopause which was dismissed and which I’m still not convinced I wasn’t or am.

But I digress...

Through the past 13 years I have jumped from job to job, being employed, being unemployed, trying to earn from home etc as I had no further education and no career path in front of me and with each job something would suddenly make it all intolerable and undoable and I’d be wiped out and looking for something easier. To me though, I just thought it was normal to feel like this after having a baby and being a mum, no one said any different. It wasn’t until I started noticing, around 2 years ago now, the cognitive deficiencies that comes with fibro that I was really starting to go mad and knew something wasn’t right.

I wrote a list that was 2 columns, one A4 side of paper long of all symptoms and bodily functions that felt just were not right to my Dr, no joke and no I’m not a hypochondriac. More bloods were taken and surprise surprise, all normal. It wasn’t until i went to another Dr that things started to become clearer (and this is important, If you feel something just isn’t right and everything is coming back normal KEEP LOOKING FOR ANSWERS and definitely FIND THE RIGHT DR!! It makes all the difference).

My mum had been researching to help me too and we were comparing conditions and ticking boxes on what all this could be and Fibromyalgia ticked them ALL!! I didn’t mention it to my new Dr and with a tearful explanation of what had been going on with my body and brain and one look at her screen with my medical history on it she said...”Have you ever heard of Fibromyalgia?”

I’m not ashamed to tell you I burst into tears, flood gates were open and there was no turning back. My pains, my fears, my symptoms were finally being validated by a medical professional and I was NOT crazy!!

Since then my condition has been verified by a rheumatology consultant and I’m now on medication to help me through it and I have finally embraced the fact that I cannot stand by a regular job, not one that requires physical activity anyway and with no non-physical skill sets, opportunities are not a knocking.

So, here I am, returning to college to follow a creative dream of being my own boss as an artist, illustrator, animator and generally quirky in my own way.

That’s it for today folks and remember these crucial points...

1. DO NOT DISMISS WHAT YOUR BODY IS TELLING YOU

2. DON’T GIVE UP LOOKING FOR ANSWERS

3. KEEP CHANGING TILL YOU FIND THE RIGHT DR

4. DO NOT LISTEN TO SKEPTICS, THEY ARE NOT LIVING IT, YOU ARE

Speak soon peeps x

#fibromyalgia #fibro #howitstarted #pcos #keepgoing #fibrowarrior #infertility #youcandothis #findtherightdr #youarenotcrazy #chronicpain #chronicillness

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impressivepress · 3 years

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Exhibition Henri Matisse, le laboratoire intérieur

Throughout the artist’s life (1869-1954), drawing was a core discipline for Henri Matisse, for which he used a wide range of media (pencil, charcoal and stump, pen and ink, quill and brush ...) and supports (sheets from sketchpads, margins of letters, or fine art paper).

This continuous practice in the privacy of his studio was the laboratory for his work as a painter and for his sculpture – Matisse often compared himself to a juggler or an acrobat, daily maintaining the flexibility of his instrument of work. Matisse’s drawings surround, precede, accompany and extend other artistic forms in his oeuvre and also reveal themselves as independent constellations.

The exhibition illustrates the main moments in this artistic journey, arranged in fourteen thematic and chronological sequences: from the apprenticeship years at the very start of the 20th century, through to the studies for the chapel of the Rosary in Vence (1948-1949), the final masterpiece and culmination of an entire lifetime for Matisse. The suggested path identifies the pivotal points in Matisse’s approach to drawing – from the black of ink or pencil to the modulated white of paper, from the softness of smudged shadows to the light emanating from the final brush drawings, in relation to his experiments with colour in his painting or his work on volume in his sculptures. In the exhibition, each room offers a dialogue between drawings and paintings, etchings and sculptures, with works echoing each other and restoring something of the atmosphere of his various studios: Quai Saint Michel, in Paris from 1894, Issy-les-Moulineaux from 1909, Nice from 1918 until his death in 1954, with the exception of 1943-1948 which Matisse spent in Vence.

Learn. Unlearn

Henri Matisse is twenty-one years old when he goes to train in Paris. He attends evening classes at the École des Arts Décoratifs and at the École Nationale des beaux-arts, in particular in Gustave Moreau’s studio where he rubs shoulders with Albert Marquet and Georges Rouault. He was to stay there from 1892 to 1898, six years during which he works in the studio and assiduously visits the Louvre, where he copies the old masters, including Vermeer, Chardin and Raphaël. Copying gives him an occasional income until 1904, but is above all an essential exercise in the mastery of his craft. In addition to these figures from the past, he is hugely influenced by the great artists of his time, Paul Cézanne and Auguste Rodin, who help him formulate his own pictorial language. While Matisse had always assumed an artistic affinity with the old masters, in 1898 he casts off the weight of the past and escapes from it in all the genres he pursues: the self-portrait, landscapes from nature, or working from life with a model. In the early days, his work appears to be a long journey; he works from the major artists of the past and also with his contemporaries - he admires and challenges by copying, reworking and constantly questioning. And finally he unlearns from the masters.

The grammar of poses

In Matisse’s work, the period from 1904 to 1908 is generally associated with the advent of pure colour. During the summer of 1905, the artist worked in this direction, in the company of André Derain, at Collioure. It was in this mythical place that, under their impetus, fauvism was invented – a founding moment of modernity where colour ceases to bear any reference to local colour, where people and objects are indicated by signs, and where volumes and models are absorbed by the coloured surface. Thus, in La Japonaise: Woman beside the Water, colour and line, figure and decorative background become interchangeable, to the extent that they dissolve in a single movement. This apotheosis of colour is however intimately connected to drawing. These two skills feed the manifestly fauvist canvas The Joy of Life (1905-1906, Philadelphia, The Barnes Foundation), its genesis being evoked by a coloured landscape sketch and numerous drawings. The artist develops a repertoire of poses which he uses constantly throughout his oeuvre. In parallel to the paintings from this period, he also works on a group of three woodcuts, plus a set of small ink drawings. Here too, Matisse delves into his grammar of poses, exploring the ability of the black line to modulate the white surface and thereby give it a luminous, almost “coloured” quality.

A motionless dance

From 1906, Matisse concentrates more on the human figure and develops his creative process, alternating painting sessions with life drawing and sculptures. An overall logic unites these various media around the same conceptual approach to form. Pairs, or even series, can thus be organised around the major sculptures from this period. While Two Négresses reveals the artist’s attraction to African sculpture, they also reflect his interest in the theme of the back which he was to explore both in drawings and in paintings. It was again at the heart of the series of monumental sculptures, Back I, II and III, produced from 1909 to 1917 in step with the drawing-sculpture-painting chain focussing on this subject matter. Designed to be looked at from all angles, other sculptures from this period testify once again to Matisse’s interest in the plastic form of the back. This reflects – in Decorative Figure – a quest for monumentality and – with The Serpentine which was produced after The Dance I (New York, The Museum of Modern Art). In this continuity, a series of drawings is produced, centred on the theme of the issue of spatial expansion originating from the representation of a static figure - a motionless dance.

From portrait to face

Only late on does Matisse express his long-held interest in the “human face”. However, particularly between 1910 and 1917, he is encouraged by a group of fervent lovers of Byzantine art and disciples of philosopher Henri Bergson, who found the principles of a non-representative aesthetic in his art and sought to rethink the links between reality and perception. Matisse then embarks on a journey to develop and to get to the essential, reworking this specific theme in depth. In the portrait of Yvonne Landsberg, in 1914, in the drawing portraits of Eva Mudocci and Josette Gris in 1915, in that of Greta Prozor in 1916, or of George Besson in 1918, Matisse does not flinch from deconstructing and then recomposing his models’ faces, striping them right to the bone, producing unsettling works, often beyond the comprehension of their sponsors. He relies on the subtle use of different drawing methods, a practice he was subsequently to develop further and to theorise thirty years later, in his “Notes of a Painter on his Drawing”. Indeed, in the constellations of drawings and prints associated with the portraits from the period 1914-1916, a cinematography of snapshots already co-exists with a part of informed elaboration. It is thus in and by painting that Matisse finally accesses the spiritual truth of his models.

Trees and oranges

In the preface to the catalogue for the Matisse Picasso exhibition held at the Paul Guillaume gallery in Paris in 1918, Guillaume Apollinaire writes: “If one were to compare the work of Henri Matisse to something, one would have to choose an orange. Like an orange, Henri Matisse’s work is the fruit of dazzling light.” A recurring element which prevails, throughout his oeuvre, as a major subject in his compositions, orange is not a simple motif, which plastic possibilities Matisse explores: it is a real testing ground where the artist confronts the tensions in himself. Present in his early compositions, the fruit reappears during Matisse’s first visit to Morocco in 1912. The artist, in a difficult position due to the rise of cubism and futurism which call into question his role as leader of the avant-garde, will then seek to rethink his art in the light of the artistic tradition of this country. This experiment allows Matisse to set himself apart from the development of the avant-garde to better prepare himself to face it. During the winter of 1915, he travels to L’Estaque, in the footsteps of Paul Cézanne and Georges Braque. There, he abandons the motif of the orange, preferring instead that of the tree, its relationships between forms and forces allowing him to question the vocabulary of cubism. This subject was to occupy him again through force of circumstance : in this period of uncertainty marked by the First World War, active contemplation of nature offers Matisse the resources he needs to regain his equilibrium.

The life-drawing session

In late 1916, Matisse embarks on a new working method, a daily face-to-face, repeated for months and sometimes years, almost exclusively with one model, an Italian called Laurette. A professional model, paid by the hour, she poses for close to a year for around forty canvases, and particularly powerful charcoal drawings. Following the rupture marked by his move to Nice, where Matisse reconnects with the human figure, and during the whole of 1919, the young Antoinette Arnoud replaces Laurette. She inspires a remarkable series of drawings, sometimes worked in great detail, sometimes more elliptical, that Matisse decides to put together in an album published at his expense. Cinquante dessins par Henri-Matisse is objectively the first book composed by the artist, to the content and production of which he was completely committed. A demonstration of virtuosity, in an apparently classical mode, this album is however the contrary to a “return to order” – as Matisse’s period in Nice has often been described.

The odalisque form

Actress, musician and ballerina, Henriette Darricarrère becomes Matisse’s principal model from 1920 to 1927, her body alone incarnating the odalisque form. This word and this motif of odalisque, used by 18th and 19th century painters such as Boucher, Ingres and Delacroix, evoke the representation of nudes without sham mythologies, placed in an allusively oriental decor. In this tradition, Matisse inaugurates in 1921, with the Odalisque with Red Trousers (Paris, Musée national d’art moderne), a long series of works in which the odalisque is no longer a simple motif or an iconographic category, but a way of questioning the insertion of the figure in space. In his apartment, at 1, Place Charles Félix in Nice, Matisse even creates a bedroom like a theatre set, with a platform and decoration of fabrics and wall-hangings, to expose the nudity of the odalisque. Matisse examines the possible ways of achieving the tension of body and decor in various techniques – painting, sculpture, drawing and print – without establishing any hierarchy between them, but regarding them as joint methods of exploration. This series is part of the continuing personal quest of the Orient in relation to the decorative art, crystallised during this time of doubt and intense anguish, the Nice period, during which Matisse seeks to renew his approach by following the lessons of the old masters.

Metamorphoses. Nymph and satyr

Matisse develops the theme of the satyr charming a sleeping nymph, in parallel to that of dance, starting from his fauvist years with The Joy of Life (1905-1906). He reconnects with this motif in the illustration of “The afternoon of a satyr” for the Poems of Mallarmé published in 1932 by Albert Skira, which he creates in parallel to The Dance, a mural for the Barnes Foundation in Philadelphia (United States). Between May and June 1935, he re-engages with this subject once again, producing a series of charcoal sketches, the chronology of which is difficult to ascertain, as Matisse changed and reworked them constantly. Starting from a fairly traditional iconography of the satyr, the artist then stylises this figure, neglecting his traditional attributes (horns and goat’s hooves), to focus on the expressive lines of the body. In these compositions, he was to discover the memory of the work he had started the previous year, on illustrations for James Joyce’s Ulysses, for which he turned to Homer’s Odyssey. These elements reappear in the canvas Nymph in the Forest (Greenery), started in 1935 and pursued tirelessly through to the early 1940’s. Its variations around a single motif and its constant metamorphoses testify to the Matisse’s creative process, who stated: “At each stage, I have a balance, a conclusion. In the next session, if I find that there is a weakness in the entire work, I re-enter myself to my painting via this weakness – I enter via the breach – and I redesign the whole thing.”

The artist and his model, Lydia

A young Russian recently arrived in Nice, Lydia Delectorskaya is initially employed by Matisse as a studio assistant in 1930, while he is working on The Dance for the Barnes Foundation. Although she sits for the artist once in 1934, she really only becomes his model in the following year. In The Dream, he shows her in what is to be his favourite pose, her head resting on her crossed arms surrendered to the gaze. This canvas is Lydia’s inauguration into Matisse’s painting, to which she was to be intimately bound for the rest of his life. In the same period, he develops a series of enormously sensual line life drawings of her, in which he returns to the theme of the “painter and his model” and develops the deconstruction approaches started at the beginning of the century. The presence of a mirror in the composition allows the reflection of the model and the hints of the artist’s presence to be mixed in a continuum of lines, which he explores until 1937. It is at this time that Lydia poses again for a major canvas, Large Blue Dress and Mimosas, in which Matisse paints with relish the dress and the ruffles in a set of drawings seeking harmony between pose and facial expression.

