#Wire Cathedral

[dj-tunic]

Swordtember day 17 Glass

I'm so happy I got the stained glass look to work. There's this post @yuumei-art made, where this angel has stained glass wings, I think it's my favorite piece of art. I very much want to try and replicate that asap, and after this success, I think I actually have a shot at it.

[wryn-redacted-thrives]

i think hearing Demolition Lovers played live would be enough to cure all of my diseases (by immediately causing cardiac arrest)

[randomactsofpigeon]

Definitely did not spend two hours putting up a fan that I expected to take thirty minutes only to have it not work when we were done.

[rodpower78]

Wire-walker Phillipe Petit lies back on a wire strung between the towers of the Notre Dame. June 1971.

[travsd]

This Week: Commemorating 50 Years Since Philippe Petit's WTC Wire Walk

August 7, 1974 was the date that French acrobat Philippe Petit made his unthinkable (and quite illegal) tightrope walk across the Twin Towers of the original World Trade Center. As I chronicled in my earlier post, my good friend and sometime collaborator Jim Moore was right there with him as assistant and chronicler. A front row seat at hair-raising history! I wanted to let you know about two…

[togglesbloggle]

Voltaire's Prayer

“I have never made but one prayer to God, a very short one: Oh Lord, make my enemies ridiculous. And God granted it." -Volaire’s letter to Étienne Noël Damilaville, 16 May 1767

I’m inordinately fond of sex, in the political sense.  It’s saved us so often from the worst parts of ourselves.

As far as anti-authoritarian elements of the human experience go, sex is right up there with curiosity and the search for truth- maybe even more so.  When a new tyrant comes to town, shutting down the universities and the libraries is only the second thing they try.  The first thing is to regulate human sexuality to within an inch of its life.  Rules for marriage, rules for courtship, rules for which genitals may touch and where they may touch and when they may touch.  Rules for who and rules for whom.  Rules for which kinds of sex must doom characters in literature, rules for which things may be described as sexy, rules for which things may be described in a sexy way.

Of course they do!  If you’re trying to bind a large polity together under a common ideological narrative, to render people predictable enough to quash dissent and legible enough to exert power through them, the last thing you need is a bunch of folks running around being horny about stuff without permission.  Nature gifted us with a great capacity for reason and community; we have the innate opportunity to learn about ourselves and our neighbors, and to form complex societies based on that understanding.  It was Aristotle who first called us the political animal, and the fruits of that extraordinary capacity will always be within our reach, if only we can come together within a shared understanding.  The invention of the city is the great triumph of our species, and with it we conquer the universe.

But also this extraordinary, reasoning mind has been sculpted from the raw clay of a biology that’s anchored in sexual reproduction, and this ends up being very, very funny.

The problem isn’t so much that the sex instinct exists, per se.  It’s how it’s implemented.  Like most biological forms, the full complement of 86 billion(!) neurons in your brain aren’t encoded in a particular configuration; the brain is much too complex to be described so precisely in the only ~725 megabytes or so of human DNA.  The particular shape of your brain is in there somewhere- the lobes and subregions responsible for vision, memory, cognition, all that- but only up to a point.  The genius and fundamental limitation of genetics is that, below a certain level, the genes instead describe a process for the production and reproduction of specialized cells, and simply constructs them in such a way that they can be relied upon to order themselves as they go.

This is all well and good when we’re talking about kidneys and livers, but the fact that you can encode any kind of specific behavioral instinct in a brain this way is nothing short of a minor miracle.  Think about it!  Spiders don’t have a ‘spider web’ gene, the gene is for ‘proteins that come together in self-assembling electrochemically sensitive gelatin tissue which, when complete, encodes patterns that operate organ systems such as legs and spinnerets in such a way as to reliably create silk webs.’  This is absurdly impressive, and also completely insane.

What I’m getting at is, powerful behavioral instincts in a complex animal aren’t precise instruction manuals by which we pursue evolutionarily advantageous behaviors.  Sex and eros are prior to logic or language, let alone strategy.  Sex is a double-thick electrical wire discharging lightning bolts right through the middle of our cognitive centers, installed in the brain by a surgeon wearing mittens.  It’s an untethered firehose whipping chaotically through the cathedral, unpredictably spraying golden reliquaries with substances unmentionable.  It’s the first and greatest anarchist.

I really can’t overstate my gratitude for this.

Obviously this results in any number of deeply goofy outcomes by way of kinks and odd sexual practices- it gets tangled with pain centers, with random bits of anatomy and proprioception, with our taboos and aversions, with our greatest terrors or our greatest yearnings or just arbitrary stimuli from adolescence, and of course it gets enmeshed so often with our notions of power and submission.  It imbues these things with a fascination and potency out of all proportion with their mundane meanings.  And ultimately, you end up with human pleasures and human values that diverge so far from banal evolutionary imperatives as to be all but unrecognizable.