The Romanian blouse

Matisse’s close relationship with textiles, culminating in the Romanian blouse series in 1936-1940, seems to have been triggered by his birth into a family of weavers, and confirmed by his path through life : Le Cateau-Cambrésis, Saint-Quentin, Bohain – all towns centred on bobbin lace factories , wool and textile mills. When he arrives in Paris in 1891, he starts to collect fabrics, wall-hangings and rugs – which would feed and support his artistic creation. In parallel, he builds up a wardrobe for his models, one which grows throughout the 1930’s, containing numerous Romanian blouses, which become a favourite element in his graphic vocabulary. His long-held interest in this item of clothing seems to have grown from his contact with Theodor Pallady, a Romanian painter and former studio comrade of Gustave Moreau, but also from the presence of Lydia Delectorskaya, a young woman originally from Russia, who was to become his favourite model. During this period in which Matisse was seeking a simpler structural method, the graphical aspect of the Romanian blouse allows him to explore a work of purification, down to the expression of simple signs, capturing the character of his subject in the most succinct way. The culmination of Matisse’s interest in textiles, the “ Romanian blouses ” series, also occurs at the time when he embarks on a more general reflection on the decorative, starting from the study of specific motifs.

Cinematography. Themes and variations

In 1941 and 1942, Matisse concentrates on drawing. And he produces hundreds, a “flowering”, as he was to say, comprising series in which the initial drawing is a charcoal study of the developed motif. Other sheets of paper then evolve from this work, as if traced by a blind man, in a state of extreme concentration: “drawings in pen or pencil are like the perfumes emanating from this first master drawing.” He was to return to this approach, referring to “a cinematography of the feelings of an artist. A series of successive images resulting from the work on a given theme by the creator.” Matisse wanted to show this culmination, reconciling the two methods of drawing in a book, Themes and variations. The preface, written by Louis Aragon, is the fruit of an intense dialogue between the painter and the writer. Started in autumn 1941, continued in spring 1942, in the darkest days of the war, this dialogue was to go on in a regular correspondence and discussion, commented by Aragon in Henri Matisse roman, published in 1971. Interiors in Vence. Colours, black and white The season of Interiors in Vence, the final “flowering” of Matisse’s painting, starts in the spring of 1946 and ends two years later with Large Red Interior. This canvas sums up this dazzling series and makes reference to the Red Studio from 1911 (New York, The Museum of Modern Art). A double series in fact, in which strongly coloured canvases are accompanied by large brush-and-ink drawings, with the same motifs: interior (studio) / exterior (garden), nudes, ferns or pomegranates, and always palm trees. Palm trees fill the windows of villa Le Rêve in Vence, into which Matisse settles in June 1943, following the threat of the German occupation of his apartment and studio at the Hotel Régina and afteran air raid at Cimiez. Between painting and drawing, Matisse plays masterfully with black and colour, line and mark, the light of white and that of black. The entire series, exhibited in 1949 is received with great public acclaim, first in New York at his son Pierre Matisse’s gallery, then in Paris at the Musée National d’Art Moderne.

From face to mask

After Louis Aragon, Matisse subjects the faces of his grandchildren to the process of “Themes and variations”. Both adolescents, Claude Duthuit and Jackie Matisse meet their grandfather once again after the separation during the war, in 1945 and 1947 respectively. He drew studies of them in charcoal, extensively worked, followed by quick variations in line, arising from successive sensations and transcribed immediately, as well as simplified “faces”, still portraits yet already masks. They all need to be viewed in relation to these words by Matisse: “The face doesn’t lie: it is the mirror of the heart.”

Vence Chapel. Colour and light

The Vence Chapel of the Rosary project arose from Matisse’s meeting with Monique Bourgeois, a young nurse who cared for him following a major operation in 1941, before becoming his confidante and model. Having joined the order of the Dominicans of Vence in 1946, she tells Matisse in the following year of her plan to extend the chapel of their congregation. With the assistance of Brother Rayssiguier and Father Couturier, the artist produces an initial drawing which is approved by architects Auguste Perret and Louis Milon de Peillon. From 1948 to 1951, Matisse also designs the stained glass windows and the ceramic panels opposite them, as well as the liturgical ornaments. The Vence chapel project allows Matisse to design a space in its entirety and to produce a pictorial language which is a synthesis of his work. As the artist expressed it : “In the chapel, my main aim was to balance a surface of light and colour with a solid wall, with a black on white drawing. This chapel was for me the culmination of a whole lifetime’s work for which I was chosen by destiny at the end of my road, which I continue by my research, with the chapel giving me the opportunity to define it by uniting it.” As a whole, the various preparatory studies for the ceramic panels, stained glass windows and the door of the confessional testify to the long process resulting in Matisse’s final monumental project.

Henri Matisse and Lyon

In January 1941, Matisse’s health deteriorates and he is rushed to hospital, initially the Clinique Saint-Antoine in Nice, from where he is subsequently transferred to the Clinique du Parc in Lyon. There, in 1941, he undergoes an operation for duodenal cancer, carried out by Professor Santy assisted by Professors Wertheimer and Leriche. Matisse “miraculously” recovers from this procedure. He leaves hospital in April and convalesces at the Grand Nouvel Hôtel, rue Grolée in Lyon, before returning to Nice in May. During this period, he has many talks with art critic Pierre Courthion, about Lyon, a “city through and through” which is described as “consistent”. It is at this time that René Jullian, the director of the Musée des Beaux-Arts in Lyon, approaches Matisse in order to acquire one of his works. In 1943, the artist sends the museum a copy of his book Themes and Variations, accompanied by a series of six original drawings produced for the book. From this time until 1950, Matisse sends his illustrated works to the museum, including the album Jazz, each bearing an inscription to the Musée de Lyon. The culmination of this relationship was the purchase, after lengthy negotiations, by Jullian in 1947, of a painting by Matisse: the portrait of the Antiquarian Georges-Joseph Demotte. This collection of Matisse’s works at the museum was to grow further in 1993 by the addition of Young Woman in White, Red Background, from the Centre Pompidou to which it had been gifted by the artist’s son Pierre Matisse.

~ From 2 December 2016 to 6 March 2017.

#matisse #artist biography #the chapel of the rosary #painting #mba lyon

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alitheamateur · 5 years

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Special Delivery

Warnings: Language, because well, Colton Ritter’s mouth.

Summary: Colton Ritter hates birthdays. Always has, and was determined he always would. His wife, however, cheeky with her newlywed bright ideas, makes it her mission to change his mind with a special birthday delivery.

A/N: I swear to you, the second part of The Grind-A Wedding is coming! But, sense it doesn't seem to be falling into place as quickly as I would like, I wanted to try and spread a little reward for my readers and their patience!

(gif not mine)

Colton Ritter was a bear about birthdays.

Was it the bitter swallow of becoming another year older? The fear that with age, would come the fizzle of his talents and abilities inside the cage? Was his ego simply weak to the thoughts of balding?

The reason a mystery, the fact a definitive reality regardless.

He wouldn’t eat cake because of a convenient ‘intermittent fasting’ that I wasn’t aware of until there was suddenly birthday cake involved. I tempted him with ice cream, his favorite, from the grocery store on 5th, and nothing broke his resisting stance.

This year, with a wedding, and a current pregnant under my belt, I was inflexibly determined make him appreciate the joys of a birthday. Knowing going after his sweet tooth was a bust, I let my brain storm, and mull over other ways to get him to finally smile on the 8th of September.

His belly may have been a dead end, but I knew one thirst that Colton could never truly quench.

Me.

One avenue of enjoyment that Colt always enjoyed exploring lie between my hips, and there was no amount of fight he could put up, and win, against it.

The day arrived, and I tested the waters at breakfast with a muffin and a candle for the occasion, only for it to be disregarded altogether when he strolled straight to kiss my neck as I poured his coffee. His pouty, gorilla grunts concluded his still present resentment towards the particular day of the year. I made a call-in to the bakery near the Pilot office before he woke, asking them to wait on standby with my order for a chocolate layered cake had things turned out different at this morning.

He trucked through the front door, gym clothes and a birthday card tucked away inside his duffle, not forgetting our routine morning game of ‘grab-ass’ before he left me to ready for heading into the office.

We could argue about the singing hallmark surprise over dinner tonight. While he nagged and grumbled about the balloon I planned to pick up on my way home.

I ended the call to the delivery service as I stepped into a hot shower, reiterating that his special birthday gift would be distributed today at 11:00 sharp, right before Colton was due to begin his kickboxing class. I was feeling less than desirable these with the stretches of our baby girl spanning over my belly, and swelling my tender breasts. Newlyweds, we were. And instead of leather garter-belts, and edible underwear, poor Colt was sleeping next to an oversized, less than new t-shirt I refused to let him throw out. He’d never go a day without asserting in every way possible that no matter what condition, my body only furthermore secured my goddess-status in his opinion. The lovemaking was, is, it’s, well clearly, there aren’t enough inappropriate words to illustrate what he does to me beneath the sheets of our bed. But, if a woman doesn’t see it, feel it herself that she’s marvelous, no amount of fervent praises can suffice.

So, this year, I’d give a gift to my newly crowned husband, with every intent to reinvent a love for birthdays, and maybe remind myself that I was fierce. The fiercest in all the land, and the fiend starring Colton Ritter’s wet dreams for the next 75 years.

I twiddled through the copy of an office memo brought to my desk this morning at least 32 times, never absorbing a single line of its contents. Rattling with the clock on my desk, I fiddled with the big hand, checking that it wasn’t indeed frozen in time for the last hour of work. I couldn’t get anything done, eager and dizzy with the apprehensive exhilaration for 11 o’clock to arrive, and Colton’s gift fall into his hands. I reminded the lady from my call this morning repeatedly that only Colton Ritter be responsible, no ifs, ands, or buts.

Colton

I hated these fuckin’ birthdays, damn it. I didn’t have a reason. It wasn’t about some suppressed scarring from my childhood because my parents never threw parties, or got me presents. As a matter of fact, Ma went all out with the stupid streamers, and the singing middle-aged men dressed in superhero costumes smelling like vodka. Something in me just hated the reminder that my life was drawing closer to an end. Especially now, since I actually liked the one I had. The one with Livvy, and little my Livvy, due in a few months.

And of course, the evil little minx had to go and remind everyone down at 21 Punches what today was, including Mac who led the stupid birthday song before the door had even shut behind me this morning.

Liv had been a little deflated this morning when I brushed off her subtle hints that she wanted to celebrate the day for me, and the more I stewed on it, the bigger my head grew into a dick. Maybe with her at my side, now as my wife, I should give this whole thing I try? I never want to be the reason her sideways smile fades again.

Just as I was about to tuck my phone into my desk drawer after sending her an apology text for the less-than-grateful behavior earlier, someone rapped a knock on my unlatched office door. I pulled the handle to, confused at the sight of a post-man standing in waiting, and even more confused at the large package tucked under his arm.

“Hey man. You could’ve left that at the front desk, no need for you to carry this shit across the building,” I signed his chipped clipboard.

“Special orders that this be delivered solely into your possession, Mr. Ritter. Have a good one, sir.”

I felt along the hard edges of the package, gently molding my hand around its shape to make sure it wasn’t some gag from one of the fighters on roster for my birthday. There was a tag dangling off the red bow, and I pulled the paper loose, careful to close the door behind me before I opened what was inside.

Happy Birthday, old man.

You only get better with age, my love!

Just a little something for you to look at….

Liv

Beautiful, stubborn, and persistent, she was.

I smiled, the way I always do when Liv wrangles me by the balls and just does whatever she damn well pleases whether I like it or not. The crisp paper was neatly creased at the four corners, secured with too much scotch tape for my patience, or lack thereof. So, I simply tore through the middle, short on time, and short on amusement with whatever Liv was playing at.

The image seemed abstract, or obscured initially, but I thought somewhere hidden in the black and white mess I saw long, blonde hair… Shifting the canvas, and tossing the paper in the can of trash beside my desk, my teeth gnawed suddenly.

My eyes instantly alert, and aware at the image before me, and my cock seeming to bust up in and all out hard-on without warning. The slight haze from sunshine beating through the window she looked to, made her glow. White light snuck into every curve of her body, except for the round, need-to-be-bitten curve of her perfect backside, barely covered by the taut lace of her bodysuit lingerie. Her veil grazed the silken, flushed flesh of her arms, and her hair at perfect length hid her angelic face. I touched the picture, wishing I could brush it back and see the soft look of slight, bashful pink on her cheeks, and that heart-shaped gap between her swollen lips. She was an angel caught in front of a lens, with every intention to drag me to the sinful, tight darkness between her thighs.

This, is how I want to always remember her. Draped in white, goosebumps mounting across her rose-smelling skin, bare. The image captured the essence of where every light in my life came from.

I was moved by the innocence of her sweet, almost timid, oblivious sexiness in front of me. But, the way she was mounted on both of her knees, eyes down like she was waiting to be taken by a dangerous, lethal storm like myself, motivated my insides to painfully pump. Refusing to turn loose of the picture, I searched blindly inside my desk for my cell.

“Hey, birthday boy…” She impishly chided. As if her intent to drive me off the fucking wall with this little delivery of hers wasn’t already clear, the way I could hear her biting her lip as she fiddled with her keyboard secured my assumptions.

“Hey yourself, you little troublemaker.”

Fuck. The giggles… Her laugh was connected with every muscle of control over my dick.

“Troublemaker? I have no absolute idea what you could possibly be referring to, husband of mine.”

“No? So, some other delicious blonde in Pittsburgh with ass for days sent over this glorious fuckin’ photo sitting on my desk right now?”

I heard her gasp as if someone could eavesdrop on the awful things I said to her.

“Okay. Maybe I had a little something to do with that.”

“Oh, I know that for certain, baby. I’ve seen those hands wrapped around me enough to recognize ‘em.”

“Colton Ritter! You know, they say the baby can hear inside the womb. Your poor daughter...” Liv squealed, words on the cusp of a whisper.

“Then I suggest we buy some ear buffs to put over your little belly tonight. I wouldn’t want our girl to hear all the awful things I’m going to have her mommy screamin’.”

“Happy birthday, you sex-crazed pig.”

“I can’t help it my wife is smokin’. And Livvy?” I questioned to her.

“Yes?”

“Thank you. This birthday thing may not be so bad after all now that you’re around.”

TAGS: @miidailyinspiration @torialeysha @mollybegger-blog @eap1935 @littleluna98

#Tom Hardy #tomhardy #tomhardyfanfiction #tomhardyfanfic #thegrind #Elizabeth Olsen

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afreakingdork · 5 years

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So this isn’t really a review as it is more a rant. I had a reaction last year that was very dangerous and it has taken me a long time to recover. When I am not feeling good I love turning to cartoons because they represent low stress and easy on the mind entertainment when everything else seems out of control. I cut the cord with cable years ago and I only have Hulu and Netflix to turn to for entertainment. I am a huge buff when it comes to cartoons in general and I even ran a club back in my college days dedicated to teaching others about the joy of cartoons, but recently I took on watching Twelve Forever on Netflix, a show that if you remember was posted as a short back in 2016 for Cartoon Network to pilot test new shows (a practice they have been doing for a hot minute now). Now I am going to put a majority of my rant under the cut just in case people don’t want to look at the text but I will simplify my point here (feel free to stop reading if you disagree). I don’t like the message that this show portrays about vices and growing up...

Now I have done the basic research and I understand the creator’s past issues with alcohol. Now because of that fact I would assume this was a direct correlation in a show about escaping the real world, but instead we are left with 25 episodes where Reggie doesn’t really learn anything. Reggie is a selfish character and an outcast. I totally get it, I was a wild child myself and I couldn’t care less if I had friends or didn’t. One time my mom tried to punish me by taking everything out of my room, but my imagination was so strong that I was having a blast playing with literally nothing. I see myself in Reggie in so many ways, but there are many ways I don’t. She is incredibly selfish as Todd kindly points out. She is so selfish that it manifests in the show via the fact that Ester is constantly trying to put some meaning into Endless. It takes all the way until the end of the series to even find out how Reggie made a way for herself to enter even though Ester has been asking those questions all along. Reggie constantly just brushes any comments about Endless away with an ‘I don’t care’ or ‘It’s more fun to accept Endless the way it is,’ which is awful considering how dangerous Endless actually is.

A big departure from the short is the added gross-out humor that wasn’t necessarily as prevalent in those first 8 minutes. I was jarred in that first episode when they started to lean heavily on creepy or downright gross comedy as I wasn’t expecting anything like that from this supposed fun and magical world. Instead we have an entire episode where our trio plans to spend all of spring break on Endless only to have Reggie removed from the equation due to appendicitis. Ester and Todd LITERALLY lose their minds due to their prolonged stay on Endless and when Reggie can finally make her appearance to save them, she has to physically force them out. They regain their memories and are visibly scared by what has happened to them, while Reggie is just mad that they ‘ignored her’ when they were clearly under some sort of spell. She doesn’t care about their well-being and instead chooses to go back into Endless alone because she missed her time there and her friends are just disrespecting her. The episode ends with Reggie lamenting that her fictional friends are her real friends. This ominous ending is just that and this idea never really comes to fruition further.

This idea is expanded on further when we meet Elmer who is a child that was orphaned and decided to move his life into Endless permanently. We are shown that he has not only lost his mind, but his humanity. While Todd and Ester are scared by this proposition, Reggie is instead spurned on. She still wants to live her life on Endless and believes she is stronger than Elmer in that she won’t succumb to the same fate. I see how this can be a definite parallel to addiction, but with 25 episodes the story that is told doesn’t even get close to showing how this mentality is a bad thing. Are the writers just assuming they are going to get another season? More story progress was had in the 10 episode arc that was Over the Garden Wall than this and I find that totally appalling. One of the main reasons I stopped watching Teen Titans Go! was because the episodes started to become moral-less.Let me clarify that I don’t expect kids cartoons to have morals! I mean I watched Adventure Time and I can totally get down on a whole episode that amounts to nothing but a fart joke. The issue i have is when you set yourself up for something real, something that can impact that life of a child, that you are doing a disservice to a very impressionable target demographic. I am worried about the kids that will watch Twelve Forever and think that this type of escapist attitude is alright in the world. This is why ensemble casts are so important in cartoons. It’s healthy to surround yourself with other people. Not caring about others isn’t cool just because you want to be weird and quirky. There are other weird and quirky people out there that will love and support you. You shouldn’t just be the way you are so boldly that it alienates you from everyone else. I’m not saying to not be yourself. You should always be yourself boldly, but human beings are inherently apart of society and it’s healthy for them to interact.

Now this idea leads into a larger concept about the infantilization of millennials and I am a millennial that is well into their 20s who loves watching cartoons. I know that this idea of nostalgia is ruling media right now and I am happily apart of it. To people who tell me I am too old to watch cartoons I of course say they are being ridiculous and cartoons have always been created for kids with the parents who have to ‘suffer’ through them in mind. Parents are always in the background of creators thoughts because they will always been inadvertently watching the cartoons also, but this message of infantilization in Twelve Forever scares me. I am scared for Reggie that she will never grow up and will be lost to Endless forever because she was never encouraged to grow emotionally for the sake of her friends. The whole reason she made it into Endless was as an escape because she can’t deal with her emotions and no one is trying to help her. This brings me to the characterization of parents in Twelve Forever. I find the parents in the show to be downright horrifying.

Reggie’s mom, Judy, genuinely thought it was a good idea to give her daughter a bra on her 12th birthday full well knowing that one of her party guests was going to be a boy. Just typing out that sentence I can feel the second hand embarrassment. Judy believes she is doing the right thing by shoving make-up at her daughter because that is what she liked at that age. It doesn’t matter to her that Reggie is an obvious ‘tomboy’ who even asked for a specific new action figure for her birthday. She can only see her daughter through her own eyes and does nothing to try to get closer or understand her on any emotional level. Now you can of course say that she is working as a nurse and those are undeniably grueling hours, but Reggie is straight up honest with her mom and her mom blatantly ignores this. Judy even has a friend, Kathy, in the show who is an archetype for a less than feminine woman. She takes no cues from Kathy when it comes to raising her own less than feminine daughter and instead just exasperatedly can’t understand why Reggie is the way she is. Now I was a ‘tomboy’ (it’s in quotes because I don’t care for the phrase, gender roles are bullshit) who grew up after my mother refused to even dress me in girls clothes. My mom was so frustrated with unhealthy depictions of women that I wasn’t allowed to have Barbies and I didn't mind this, I could crash my Hot Wheels all day and make a parade float out of Beanie Babies without a care, but when it later came to choosing my own clothes my mother never intercepted. It was always my choice, because expression is important, but Judy can barely meet Reggie halfway in the episode where they go to the mall to pick out an outfit for Reggie to wear to a wedding. She ends up forcing Reggie into an uncomfortable and ill-fitting purple dress and tries to make up for her actions by letting Reggie pick out equally ill-fitting big ole’ red boots. I don’t find this to be compromise, this is nothing but simple placation. Judy knows what she did was wrong, but she refuses to see any other way to move forward on the matter and the show thinks that this is a heartfelt way to wrap things up to which I wholeheartedly disagree.

Another failed parental image that scares me is Todd’s dad. This is a man we see only once and can only imagine through Todd’s eyes. This is a man that is in the midst of some mid-life crisis and has somehow gotten custody of his kids in a divorce. He has a new wife(girlfriend?) who he pours so much money into making her happy by taking her out constantly and doing what she suggests (dying his hair) that he can barely pay his bills and is shown to be repeatedly selling off Todd’s objects to make ends meet. Todd even tried to hide a coin collection only to have it inadvertently found by his little sisters, who are wild due to lack of parenting, and then sold immediately by his dad for cash. This unhealthy situation is of course what leads Reggie to showing Todd Endless, but the show again puts no effort into illustrating that this is a horrible situation for Todd. Instead it is just his circumstance to give some semblance of meaning to the fact that he wants to escape reality. This paired with everything else is exactly the reason why Twelve Forever scares me so much. It depicts these incredibly unhealthy and downright dangerous situations as simply existences that people have to suffer through. If I were a kid that had watched that, I would just thought that was normal and not something that is inherently wrong with our society that should not be perpetuated or fixed! This is not representation, this is normalization.

P.S. But hey, Reggie has a crush on a girl so we should support lgbtqia+ media? Well here’s my little piece of that. I love my little lesbeans. If you’ve read any of my reviews you know it’s something I crave, but Reggie is so misplaced in her emotional development that just coming to terms with the fact that she may have done something embarrassing in front of her crush is enough for her. She then shuns Conelly (and the options of gaining friends in the real world who like the same quirky stuff as she does), so that she can once again return to Endless. It’s less satisfying then yuri for the sake of perv pandering in my opinion.

#me #rant #cartoon review #at least it kinda is #Twelve Forever #cartoons

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duaa7343-blog · 5 years

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Animal Usage for the Beauty Industry

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Most women like to spend hours in front of the mirror, choosing between different types of eyeliners, eyelashes and lipsticks, and when they go for shopping they make sure to buy products that keep their skin looks bright and nice. However, have you ever question if the product that we consume daily can harm other innocent creatures and cause them to suffer their whole life? The video (Bright Eyes: End Cosmetics Testing on Animals) was an eye-opening video for me, because it led me to understand this kind of problem and search more about it. Although the video is short and does not contain a single word, it shows a tragic aspect most of us haven’t heard about before, which is the way that some factories use animals to test the safety of the cosmetic products, and how some famous brands don’t care about the lives of the creatures that live in peace, but instead they destroy their lives.

In this listicle I found five different articles that worth to share in order to understand this problem more broadly.

Beauty and the Beasts: The U.S. Should Ban Testing Cosmetics on Animals

Overall, this article talks about finding new ways to test the safety of the products rather than testing them on the animal.

The question: “How Many Rabbits Does Revlon Blind for Beauty’s Sake?” made me feel sad about how many animals that will suffer from blindness, or from pain and other problems on their health their whole lives, in order for humans to get products that are safe to use. However, this article gives some hope because it mentioned some projects that aim to make changes in the cosmetic industry, and also it gave me hope because many companies now begin to be aware of the problem and to make this act prohibited.

2. Are Mink Lashes Cruelty-Free? The Facts

Most of the people think that the retrieval process can be done while they are feeding and treating Mink gently, but that’s not true.

Shamefully, for the sake of beauty many people choose to wear fur and eyelashes that caused minks to suffer in a very painful process in order to splurge. Life has become a big faction show, and many people ignore the truth behind what are they wearing, or they think the fur is cruelty-free. What most of these people don’t know is that the fact is the animals don’t die when fur is taken from them and that process hurts badly when they are alive. To prove that point, there are many painful videos that can be found on the internet that showed this horrifying process to the poor animals.

3. 5 Surprising Reasons To Switch To Cruelty-Free Cosmetics

This article share 5 reasons of why people should choose the product that do not include animal abuse during manufacture. The reasons illustrated in this article including are that the cruelty-free products have less toxic and don’t need to be tested, the bushes that does not consist of animal hair does not have bacteria and thus be cleaner, to support the local brand business that have natural ingredients, the harmful effect on bunnies, dogs, and cats all of these animals that people consider them as pets. lastly, to encourage the companies to change this method.

All of the points are significant but I found the last point (The bottom line) is the most important reason because when we think about the effects of avoid buying from those companies that use the tests on animals, we will see that when people stop buying the products, companies will not find a way but to try to satisfy the consumer. It will do that by stopping the testing on animals in order to keep their consumers. This way will increase awareness of the others, especially when a company declares that its products are cruelty-free. This way will also save thousands of animals. Companies are very concerned that their reputation is good and ethical. That is why the image enhancement will be the most important thing that is being sought by companies.

4. These Beauty Brands Are Still Tested on Animals

The first step to solve this problem is to know what are the products and the brands that are conducting these experiments on animals. Knowing these products could help spreading the awareness of how cruel this practice is and then we will be able to avoid them. In this Article, “These Beauty Brands Are Still Tested on Animals”, the author speaks about a few products and brands that many people, including me, use regularly. For example, Avon, Benefit, Makeup Forever, Maybelline, Victoria's Secret, and many more.

To be honest, Although many people refuse to use animal violence, many people support these products because they do not see violence through the cover of the product. I was very surprised as to the amount of brands that conduct experiments on animals. I personally use Avon, Maybelline, and Benefit products such as eyeliners and makeup brushes. Now, after reading this article, I decided to look into other brands that do not affiliate with such experiments.

5. IT’S 2019—HOW MANY BEAUTY PRODUCTS ARE STILL TESTED ON ANIMALS?

It isn’t ethical and justifiable to kill around 500,000 animal every year in order to create beauty products. Therefore, we need a movement that does not ban these practices immediately, but instead sets up a day and a year to which these practices can not continue after. For example, California is one of the first states that stood against the testing on animals. In California is banning the sale of animal tested cosmetic products in 2020.

At the end, it is really hard to picture the future and know exactly what is going to happen. All that we know is that testing animals in order to create cosmetic products is hurting the industry more and more every single year. It is still possible to control and regulate these practices and I am very optimistic about finding a solution. Nowadays, we, humans, have so many issues to work on, and this issue is one of many which makes it hard to end it in a single day, month, or year. This is why we should start by moving forward regardless of the circumstances. A slow movement is better than no movement at all and we should act like this.

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little35busk-blog · 5 years

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hair mask for Dummies

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hair fall - An Overview

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emperorsfoot · 6 years

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New one-shot, part of my “Elevator Monologue ” series. A missing scene from chapter 9 of “...Before Its Ever Even...”.

Since its just a short missing scene, and not very plot relevant, I don’t mind posting it here too instead of just linking it. (Although, I do prefer you comment on AO3 if you have comments you’d like to share.)

...

About as hesitantly as Zed had been when she came over, Devlin extended his fingers. He stroked up one of her pointed blue ears, paused to see if she was going to protest, whimper in fear, or run away. When she didn't, he repeated the motion on the other ear. Then Devlin looked at Kevin. Zed also turned her eyes to gaze at him, as if questioning what they were supposed to do now.

“There.” He said, smiling at them both. Legitimately smiling. Not just at Zed, but at Devlin too. Kevin never thought he would ever actually smile at his son for real. An honest to goodness smile of pride and affection. “Now, was that so bad?”

Zed gave a little wine of admission. No. It wasn't that bad. Devlin wasn't as bad as he was when he was still a new puppy.

Devlin pulled away. “She still hates me.”

“It'll take time.” Kevin assured him. Fixing broken relationships took time. Some more than others. The Osmosian had a lot of experience with that. It was easy to rebuild trust where there was already a history of trust. But Devlin was still newborn when he almost killed Zed. That was their history. That was their only history. There was no friendship before it to call back to or rebuild on.

Gwendolyn came out carrying a serving tray of spaghetti. She looked at both her boys sitting on the couch with the dog. Zed never hung out so close to Devlin. “Something wrong?”

“No.” Devlin said. He looked back at the dog, it was the first time Zed had let him touch her since he came to live with his mother. He glanced up at his father, and it was all thanks to Kevin of all people. “Actually, everything's fine.”

Who would have thought?

Upon seeing that human food was out and available, Zed abandoned the Osmosians in favor of pressing herself up against Gwendolyn's legs. The Anubian Baskurr gazed up at the sorceress expectantly, her crimson eyes big and sparkling. Zed might have become an elderly dog by this point, but she still managed to pull off the 'puppy-dog face' flawlessly.

But Gwendolyn just looked down at her, unimpressed. “If I don't let Kevin and Devlin give you human food, what makes you think you'll get any from me?”

Kevin stood from the couch.

“I can carry that.” He said, offering to take the spaghetti tray from her.

But Gwendolyn shifted her body, moving the tray out of his reach. “Ya know what else you can do?” She said. “Help our injured son to the table.”

“I can walk!” Devlin snapped from the couch. Both parents noted that, to spite his protests, the boy didn't actually make any move to get up under his own power.

Heaving an exaggerated sigh, Kevin came back to the couch and hoisted his son up over his shoulder. Carrying him like a sack of potatoes, the Osmosian deposited him in an empty seat at the dining table.

Gwendolyn set out the spaghetti and the three of them sat down for what was their first ever dinner together.

Devlin looked from one parent to the other at a bit of a loss as to what to think. Sure, he'd seen his parents in the same room together. He'd seen them at Plumbers HQ, and at Gwendolyn's library, and sometimes just out around Bellwood. But he'd never seen them look so... domestic before. The whole picture -the whole idea- was a little too surreal for him.

“Eat something.” Kevin barked at him.

At least Dad was the same old Dad. Bossy and impatient. Good to know a change of scenery and change of company didn't change him. Devlin twirled a string of spaghetti around on his fork before lifting it to his mouth. He knew the sauce came from a jar, but Mom always added her own spices and seasonings to it which made the store bough sauce so much better.

Zed came up beside Kevin's chair and looked up at him expectantly. As if he owed her or something. And maybe because he made her let Devlin pet her, he kinda did. Besides, the Osmosian never had any problem feeding her human food before. This seemed to be no different. Kevin chanced a glance at Gwendolyn to make sure she wasn't paying attention. The sorceress was watching her son eat. Kevin carefully slid one of the turkey meatballs off his plate and onto the floor. Zed quickly scooped it up with her tongue and started chomping on it loudly.

Gwendolyn turned her head at the sound. “What's Zed got? Is she eating something? Kevin!”

“What?” The Osmosian feigned innocents -he wasn't very good at it.

“How many times have I told you not to feed her at the table and not to give her human food!” The sorceress glared at him. “She's not as young as she used to be, she needs to eat healthy. I spend good money on senior formula dog food made especially for Anubian Baskurr. Its not easy to get on Earth and only a few feed stores carry it -feed stores, not pet stores! So, could you please not let her fill up on our food which is full of sodiums and grains that are bad for her!”

“But she likes it.” Kevin argued back.

“You like moldy fluffeloafs.” Gwendolyn was quick to counter. “That doesn't mean their good for you.”

“I'm bad for you.” The Osmosian reminded his Anodite wife. “That doesn't seem to stop you from handing out with me or-” a quick glance at the child at the table “-doing other things with me.”

Devlin couldn't help but snort with amusement at the exchange. “You can say 'sex', Dad. I'm twelve, not stupid. I know what sex is.”

“Just so long as you're not having any.” Kevin brushed off his son's remark. The censorship was more for Gwendolyn's benefit than the boy's. The Osmosian assumed she would like to keep things clean and appropriate for mixed company or around preadolescent children.

“Bottom line: everyone likes things that are bad for them.” Scoffed the younger Osmosian.

“What do you like that's bad for you?” Gwendolyn asked, watching her son from across the table with a critical -almost concerned- look.

Devlin twirled more spaghetti on his fork, unbothered by his mother's scrutiny. His answer was casual, almost as if nothing about it mattered. “Soft drinks, processed foods, and -oh yeah!- the big one, helping Uncle Ben with his stupid alien and monster fights.” To illustrate this, the Osmosian lifted a leg and brought one injured and bandaged foot on the table. “But then, that's pretty standard in this family.”

“Get your feet off the table.” Kevin growled.

The boy slid his bandaged foot back to the floor.

Gwendolyn heaved a sigh. Her son made a valid point. Liking things that weren't exactly in ones own best interests was kind of a standard in their family -on both sides. She and Ben never could pass up the chance to nearly get themselves killed fighting aliens and monsters (or dating aliens and monsters). Kevin used to trade in contraband alien technology, and even after he went legit, would still continue to haggle with warlords and tyrants over the price tea on Khoros. Devlin liked tinkering with machines like his father, and tagging along with Ben on missions and pretending to be a Big Damn Hero -a combination of which lead to his current injury. So, yeah, self-destructive behavior was pretty standard in their family.

That didn't make it healthy.

Gwendolyn decided it was best to change the subject. “Tell me about school, Devlin. I know you were sent to ISS again last week, I hope you're remembering to catch up on the work you miss when they send you out of class.”

She did not suggest that he should amend his behavior so that he wasn't sent out of class anymore. The sorceress already learned that was a losing battle. So long as he wasn't attacking his classmates in the middle of tests or breaking bones for disputing the terms of a trade, she was happy.

“Yes. I am.” He assured his mother.

Kevin cast a sideways look at the boy. “Oh, really? Is that what you were doing with the textbook abandoned on the coffee table while you putzed around on your e-reader.”

Devlin cast his father a scathing look, as if to reprimand the older man for tattling on him. Out loud, he said, “How do you know I wasn't reading a book for school on my e-reader?”

“Well, were you reading a book for school?” Gwendolyn asked, fixing her son with a scrutinizing glare that seem to cut right through him. Dissect him in a way the boy thought only his therapist could. Peer down into his soul with her Anodite eyes.

“Um...” He faltered, suddenly unable to lie to his mother. Devlin opened his mouth, a semi-convincing half-truth ready on his lips. But Gwendolyn only raised a single scarlet eyebrow and the young Osmosian collapsed like a house of cards. “I was reading 'A Song of Ice and Fire'.”

Kevin didn't know what that was.

But Gwendolyn did.

“Devlin!” Her fork clattered onto her plate with a loud clinking of metal on porcelain. “You are too young to be reading that! How did you even get that on there? I put parental controls on it!”

“And I overrode them.” The boy informed her, proud of himself. His pride quickly deflated as her glare of disapproval only deepened. She was not impressed with her child's ability to hack his tech. Devlin sank into his seat. “I just really needed to know what all the memes were about. Okay? I did it for the memes.”

Kevin looked from one to the other, not understanding the objection here. Sure, the kid had been neglecting his homework, but it wasn't like he was rotting his brain on video games or doing drugs. He was reading. Wouldn't Gwendolyn be relieved he was reading? “I don't get it. What's the big deal?”

“Game of Thrones!” Gwendolyn snarled at him, as if he were a moron for also not having an objection. “Your twelve-year-old son is reading Game of Thrones.”

The Osmosian opened his mouth, thought about what he was about to say, decided he did not want to share. Like, yeah, Devlin was only twelve, and yeah, all the sex, violence, and death in the books was a little inappropriate for a normal human child that young. But Devlin wasn't exactly a normal human child and it wasn't like he didn't get his fair share of exposure to violence and death in his real life. Back when it was just him and Kevin, and Kevin was his most insane version of himself -Kevin 11,000- Devlin got a front row seat for Red Weddings, blowing up Septs of Baelor, and Battles of Bastards. Really, the only thing that might be in those books that Devlin hadn't been desensitized to would be all the gratuitous and creative fantasy sex.

Kevin remained tactfully silent.

He looked down at his plate and slid another meatball off it. It rolled off the table and landed on the floor next to Zed, whom scooped it up greedily, once again chomping loudly. Kevin would much rather have his wife mad at him about feed the dog human food than all the bloody, violent shit he exposed their younger-than-eleven-year-old son to over the course of his short life.

“Kevin! Stop that!” She snapped at him.

Zed gave a drawn-out little whine of an “Ar~rf!” As if to say, 'Oh my gawd! Shut up, Gwendolyn! You let me eat my own poop!'

“I want my dog to get the things she likes.” Argued the Osmosian. “As you keep reminding me, she's not that young anymore. She should be allowed to enjoy the time she's got!”

Zed let loose a loud bark of agreement.

“And I want her to have as much time as she can have!” Gwendolyn snarled back. “Don't you want her to have a long life?”

“What's more important to you, quantity of life, or quality of life?” Kevin demanded. “What's the point of prolonging a life if its not being enjoyed.”

“How can a creature enjoy a life that's cut short?” The sorceress evaded his question with one of her own.

Devlin sat there watching his parents argue. This conflict of philosophy really explained a lot about them and their disagreement about him and his very existence. Back when his mother was pregnant and dying because of said pregnancy. Kevin suggested terminating, and Gwendolyn refused to even consider the idea.

“They wouldn't care!” Kevin informed her. “They'd be dead.”

There was a strange kind of comfort to be found in nihilism.

“You are so heartless sometimes, Kevin!” Gwendolyn was raising her voice now. “I really don't understand how you can say these things so casually!”

“Look, I've had a hard life, and you know it. You were there for a lot of it. You got to witness first hand!” They were both using raised voices now.

Devlin couldn't help the schadenfreudian grin that pulled at his lips from watching the exchange. “Mom, Dad, please keep fighting.”

That comment got the adults to pause their disagreement. Both turning their attention to the boy at the same time.

“Eat your food, you need the calories to heal.” Kevin commanded.

Gwendolyn stood from her seat and exited the dining room. “I need to take those books off your e-reader and reset the parental controls.”

Devlin watched her head to the living room and pick up his e-reader. As she overrode the lock screen, the boy turned to his father. Leaning over the table, he hissed. “Okay, quickly, tell me everyone who dies and their method of death.”

Kevin twirled some spaghetti around his fork, unconcerned. “So, I never read the books, and -apparently- they're very different from the show. Just make a mental list of all your favorite characters and assume they die.”

“Thanks, Dad.” The boy groaned, unamused.

“Eat your food.” Repeated the older Osmosian. “Maybe if your mother see's you've cleaned your plate by the time she get's back in here, she won't look too closely at what else you have on your e-reader.”

“What makes you think I have anything else on my e-reader Mom might object to?” Devlin argued back, putting on his most innocent -and most fake- insulted glare.

“Because I was a twelve-year-old boy once.” Kevin reminded him.

The boy continued to glare at the older man for a bit longer, before deciding that maybe it was a good deal, and he should take it. He scooped up a giant wad of noodles and shoved them in his mouth, chewing loudly.

“Okay, but eat slower.” Kevin amended. “Otherwise you're gonna make yourself sick and I don't wanna have to clean up your puke.”

…

After dinner, Devlin was gassy and had a stomach ache because of it. Gwendolyn was pouring him a dose of Pepto while Kevin cleared the table.

Gathering up all the plates, he was given explicit instructions to deposit any uneaten food on them into the garbage disposer in the sink, and put any untouched spaghetti from the serving tray into a tupperware container. Under no circumstances was he to give any leftovers or uneaten scraps to Zed. At all.

Kevin carried everything to the kitchen, making a big show of ignoring the Anubian Baskurr's wines as she trailed behind him. He paused, at the sink, leaning away from the counter to peer out into the living room where Gwendolyn was standing over their son with a shot of pink stomach medicine and a glass over water.

“This better not be an act to get out of finishing your homework.” She was saying.

Gwendolyn seemed adequately distracted. Kevin set all three plates on the kitchen floor. “Zed,” he hissed, “help me clean these.”

The alien dog was all too happy to oblige. Lapping up the leftover sauce and scraps of meatball and noodle with loud licks.

“Okay, but do it quietly!” The Osmosian tried to keep his voice at a whisper while also putting enough authority into it to get the dog to listen.

Zed paused briefly to look up at him, then back to the living room where Gwendolyn was collecting the empty Pepto cup. She also took his e-reader with her. On her way to put the medicine away, Gwendolyn turned towards the kitchen slightly and the dog walked away from the plates before she could see and get mad at Kevin again.

“Good girl.” Muttered the Osmosian as he gathered up all three plates and deposited them in the sink.

Turning on the water, Kevin meant to just rince the plates off. But then they looked so close to being clean already, the Osmosian touched the lavender dish gloves that Gwendolyn kept there (she always bought them sized for own hands, not his) and absorbed the rubber. Squeezing some soap into the sponge, Kevin started actually washing the dishes. He was just finishing up the last plate when Gwendolyn came up behind him.

Circling her arms around his waist, she peered around his broad body. “Is Kevin Levin washing a dish!?”

He was about to reply with some kind of witty retort, but Gwendolyn had moved by the time he turned around. The sorceress was gathering up the pot and saucepan from the stove and threw them in the sink with the plate Kevin had just finished.

“I'll dry and put things away while you wash.” She smiled.

The Osmosian suppressed a groan. He preferred being the one who dried and put things away. It was the easier job, and besides, Kevin was taller. It was he didn't have to stand on his tip-toes or use mana to put things away in the higher cabinets. Besides, washing was gross. He preferred not to have to do the dirty part of the job.

But then Gwendolyn kissed him on the cheek and thanked him for being so sweet and considerate and, well, he couldn't refuse after that. So, before the Osmosian even know what he was doing, he had already scrubbed through the sauce pan and was currently rinsing soap off noodle pot.

When everything was done, Kevin even wiped down the counter.

Gwendolyn wrapped her arms around his waist again, this time turning him around to face her. Kevin encircled her waist in his own thick arms and pulled her closer to him. She leaned up, and he leaned down, both lips parting. Gwendolyn was ready for a sweet gentle open-mouthed kiss, her tongue waiting to dart out into his. But at the last moment, Kevin turned to the side. Whispering in her ear, breath hot on her lobe.

“Ya know, I didn't bring my pajamas.”

“That's good...” She whispered, back. Her own voice taking on a thick heady quality. It sent a shiver down Kevin's back. “...Because you're not spending the night here.”

“What!?” He pulled away. Looking at her confused, and slightly betrayed. He thought they made so much progress! She let him in the house while their son was here. Devlin was more comfortable with him. “But you said I was doing good. I did do good. I got Zed to let Delvin pet her!” He snapped his fingers at the dog. “Zed, go let Devlin pet you again!”

The Anubian Baskurr just turned her head to look at him, gave a short snip of an “urf”, and trotted through the kitchen dog-door, and out of the house. She let Devlin pet her once already today.

“She still hates me!” The boy shouted from the living room where he was -finally- working on his homework -for real.

“She barely knows you!” Kevin called back.

“I live with her!” Devlin continued to argue.

“Okay, stop shouting across the house!” Gwendolyn grabbed Kevin by the arm and dragged him out of the kitchen. She pushed him down on the couch next to their son. “Now, finish your conversation using your inside voices. After that, Kevin, you're gonna make sure Devlin stays on task and gets his homework done. Then I'll check it over and, Devlin, you can have your e-reader back. I've already taken off all the inappropriate books and changed my Kindle password.”

“Hey, does he get internet on that thing?” Kevin asked. “'Cause you should also check his AO3 feeds. Just to be safe.”

“Shut-up, Dad!” The boy snarled, practically jumping off the couch as he launched himself to his feet. Completely ignoring the discomfort from putting his full weight on his burns.

Gwendolyn paused, glaring at her son and wondering exactly what tags her twelve-year-old son was searching that Kevin thought should be checked for her approval. What was Devlin looking at that she might object to?

“You'll get your e-reader back tomorrow.” She walked back into the kitchen to make up a to-go container for Kevin's portion of the leftovers.

Devlin flopped back down on the couch. “Why are you so terrible all the time?”

The older man only shrugged. “Why do you read instead of looking at stuff like a normal guy?”

“For the plot, obviously.”

Kevin only flashed him a skeptical look. The things that he was reading that Gwendolyn might object to included many things a pubescent pre-teen might be interested in. None of them were 'plot'. But the older man didn't call him on it. Instead, the Osmosian tried to bring his son back to task. “Get back to your homework.”

He was still new to the whole 'responsible and nurturing parent' thing.

Devlin stuck his tongue out at the older Osmosian. But he pulled his textbook onto his lap and got to work all the same. After a few minutes of watching his son fill out short-answer questions on a separate sheet of paper, Kevin got board. He stood from the couch and wandered back into the kitchen where Gwendolyn was just finishing up a sweet little to-go bag for him. Complete with the spaghetti they just ate, some bread, and sliced fruit -because she knew he didn't have anything fresh at his own place.

“I guess this means its time to go?” He asked.

“Only if you don't want to stay and help me helicopter around Devlin for the rest of the night.” She answered.

Amazingly, that did not sound particularly appealing to the Osmosian. “I'll head back.” He took the to-go bag. “When can I see you again?”

“The next day that Devlin has his therapy appointment.” Gwendolyn supplied. “We can grab dinner after work.”

“That sounds nice.” He wrapped an arms around her, pulling the sorceress flush against his body.

This time, she she leaned up and he leaned down, Kevin did not turn away. Their lips met, parted, and Gwendolyn's tongue slithered out to slide along her husband's. The Osmosian pressed deeper, and the sorceress gave a light moan... ...before pushing him away.

“Don't go starting any of that, mister.” She warned. “I already told you, you can't spend the night.”

“Right.” He muttered.

Kevin didn't know why he was so disappointed. What was he expecting? Gwendolyn just barely let him have dinner with them. That didn't mean that everything was fixed in their relationship, she implicitly trusted him again, and would allow him to be around their son for extended periods. It was literally just dinner.

Gripping the leftovers in one hand, the Osmosian exited the kitchen.

“Bye, Brat, I'm leaving.” He told his son as he passed the couch.

“Be a stranger.” The younger Osmosian replied.

Kevin left.

He went home with a tupperware container of leftover spaghetti and meatballs, and a good feeling in his chest. It was nice having dinner with the wife and kid.

But Gwendolyn still wouldn't let him spend the night. She now trusted him enough to be around their son so long as she was present and in a position to easily intervene should hostilities arise between father and son. But she did not trust him to stay in the house over night while Devlin was there. Not when she was asleep and not alert.

After all, it was in the middle of the night when she was asleep that Kevin originally kidnapped the boy in the first place. He understood, and was amazed at just how much trust in him had been restored already. Sure, their relationship was completely and perfectly healed. But it was well on its way there. That was Kevin could ask for.

…

END

#fan fiction #gwevin #Ben 10 #devlin levin #Gwen is Devlin's mother #Devlin is Gwen's son #Kevin Levin #gwen tennyson #Kevin 11000 #Devlin 11 #Bad Luck #Zed #family dinner #game of thrones #Devlin is gay #RenkonNairu

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poemsinthirdperson · 3 years

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Honey Cream

I. Honey Cream

There was the girl she had felt the most love for in all her life. Hair lilting in the whir of artificial air. Waves crashing against a sheer wall, falling back as murmurating rain. She was tired. Were it not for the combination of treetop cradled fingernails and an indignantly bowed shoulder, her bag would be laid flat on cracking concrete. Still, here it rains. Here grass can grow through, but, of course, not absolve. She would likely never see her again. There was an unfortunate centrality to that charm.

Diana massaged the hair on her forearm. She’d never gotten used to her bare arms; more so the embodiment of them than anything else. A taciturn honey-cream shirt pushed out of her father’s sleeveless cricket jumper, all tucked neatly in a shaded-rose burgundy skirt. She had used that jumper for its intended purpose a number of times. This morning she flinched when she had looked in the mirror. Like, genuinely recoiled. But mirrors were best viewed at 45˚ angle anyway. Truthfully, Diana had a fairly healthy sense of self-loathing, certainly never manifesting in dialogue. In fact, one could easily make the case that it didn’t even exist. That could be reassuring.

Dancing Queen into Hit ‘Em Up. Sometimes she did appreciate the majesty of her own mind. She had cried, alone in the sound, a few weeks ago. The eye of the universe, A crown of heavy light, angels at the gate, horns in hand. But she’d be fucked if she could recall the reason why now. Say what you want about the rapture (there is no inflection point) at least it produced some good, inert poll-tested liberal reformation.

That was the angle she saw the city, back from the harsh glass of the encroaching settlements. Malignant wailing shards occupied more by creative code interpretations and tax breaks than people. Clawing for the sun, they pull back fire. Reflection, refraction, recursion, somewhere in the sum of those words (a proper one with exponents and substitutions) was the right one. The result was a new eternal flame, burning the heart of the city, spitting ash into the pall. Begging Prometheus to take it away.

Diana stood before the doors of the church. Well, stood, really she walked past three or four times, hoping nobody would notice her, stopping, for what were seconds but felt like minutes, skin flaring red, and contemplating stepping in. Of course she didn’t know exactly know what she was looking for, that comes with the territory, but it was three thirty-four on a Tuesday afternoon, quiet contemplation was the immediate option. Still, there was always the chance she wouldn’t even make it across the threshold. She felt pathetic, like an anxious child. Last week she did the same thing. Reading Margot’s address over and over again, waiting for the perfect imperfect figure that would dispel any notion of paralysis at all. The whole time, she wouldn’t accept a glass of water. All you can truly love is the grass.

II. Anointed in Ice

To flats of concrete. Margot’s shoulders were hoisted up to her salt sea blue earrings as she leant back on the windowsill. Her hands hooked the alcove as she lifted her left foot off the ground and brushed the bridge of the other. She was propped between some cool apricot althaea and a stack of half-read books. Amongst them a was botanist’s handbook, ostensibly created for late 80’s housewives, sheathed in a lush illustration of a flowering garden, rendered in a confident gouache. Its measured intricacy meant it shared more blood with Morris than the untamed wilderness which birthed the gods of old. Margot had never known her mother to have a particularly green thumb as long as she’d been alive.

‘Here, I’ll pose for you.’

Diana cocked her camera with an automatic if mistakenly arrogant precision. ‘I shouldn’t have put it away.’

Margot jumped a little at the sight of the flash. ‘I’ll have to get used to that again.’ She saw Diana peering through the viewfinder like a submariner at the periscope. ‘Why did you?’

‘I don’t know, it just got frustrating. I could never tell if I hated the pictures or just myself.’

‘It could be both.’

Diana didn’t let her finish the sentence, a giggle punctuating her own. ‘It’s probably both.’

A glittering tsunami poured out of the radio, laboured wind barking through the tracks. Margot popped up and sprouted a smile that nearly covered her eyes. She clasped Diana’s wrists, drew her down and pulled her up around her.

She threaded her hand across her back and through the crook of her arm, fingers blossoming before her nose.

She submerged, the blades of her shoulders fastened to the roof of her thigh, her curled fingers capitulating to the first, braced delicately on her ankle.

They fell somnolently, one to the floor, one to the clouds, passing cheek to cheek, their arms locked and immaterial in a spectral prsim.

Blushing buds sprouting through aged soil.

Her hair curled around her arms, spiralling in flowing pools, and crawling down her back.

Then Diana remembered she was.

Warm blood blistering into veins of molten rock. She collapsed to the sofa. But Margot was there, three fingers bathed in ice, dragged from forehead, just above the left eyebrow, to cheek, just below the right jaw.

‘Listen,’ Margot said, ‘My sister’s finally doing it.’

‘No shit, really?’

‘Yeah, well she says it’ll just be easier for forms and stuff, but they’re getting married in Portugal, right near his mum and dad.’

‘Wow.’

‘They’re going to make sure it won’t be anything big, so we’ll get a good few days with nothing to do. I just was wandering if you wanted to come.’

‘Yeah?’ Diana scratched at the back corner of her camera.

‘Yeah, It’ll be fun.’ Margot nearly lost her eyes again.

‘I really don’t know if I’ll have time.’

‘I haven’t told you when it is yet.’

‘But it’ll be soonish? Like this year?’

‘Yeah, it’ll be this year.’

‘I just… I really have to do something. I’m so sorry, Margot, it’s really got nothing to with you. But if I don’t do something now, I’m going to be stuck, and I don’t even know if that’s really that bad but—’

‘It’s okay, I’m not cross.’ And she wasn’t angry, she really wasn’t angry, but the words still meant more than their definition. ‘I know who you are.’

III. No Deer

Diana shifted into first gear, released to handbrake, and lifted of the clutch. ‘So you know the way, Khâleh Agatha?’

‘Do you have a A to Z?’ Agatha replied.

‘Uh, I don’t really… Yeah it should be in the glovebox.’

Diana couldn’t work out how her mother had become friends with this lady, probably some innate charm from the motherland, though her father was always good at this sort of thing, and it certainly had passed down to her, but anyway, here she was, going to pick up a used desk.

Agatha took the book and ruffled through the pages like a fan. ‘It’s hot out isn’t it.’

‘Yeah, it’s nice. You can open the window if you want.’ She leant over and turned the winder a little. ‘Like that.’

Agatha was dressed head to toe like she had just stepped out of the 1970s, a rice paper thin shawl and bulbous black sunglasses completed the look. It wasn’t in some vain grab for the halcyon days of her youth, in truth the period would had been outside a liberal parameters for the definition of ‘youth’ let alone ‘halcyon,’ but she had truly adored the clothes and you really stop growing after a while.

‘So you work down at the council?’ said Agatha.

‘Yeah, I work at the civic centre. Assistant in the department of City Enviroment.’

‘Do you enjoy it?’

Diana closed the car door. They were in a little parking area off the road. The tarmac, with no reinforcements in sight, was fighting a losing battle against the allied armies of moss and weed. Whether subterfuge or treachery, the green had made crippling inroads into the highest seats of power. A panting greyhound jumped down from the only other car boot in the vicinity, the owner latching a leash to its collar.

‘It’s alright,’ replied Diana, ‘quite boring really.’

‘Right.’

‘There’s nothing more important to people than when the bins are collected. Which I can’t really decide whether that’s good or bad.’

The sun streamed through the trees. Wooden posts lined the left side of the dirt path they were walking along. One post was on the floor. Some delicate twigs. had just about managed to tangle themselves in it before the fall. The sun caught them before they fell, twirling back up into their own support.

‘Do you know where we’re going?’ Diana tried so hard to avoid hostility and condescension she really didn’t know where she ended up.

‘Yes.’ Agatha moved on before Diana could get a read on that reaction. ‘There’s deer around here you know.’

‘Really? Do you think we’ll see any?’

‘No, I suspect not.’

A crystal clear stream bisected their path. Diana slipped out her shoes and socks and planted herself firmly in the water. It was perfectly cool. She raised her hands and Agatha held on to her forearms as she stepped over.

‘Thank you.’

They were out in the open, in a meadow of sorts. There were flowers all around them, parting at their waists. (Agatha more than Diana) By themselves the miniature jewels of faded colour courted no grace, they were roses by no names, but together, spread out before them like that, there was something beautiful.

‘Khâleh Agatha, when…’

‘Ah, here we are.’

They came to a small house, though it did have its own verandah, with a woman outside the open front door, staring up, with her hands cupped over her eyes.

‘You must be here for the vanity,’ said the woman.

‘Yes,’ replied Agatha.

‘Give us a second, bloody thing’s stuck.’ The woman went inside and came out carrying a broom. ‘Wouldn’t fit through the door you see.’

‘Oh, that’s alright.’

‘You ready?’ A muffled yeah eked past the curtains swaying in the second floor double window. The woman took the end of the broom and prodded up at the vanity, suspended in the branches of a tree. She knocked it loose, a few errant leaves with it, and the rope that shot out the window started moving, lowering it to the ground.

Agatha looked it over for any unexpected blemishes or scratches (it was immaculate) and handed over the money to the woman.

‘Have a nice day.’

‘How are we going to carry this all the way back?’ Asked Diana.

‘The cars right there.’ Agatha gestured to the car park a few metres behind the house.

‘Oh.’

The greyhound was sleeping on the roof of its car, the owner was sat cross legged next to them.

‘That was nice,’ said Agatha

‘Yeah, it’s nice to get out,’ replied Diana.

‘Still, you know what they say,’ (she didn’t) ‘They’ve got coca-cola everywhere.’

#short story

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woodworkingpastor · 3 years

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When the sweet by and by meets the nasty hear and now --Daniel 6:6-27 -- First Sunday of Advent -- November 29, 2020

Sometimes I wonder if we realize the choices we’re making with the stories we include in children’s Bible story books. Daniel in the lions’ den is certainly an “interesting” choice. Are we trying to keep our kids up at night? I went into the nursery this week to see if I could find this story in a children’s book; sure enough, this book was on top of the stack. Daniel in the Lions’ Den: fun with pull-tabs, flaps, and pop-ups. One page includes a picture of a rock which is really a flap hiding some angry-looking lions; the next page has a pull tab that transforms the angry lions into beasts as docile as housecats.

I can imagine that if I were to Daniel and the Lions’ Den as the children’s story, you’d have no great issue with it. But if I were to illustrate the story by bringing in some really scary-looking dogs and have them sit next to me while I told the story, a lot of you would be really angry. People visiting the church with their children would probably leave and never return. And it might not matter if the dogs were harmless, or were exceptionally well trained, would it? Scaring the children in such a manner would be inappropriate. And yet, this is the story we tell. Maybe we brush over that because we know how the story ends. But there is still a very uncertain middle where Daniel spends the night surrounded by lions. Even the king believes Daniel will be killed, and the reader is left uncertain of how the story will end.

Why do we tell stories like these? We see in them a moralistic tale of right living. We want our children to understand that if they just do what is right—come to church, honor God, treat people like they want to be treated—then life will work out well for them. If you just trust God, then all your problems will be taken care of. It’s a view that the Bible advocates. Blessings are available for those who honor God; curses for those who do not.

The problem is, we know that life doesn’t always work out this way. The Biblical writers knew this, too. Many of the stories we encounter in the Bible—from the story of Job in the Old Testament to stories like that of the man born blind in John 9—are accounts of people wrestling with the notion that the life they thought they had been promised wasn’t being delivered to them. They’ve done nothing wrong, yet they are suffering. They know of people who have lived wicked, unrighteous lives, who seem to prosper. What is more, sometimes intentional evil is directed at the righteous.

On this first Sunday of Advent, the question is, “Where do we find hope when ‘the sweet by and by’ runs up against ‘the nasty here and now’?”

When office politics meets xenophobia

When you start digging into Daniel’s story, you might be amazed at how ordinary and unremarkable most of the details are, and how uninspiring and uncreative—and even petty—the “bad guys” are. Daniel is one of a number of persons who were victims of the conquest of Jerusalem and were taken to captivity in Babylon by King Nebuchadnezzar. Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego are three other persons like this whose names you have heard.

Being of the royal family, these men were given opportunities that others their age would not have had. Daniel especially benefits from this opportunity; he quickly rises to become one of the most powerful rulers in Babylon. In fact, the king had plans to appoint him to a position something like Prime Minister.

In the verses immediately prior to our Scripture reading this story becomes so very human: this is a story about office politics. Some of the Babylonian government officials were upset that Daniel—a foreigner—had risen to this position of great authority. It didn’t matter that these people benefitted from Daniel’s leadership because of his great ability and his great integrity. It didn’t matter that the whole nation was better off with him in this position. Racism rears its ugly head; Daniel is not one of “us” and must be gotten rid of. Being unable to find a legitimate complaint against him, they manufacture one.

And so they go to the king and they take advantage of his raging ego. They propose that he write a new law that forbids prayer to anyone other than him for the next 30 days. All the praise and supplication of the people is to be directed nowhere else but the king, upon penalty of death. This is a dangerous merging of politics and religion: crafting one interpretation of patriotism into a purity test of loyalty and devotion. It is an act that turns religious belief into treason and fashions it into a weapon to be used against all those who do not measure up to the prevailing political winds of the day.

It appears that the plan has worked; Daniel is trapped between the competing allegiances of God and country. Daniel has proven himself to be a loyal public servant; he has made peace with his new home and chosen to serve it to the best of his significant ability. But he has reserved the best of his devotion for God. And so here in this moment when the sweet by and by meets the nasty here and now, Daniel has a choice to make about how he will proceed. The law signed into effect by King Darius was aimed at Daniel’s devotion. So how will Daniel pray, now that prayer has been made a crime?

One option is to pray in secret. He could go about his duties as administrator and simply hold his prayers quietly in his heart. He could find some hidden place to pray. This is not an unknown strategy; when teaching us to pray, Jesus says

And whenever you pray, do not be like the hypocrites; for they love to stand and pray in the synagogues and at the street corners, so that they may be seen by others. Truly I tell you, they have received their reward. But whenever you pray, go into your room and shut the door and pray to your Father who is in secret; and your Father who sees in secret will reward you (Matthew 6:5-6).

But Daniel will not choose this option, because remaining silent and modifying his behavior in the face of this law would be to act as if it had ultimate control over his life. Praying in secret would appear to be renouncing his faith.

So Daniel chooses a different option: he goes about his business, business which includes going to his home three times a day to get down on his knees in prayer. In his commentary on Daniel, Old Testament scholar John Goldingay describes Daniel’s choice this way:

Daniel’s response to the prohibition on prayer is to continue praying. There is no fuss or rush about his stand…he cannot hide the fact that he prays. When prayer is fashionable, it is time to pray in secret, but when prayer is under pressure, to pray in secret is to give the appearance of fearing the king more than God” (Daniel, 131).

Daniel honors God, and the punishment comes anyway. Daniel spends the night with the lions. Of course, we know how the story ends: God closes the mouths of the lions; Daniel is rescued and God’s name is exalted throughout the land. And as for those who conspired against Daniel; they are thrown into the lions’ den and are torn to pieces before they hit the ground (a detail that is included in the children’s storybook, by the way).

Sometimes the biggest challenges in life are just figuring out what we’re dealing with. That is true of interpreting this story. Daniel and the Lions’ Den is not a morality tale, it is a martyr story. It is a story of someone maintaining their hope in Jesus even when hope comes at a great price.

Hope found through martyr stories

The focus of martyr stories is to encourage steadfastness in the face of persecution. Deliverance is not the issue; there is no question that God can deliver us. In an earlier part of Daniel, Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego confront a very similar trial for their faith. When the sweet by and by met the nasty here and now in their life, their appeal to hope was to say:

O Nebuchadnezzar, we have no need to present a defense to you in this matter. If our God whom we serve is able to deliver us from the furnace of blazing fire and out of your hand, O king, let him deliver us. But if not, be it known to you, O king, that we will not serve your gods and we will not worship the golden statue that you have set up (Daniel 3:16b-18).

As we enter into these Sundays of Advent, anticipating the coming and coming again of Jesus, we are professing a hope in something that is both real and anticipated. Hope enables us to maintain our belief in the promise of God’s saving action in spite of the difficulties present before us. Hope is disciplined waiting, even when waiting proves difficult; even when waiting for God’s purposes to be revealed means experiencing our own loss of comfort; even when waiting extends beyond our lifetimes.

Paul spoke to a disciplined hope that choses to actively pursue our faith and to honor God in the midst of difficulty when he wrote to the Philippians from prison:

I want you to know, beloved, that what has happened to me has actually helped to spread the gospel, so that it has become known throughout the whole imperial guard and to everyone else that my imprisonment is for Christ; and most of the brothers and sisters, having been made confident in the Lord by my imprisonment, dare to speak the word with greater boldness and without fear.

Paul’s comfort was not the object of his life—God’s glory was the object, and Paul was willing to remain faithful to God’s plan through suffering and imprisonment. His hope that more people—all people!—would come to honor God. If his suffering helped accomplish that, then it was fine with him.

Brian Zahnd, pastor of Word of Life church in St. Joseph, MO, talks about what hope looks like when our times look like Daniel’s, and faithfulness to God is held prisoner by faithfulness to empire:

Once we untether Jesus from the interests of empire, we begin to see just how countercultural and radical Jesus’ ideas actually are. Enemies? Love them. Violence? Renounce it. Money? Share it. Foreigners? Welcome them. Sinners? Forgive them. These are the kind of radical ideas that will always be opposed by the principalities and powers, but which the followers of Jesus are called to embrace, announce, and enact (Postcards from Babylon, 17).

Stories like Daniel and the Lions’ Den remind us that we can do everything God asks of us and still encounter trouble. Our faith in Jesus isn’t going to protect us from difficult choices and scenarios. In fact, our faith might be the cause of those difficult choices and scenarios. This is why stories like these are important for the building up of our hope: they were written as encouragement to those who are struggling to find hope. Others have had hard times, too. When human beings become beasts because they will not acknowledge God’s kingdom, hope reminds us that God will one day confront the beast and rescue his world.

Martyr stories have a long history in Christian spiritual formation. In colonial America, it was common for Anabaptist Christians—here I’m thinking mostly of the Mennonite Church—to have two books in their home: the Bible, and the book Martyr’s Mirror, an over 1,000 page book that chronicles 1700 years of persecution of Christians. They read these stories because they understood from their own lived experience that what happened to Daniel could—and did—happen to them. Rather than protecting themselves and their children from stories that might be hard to hear, that saw in these stories a means of instilling hope in Christ.

How does the church respond when the sweet by and by meets the nasty here and now? We follow the example of Daniel who got

down on his knees three times a day to pray to his God and praise him, just as he had done previously (Daniel 6:10).

This, sisters and brothers, is where hope is found.

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tisfan · 7 years

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Hi, tisfan! I'm going to drop a prompt/request in here, feel free to ignore it! I know you're busy, and you have so many stories already! Anyhow, I'm reading a fic where Bucky is...well, fixing his hair (you know, brushing, blow-drying, etc), because hair just isn't that pretty without some serious maintenance. And now I really, really want a fic where Tony is helping Bucky with his hair. Like a comfort thing (or a sex thing, I like both). If you feel like it. Thank you!

justalurkr said: Headcanon: Bucky keeps his hair long because Steve's hair is still going strong with the 40s vibe. Clint' s hair sorely tests his resolve, tho!

gothgalahoy said: Are you still taking prompts? If so, here's a WinterIron one. They're both touch starved. One of them figures it out during matinance on Bucky's/James' arm. Epic cuddles and feels ensue.

A/N: So, we’ve got a three-for-one fic here; it’s about 3,000 words, tho, so I don’t feel too bad about it... WinterIron, pre-slash, pining Bucky, touch-starved, Tony helping, hair care, panic attacks, etc.

Bucky’s Bad Hair Day

There was nothing wrong with long hair, Bucky told himself. Men woretheir hair long these days, just as often as women wore their hair short.

Hydra had let his hair grow; thick and luxurious, because for thebetter part of the fifties and sixties the Asset had angry, red scars on hishead and they were both noticeable and memorable. They’d faded over time, butby the time they did, his handlers didn’t bother to look at him anymore with aneye toward fashion. As long as the Asset was relatively clean, no one seemed tocare.

The scars, when he could see them through the thick hair, weresilvery and flat, these days. It wouldn’t draw so much attention, if he cut hishair shorter.

And it wasn’t like anyone had said anything -- much -- to himabout it. Steve had ruffled his hair one time, and said he looked like a mop.But that was Steve, and he was always being a little punk, even though hewasn’t that little anymore.

Natasha had fingered the ends of his hair at one point, scowling,and then a box of hair care products had shown up in his next delivery. Oiltreatments and mend-the-ends care, and enough goo and gel and spritzes to makeup a haberdashery counter display.

So, there was nothing wrong with long hair and Bucky was prettymuch okay with that.

Right up until Barton got a haircut.

Bucky was used to Barton being a little on the scruffy side; notquite the “murder hobo” look that Bucky himself sported. (He’d lost track ofwhere the murder hobo comment started, but someone had said it, and theneveryone had said it, and Bucky just gave people his murder glare and went on withhis life. He really, most of the time, did not care what other people thoughtabout him.) Barton had a mop of sandy-blonde hair, scruff on his chin and healways, always missed a patch of bristles on one side of his jaw or the other.He was frequently unshowered, sometimes went for days at a time in the samepair of broken-string sweatpants, and often had his shirt on inside out.

Avengers… were not fastidious people, really. If you could fightwhen you were in your combat gear, you could lounge around in the common roomin a terrycloth bath towel with cucumber slices on your eyelids. No judgements.(Tony. And yeah, okay, so Bucky was totally judging that. Mostly. Excepthe had to admit it did wonders for the bags under Tony’s eyes from lack ofsleep and if Bucky borrowed some cucumber slices for himself once in a while,no one had to know about it.)

So when Barton came in with his new haircut, Bucky noticed.

He was cleaned up, his hair was gelled to perfection and the sideswere spiked and weirdly soft-seeming. Bucky… had the weirdest urge to rub hishand over Barton’s head and test the texture of that hair.

And just as he was thinking that, Tony came into the room, one ofhis unbelievably vile smoothies in one hand. He wrapped his lips around thestraw and took a deep suck from the cup. Bucky tracked Tony’s every movement --helpless against his obsession with the man -- watching the flex of hisbackside as he walked, the way his eyes crinkled up when he smiled and said,“still the prettiest, Legolas.” Tony ran one bronzed hand through Barton’shair, smiled even wider, and did it again.

Barton stropped his head against Tony’s hand, practically purringlike a kitten. “You think I look hot?”

“Oh, my god,” Tony said, lowering his sunglasses to give Bartonthe once-over. Slowly. “You look like a billion bucks, and believe me, I knowwhat that looks like.”

(more below the cut, or catch the whole thing on A03)

Barton chuckled and looked down at himself. “Feel like at leastfifty-thousand, so it’ll have to do.”

“I’d totally do you,” Tony assured him. He grabbed a banana fromthe basket, rubbed Barton’s head one more time. “Save some kisses for me.”

“You got it, sugar-daddy,” Barton said.

Bucky watched, dumb-struck, until Tony was out of the kitchen andback into the elevator. What the fuck was going on?

“Maybe I should get a haircut,” Bucky mused, fingering the ends ofhis long hair, then flipping them out of his face. He wondered if Tony wouldrub his hair like that, if it were short and spiky and soft.

You cannot teach fearlessness with terror.

It wasn’t… it wasn’t… it shouldn’t have been… Bucky was notafraid.

The barber shop had a row of windows that let Bucky look insidewithout actually approaching the counters or barbers. There were shiny silverchairs that tipped backward to let a customer get a shampoo. Another row ofchairs had loud dryers where women and men alike sat, flipping throughmagazines or poking at their phones while they waited for their hair to dry, orfor various chemicals to finish processing.

Bucky’s overly sensitive nose caught the whiff of harshastringents and bleach, colors and curl-relaxers. It was overpowering, evenoutside, making his eyes sting and the inside of his nose flare and ache.

His ear caught the delicate sound of scissors, metal against hair,snip snip. The buzz of clippers, the harsh burr of hairdryers. The clickand hiss of flatirons.

One stylist thumped the chair’s pedal a few times. Another leanedher client back into the sinks and the woman under the cape and towels moanedwith almost sensual pleasure.

Bucky shivered all over, his flesh crawling.

Too many people. Too close to him.

Sharp blades; Bucky could identify dozens of potential weapons.

He… could not do this.

There were too many risks; not to himself. If it was just his ownsafety, his own comfort, maybe he could manage it. He’d done so much worse,allowed it to happen.

You couldn’t teach fearlessness with terror. But you could become numb to fear. There was nothing else thatHydra could have done to his body, to his mind, that was half as terrible aswhat he’d already experienced.

It wasn’t what it would do to him. Bucky could lie to himself ifit gave him comfort. But it was also what Bucky might do, if someone came tooclose to him with those scissors. If they tilted him back. If… if…

He…

He might hurt someone.

Bucky clung to that idea. And then turned away.

The one time, Bucky thought, that he wanted to get into theelevator, go straight up to his floor and take refuge in the back of hiscloset, would be the one time that Tony would stick an arm in between the doorsbefore they closed and cram himself in the elevator, a whole horde of paparazzinot inches behind his heels.

“Hey there, Ghost in the Shell,” Tony said, punching the buttonfor the common floors with unnecessary force. “What a day, don’t tell me, I’lltell yo-- are you all right?”

And Bucky was just weak enough to admit the truth.

“No.”

Tony blinked at that, brown eyes full of worry, that subtle flareat the corners. He opened his mouth, maybe to make some sort of smart-assedcomment, and at this point, Bucky would welcome it. Would welcome the spark ofheat, the frisson of anger. Instead, what he said was, “Is there anything I cando?”

“I… need a haircut,” Bucky confessed. He shook his head, lettingthe long tresses swing, illustrating the need. “An’ I can’t… I jus’ can’t. Getin one of those chairs.” It hurt, confessing. Like pulling out his fingernails.Admitting it. He was the goddamn Winter Soldier and he couldn’t fuckin’ sit ina chair and let some harmless little gossipy woman cut his fucking hair. Heatbloomed over his cheeks, across the back of his neck.

“I couldn’t take a shower,” Tony said, apropos of nothing. Ormaybe it wasn’t quite nothing. “After Afghanistan. For months. Couldn’t… havewater in my face.”

“How’d… how’d you cope?”

“Badly,” Tony said. “Wouldn’t ask for help. Knew I needed it,but…” He shrugged a shoulder. “Thought I could do it on my own.” He gave Buckya direct look. “And I know you can. But the thing is, you don’t haveto.”

Jesus fuck, did the guy mind-read, too, on top of everything?

“All ears,” Bucky said, “if ya got a suggestion.”

Tony flicked a quick look at him. “You trust me?”

Bucky shrugged. He didn’t not trust Tony, which was more than hefelt about most people. He and Tony, well, they’d already seen the worst ofeach other, hadn’t they?

“Come on,” Tony said. “Come up to my place, I have a set up from--well, it’s what I do, isn’t it? Change my environment to suit myself.”

The whole reason this had become a thing for Bucky was because hewanted Tony to touch his hair, to joke and flirt with him, the way he had withBarton, right? He trusted Tony not to hurt him. Trusted himself to not to hurtTony; never again.

Wordlessly, Bucky nodded.

Tony’s bathroom was some sort of miracle; huge, larger than thefreaking house Bucky had grown up in, nearly. There was a deep jacuzzi pool, asauna, a few different showers. One of those chairs that tipped back into asink and Bucky was frozen at the sight of it, until Tony lifted it, bicepsstraining, and moved it out of the room without even asking what was up withthat. Bucky loathed himself, mocked himself for being afraid of a goddamnchair, but he wasn’t about to deny that he felt worlds and away better with itgone.

Tony reached out, hesitated. “Can I?”

“Yeah,” Bucky said, roughly.

Tony fingered Bucky’s hair, rubbing one lock together. Tipped itup to inspect the ends. Peered at his scalp. “You’ve been taking pretty goodcare of it,” he said. “Bet Nat sent you one of those boxes of hers; I have onefor skin care. She seems to think my hands need to be soaked in moisturizertwice a day.”

The way Tony’s fingers felt, running over Bucky’s scalp, he wouldagree. Tony’s skin was like velvet, heavy and soft at the same time.

Bucky shivered, goosebumps scrawling over his head and down theback of his neck. Tony pulled back and Bucky reacted without thinking, grabbinghis wrist. “No, don’t…” he said. “That… feels good.”

Tony chuckled. “Well, I’ve been told I have magic fingers, in moreways than one. So, what are you looking at doing to your hair? I mean, rightnow it’s just kinda ragged. We could trim the ends up, make it all one length,just kinda get your toes wet, as far as the hair cutting business goes.”

“Do you know how to cut hair?”

Tony gave him a flat stare. “I built a new element in my workshop,I think I can give you a trim, Edward Scissorhands. I might not be able to getreal fancy, but if you can handle this, I have a hairdresser, and she doescall-ins.”

“Start slow,” Bucky said, nodding.

“Yep,” Tony said. “So, you can wash your hair, or just get it wet,or I can help you with that, whatever you need.”

Bucky chewed on his bottom lip. Tony had been so, so kind, andBucky wasn’t sure if he wanted to ask any further.

“My… back when I was a kid, my Ma washed my hair, bent over thesink,” Bucky said, hesitantly. There weren’t any bolts of fear or apprehensionwith that, just the faint, old buzz of annoyance when she got water in hisears, or sometimes it would drip down his back. And, of course, the oldimpatience for being a boy of eight or nine and having to be clean, some sortof anathema to his normal way of life. Stickball and paper-waxed horehoundcandies.

“I can do that,” Tony said. His hand was still in Bucky’s hair,fingers soothing on the back of his neck. “Might want to lose the shirt, and…yeah, suit’s probably not the best for that, gimme a minute.”

Which was how Bucky found himself on his knees in front of TonyStark, the back of his neck horribly exposed and vulnerable.

Except he kept waiting for the panic to rear up -- how was itpossible to have a panic attack about the possibility of having a panic attack?-- but it didn’t.

The water was warm, soothing, and Tony’s voice was constant andcalm in his ear. He didn’t talk about anything urgent, or even anythingimportant. A little bit about Edwin Jarvis, his father’s butler who’dpractically raised him, a couple of pranks he’d pulled in high school. Some ofhis past with Jim Rhodes, back at MIT. Good stories. From a simpler, happiertime.

The shampoo Tony used on him, working it through the long locks,smelled like Tony.

By the time Tony rinsed him out and tied a towel around thedripping mess, Bucky was almost completely relaxed, just the soft, warm feel ofarousal -- not even urgent, just a bittersweet thread of wanting that ranthrough his contentment -- keeping him awake.

Tony brought him into the dressing room, a huge showcase with afew dressers and clothing racks, but mostly mirrors. “I thought you might bemore comfortable if you can see me the whole time I’m near your head with apair of scissors.”

Bucky nodded, took the chair that Tony offered. He was shiveringminutely, and Tony kept a hand on his shoulder until he calmed.

Tony ran a comb through his hair, the various conditioners anddetanglers making that task ten times easier than it had been whenever Buckytried it. His hair was stupidly thick.

“I’m just gonna even it out here, okay?” Tony said, parting it alittle to the left, and then checking the length by running his fingers downit, standing just in front of Bucky and leaning back a little to look. He wasshirtless, as Bucky was, but Bucky hadn’t noticed the scarring on Tony’s chestbefore, where his arc reactor had been. The source, Bucky knew, of everythingthat had come after; Tony’s own missile that had nearly killed him, that he hadused to rise from the ash. Becoming Iron Man.

Bucky wanted nothing more than to rest his ear against that scar,listening to the heart underneath, feeling the heat of Tony’s skin. He didn’t.

Tony showed him a pair of scissors, sharp as they had to be forcutting hair, let Bucky feel the weight of them. They were a weapon, althoughit hardly mattered. Bucky’s entire body was a weapon, it wasn’t like one pairof blades was going to make a difference.

“You ready?”

“Go ahead.”

As a supersoldier, Bucky could hold his breath for about elevenminutes. He was pretty sure he stopped breathing as soon as Tony opened thescissors and remained in that state until Tony was done. He exhaled in a rushas soon as Tony stepped back, vision flecked with speckles of black and red,head spinning. Tony put the scissors down and was back to standing in front ofBucky, one hand on either shoulder.

“You okay?”

Bucky wasn’t sure what to do; he was… he thought he was okay, but…“Yeah,” he said, “but… stay?” He wasn’t sure what he was asking for. It wasTony’s room, if anyone would be leaving, it would be Bucky.

“Touch-starved,” Tony said. “Check. You know that’s a thing,right? Neurologists have discovered that skin-to-skin contact is vital tomental health.” The whole time he was talking, Tony’s fingers stroked downBucky’s shoulders, raising trails of gooseflesh in their wake. “Physicalcontact is necessary to being human, almost as much, if not moreso, than food.There’s nothing wrong with it; that you can even miss it shows that you’restill a person inside.”

Bucky found himself suddenly on the floor, arms around Tony’swaist who was sprawled, undignified. “It’s okay,” Tony repeated, and Buckypressed his cheek to Tony’s belly, listening to his heart racing under hisskin. “It’s all right.”

They sat that way for a good twenty minutes, Bucky letting hishand wander, touching as much of Tony’s skin as he could reach, his back, hiship, across his shoulder, let his finger trace the lines of Tony’s face. Whenthe pad of his index finger brushed Tony’s mouth, his lips pursed and hepressed a kiss gently to Bucky’s fingers.

Finally, Bucky was able to get himself under some sort of control,some semblance of sanity. He was blushing, furiously embarrassed, ashamed ofhimself and his weakness. “Tony, I’m…”

“Don’t say sorry, honeybunch,” Tony said. “Consider it doctor’sorders. We can make it part of your recovery. One hairwash and cuddle sessionevery few days. Do you a world of good.”

Bucky ducked his chin. “You don’t gotta take care of me.”

Tony put his finger against Bucky’s jaw and gently and lifted hisface. “It’s good for me, too. Helps me, knowing I’m making a difference. If youneed it, I’m… honored. To help.”

Bucky considered that for a long moment. “Okay… okay.”

“Then I’ll see you in --” Tony glanced down at his wrist, whichdidn’t contain a timekeeping device at all “-- tomorrow, same time?”

“Yeah,” Bucky said, his voice rough. “Yeah, I’d like that.”

#prompts #wineriron #tony x bucky #tony stark #bucky barnes #hair washing #cuddles #touch starved #panic attacks #celtic7irish

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redvioletpanda-art · 7 years

Text

Ash’s Inktober Art Supply Megalist

a Because Inktober is such a huge event and because it’s relatively new and doesn’t have a huge masterlist of art supply lists associated with it, I have decided to post and maintain a masterlist of art supplies ranging from inks, pens, and sketchbooks to use as well as art supply stores online and other useful hints based off of my own, my friends, and other helpful artists who have given me pointers on this site.

INKS

Author’s Note: Anything called India Ink is waterproof by default most of the time. Shellac based ink tends to have a sheen, though there are exceptions. Most if not all color ink aside from black and white will not be light fast.

Dr. PH Martin’s Black Star India Ink

It is water proof and lightproof and does not contain a sheen like most other illustration inks, which means it won’t have light reflections when you scan or photograph your work. I have used it in dip pens and brushes, and it works well even when diluted with water to create shading effects. It has a rich black tone.Not entirely copic proof.

Koh-I-Noor Water-resistant Inks

These inks are water-proof and ideal to use in dip pens. It isn’t lightfast, at least the color versions aren’t, but the black and white inks are. Black and white are opaque colors while the other colors (numbering 17 in all) are transparent, similar to watercolors. Unlike a few others on this list, they come in plastic bottles rather than glass.

Yasutomo Black Sumi Ink

It’s a good brush ink, although there are some drawbacks. One would be the fact that if exposed to air long enough it will get thick, as well as the fact that it has a strong scent due to the fact that it does contain various eye and skin irritants, so don’t get any on your hands. It is very waterproof though, and works nicely if you know how to use it. It is not copic proof. It does come in a plastic container. There’s a vermillion color I haven’t used, but looks nice and bright.

Windsor-Newton Inks

Basically the go to for all and any illustration inks you’ll ever worked with. This is the ink you’ll use in art class (at least the art classes I’ve been to). They come in two different sets, though you are most likely to see the first set. They also come in metallic colors, which is a good thing if you want to go fancy. They are waterproof, but not light proof, so care must be taken when displaying them. They come in glass bottles that do not tip over.

Deleter Black 4

The ink for manga artists. It’s not only a rich solid black, it’s also resistant to fading from erasers, as well as being copic/marker proof. Excellent to use with dip pen and brush. Also waterproof, like most Deleter brand inks.

Keimei Manga Pen Ink

Not only is it waterproof and copic proof, it also has a matte finish, excellent for scanner in your work.

PENS

Staedler Pigment Liner

Lightproof, waterproof, and smear proof. Similar to microns, but from what I’ve heard better. It is erasable though on certain surfaces. Does not bleed through and won’t dry out for 18 hours if left uncapped.

Sakura Pigma Microns

Won’t feather, won’t bleed through, and a favorite of many artists. It is not Copic proof however, so try to use them after using copic. I’m not too big of a fan of these, as the think nibs do break if you use them on sharp curves and such.

Marvy Le Pen

This is becoming a surefire favorite of mine. Not only is it quite cheap, it’s also waterproof and copic proof (the permanent pen however, is not copic proof). It has a stronger nib than the Micron and it does comes in a brush tip, unlike a few others.

Windsor-Newton PITT

One of the more famous pens used for illustration, the PITT pen comes in a variety of nib sizes as well as brush pens. They are waterproof, lightfast, and acid free. They are not copic proof however, and should be used after a copic drawing.

Pentel Technica Stylo Pen

I think these pens are servely underrated. Not only are they a cheap alternative to a lot of other pens on this list, they are also waterproof and copic proof. They come in a variety of sizes and excellent with any medium, including watercolors. However you need to watch out as the ball point can get clogged up. I own at least four and they have lasted me for at least a year.

Pentel Color Brush Pen

Waterproof and really neat for those who like using brush pens, these are nice for those who travel around and use ink. It’s technically a brush pen with a reservoir of black ink you can squeeze out. Warning, there’s a few setbacks, as it does take a while to dry if laying in thick amounts of black ink. It is not copic proof, but can be used on top of copics. A good note of caution is not to squeeze too hard as the ink will drip right out. If the ink runs out, you can refill it with your own ink.

Copic Multiliner

If you are using copics, you should definately have a number of these at your disposal. They are waterproof, smearproof, and won’t bleed through paper. The other good part is the fact that they come in a SP version which can be refilled and reused, although they’re more expensive.

Sakura Gelly Roll

The white pens are excellent for making highlights and contrast.

Watercolors and Markers

Copic Markers

Literally the go to markers and my favorite markers to use overall. They come in a wide variety of colors and types and can be refilled. However they are pricey, but I feel like all in all they are worth the extra cash. Many come in pre-made sets in certain color combinations, though I would start in either a blue palette, a red palette or a grey palette to test them out. Like many markers, they will bleed through, and I would use either marker paper or a thick paper to use them on.

Sharpies

Not too much of a fan of these. but they are cheap and found everywhere. They come in a range of sizes and types, but like most markers, they bleed through paper. They are waterproof and fast drying.

Windsor Newton Watercolors

These come in either pans or tubes, but I use a mix of them. The ones I use are cotman, which are the cheaper version and comes in a plastic travel palette kit which can be put in a lot of places. I have added a number of tubes, due to the number of colors avaliable. They have rich and vibrant colors. The pan colors don’t mix as well in my experience, but the tube colors work lovely. The fact that they come in travel kits is the main reason why I put them on here.

M. Graham Watercolors

A professional set of watercolors, and they have super rich colors. They only seem to come in tubes, which aren’t as good for travel.

Ecoline Liquid Watercolors

I wasn’t sure to put these in inks, but given that they are called watercolors, I’m putting them here. They are dye based and bright and come in wide mouth jars. They can also be dluted with water. Unlike any of the watercolors here, you can use them in dip pens and airbrushes.

Sketchbooks

Author Notes: The paper to get is paper that is 100 gsm and up, as anything 100 gsm and up will hold to water better. The higher you get the better the paper will hold to washes and won’t buckle.

Moleskien Cahier Journal

I personally find the whole Moleskien brand pretty expensive, but they are recommended by the Inktober site. However, you’ll need to watch out as ink won’t dry fast and markers will bleed through the paper

Bee Creative Mix Media/Marker

I really like this paper as it’s thick and holds up to watercolors and markers well. It also doesn’t warp as badly as the watercolor version of this sketchbook. It has a thick black cover but it is wirebound so watch out for shoving it into backpacks and bags.

Bee Sketchbooks

These tend to have thicker paper, and good tooth for pen and ink, copics and illustration.

Canson Sketchbooks

A lot of these are good for watercolors and pen and ink, especially the Mix Media Art Book, Artist Series Mix Media, and the field books. The XL series is also great for those looking to save a little for a big bang.

Derwent Sketchbooks

These are a thing, but unfortunately the only one I can find at the moment is one that has premade designs in it.

Online Stores

Oozak

I have used this store in the past and it has some great deals on Copics

Jetpens

A new store I have discovered, it offers a large variety of pens, inks, and nibs

Blick’s

A very famous art store, they do offer gifts in your online purchases and have some good shipment deals

Poses and Reference

Senshi-Stock

Offers a lot of awesome poses, must be on DevArt to view. They also have a Pateron if you want to support them.

Pose-Maniacs

Rather limited, but good for some poses

Photo Reference for Comic Artists

A site I just discovered which has lots of royalty free pose references ranging from action and everyday to clothing reference

Music

Dark5 Radio

Offers dark syth-techno tunes

Electronic Gems

Some really good tunes here

Artzie Music

Mainly Future Funk and Vaporwave

Walt Ribeiro

Ever wanted to hear “Take on Me” done by an orchestra? This is the place

NOTES

Have at least two erasers at your disposal, one of them should be a kneaded eraser as they lift graphite marks and do not leave a dusty mess.

It’s alright to draw with pencil first

Take breaks to drink water and stretch every 30 minutes or so

It’s good to invest in B nibs and manga art nibs if you plan on using bottled ink. Maru and school points are the best for manga and illustration style.

Round and liner brushes are the best brushes to use for inking lines

You can plan ahead your drawings, sometimes it helps.

Listen to music while drawing helps in getting some ideas.

Official Page for Inktober

Thanks to @ancaxbre , @ayasunflower ,and @ps-art for suggestions

#inktober #art supplies #inktober art supplies #ink #copic #art #art supply masterlist #inktober masterlist

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