Even when this process somehow manages to propagate through the brain in such a way as to drive behaviors that are legibly aligned towards some adaptive constraint- e.g. heterosexual mating practices resulting in biological reproduction and careful childrearing- it’s still madness.  Love and sex penetrate deeply across tribal and national and racial boundaries, across economic interests, across battle-lines and enmities.  We become traitors, apostates, emigrants, and artists.  Declare a law, and in short order some hot-headed young people come along to break it in the name of sexual passions you could not possibly have seen coming.  Divide your neighborhood into us and them, and by the time the ink is dry on your proclamation there will be a forbidden relationship across the fence.  There is no social order, no ethical system, no theory of human nature that can entirely withstand contact with the full spectrum of human sexuality, because sex and eros are always going to be exactly as bonkers as the complexity of the human mind and culture will allow, plus a little extra just to be sure.

This isn’t always a delight, of course.  Many prohibitions exist for a very good reason, and the chaos of human sexuality makes no exemptions for true evil.  Some of us end up really, truly victims of this process.  But for all the dangers, the chaos at the root of all this isn’t oriented towards evil.  Chaos just means chaos, essentially arbitrary and hence absurd in character.

And in the grand analysis, we are so lucky to have this thing moving through our communities, this ridiculous madness that guarantees that there will be cracks in every wall and slips exploding cigars in the pockets of the powerful few.  Not in everybody as individuals, of course, and not everybody the same amount; asexuality is certainly one of the outcomes that all this mad gallivanting through our brains can produce.  Sexuality would never be so predictable as to guarantee its own existence, after all.  That’s part of what makes the joke so funny.

But all of us, regardless of sexuality, get to live in a world where the grand anarchy of sex is constantly driving home this lesson that no category is inviolate and no law is perfect.  That we should not and cannot take ourselves too seriously, or forget that we’re animals.  That we don’t exist only for the sake of others, or within their understanding.  That cities are made of cooperation, grace, and forbearance- not conformity or mere compliance.

People sometimes worry about immortality.  In the political sense, I mean.  They worry about eternal dictatorships and unconquerable gerontocracies.  This fear isn’t entirely unjustified; death has often played a role in progress and liberation.  But as long as enough of us are still getting horny without permission, still falling in love in stupid ways, I think we’ll be okay.  Romeo and Juliet don’t have to die at the end to make a difference in the world, as long as they’re brave enough to get weird with it.

[therobotmonster]

I know I wasn't supposed to.

But I went into the woods.

Another me came out.

We seem to be equally suspicious that the other is the imposter. I keep checking him for roots and he keeps doing the same to me. Is it a double bluff? Is he gaslighting me into thinking I'm the neverwas thing and he's the human being with organs and anxiety? Is he truly unaware he's a mockery given shape? If he can be unaware of it, I can be too.

That's kind of a lonely thought, really.

-

It's been several days and the tests are all inconclusive. We both bleed normal blood that doesn't turn into a spider and jump to the ceiling when you touch it with a hot wire. We know the same trivia. We pretended to know the same stuff we forgot that we were embarrassed not to remember. We both got uncomfortable at the exact same time when we walked into the cathedral.

We arm wrestled and didn't tie somehow, but we weren't sure if winning meant he was more likely to be fake or less likely.

I worry that we don't really know anything about accursed other selves from the woods.

Wikipedia has been less than helpful.

-

Mom claims she knows which one of us is her 'first boy' but refuses to tell us on the basis that she loves us both and thinks we should get along.

He thinks she can't tell and is too embarrassed to tell us. I think its because she wants to double her chance at grandkids. The difference in opinion is interesting, but is it a sign of an imposter, or the divergence of our experiences?

-

We've decided to flip for the job. I won, so I don't have to find new work. I don't know if that's a win.

I think the curse is that neither one of us is an unnatural imposter out to kill the other. Or else whichever one of us is the monster has realized they don't think my life is worth killing to steal.

I know I think about smashing that copy of my own face open with a rusty fire axe, a gush of sea water and blasphemous screams roiling from the empty hole that should contain bone and brains, and it just seems like a lot of trouble and effort.

I think I'm going to start going by my middle name.

-

Another me just showed up on our doorstep.

He's caked in mud, sticks and twigs in his hair, babbling about harrowing experiences. I'm fixing him some tea while the other-other me hands him the pamphlet we made just in case.

Now he's telling us about the Night King. Like we don't know.

I need a bigger place.

[krahk]

Blood for Ruin

(Or, Alastor and That One Time He Got Drunk and Forgot He Tried To Make a Black Magic Agreement With a Radio Only For It to Come Back to Him in the Worst Way)

Masterlist

Pairings: Alastor x Reader (She/Her/OFC) as reluctant semi-soulmates via non-consensual deal (on both ends). No use of Y/N.

I understand he is aroace, but I couldn’t stop thinking about this idea so here it is.

Eventual smutty smut happening, but be kind dear god am I rusty.

_________________________________________

Exhausted was simply not what you were - you were so past that, your brain so fried out that you didn’t even know what word you were.

Because if you were seeing smiling figure-like shadows on the walls with long dark tendrils wrapping around your surroundings, and radio static from nowhere, then yea. You were fried.

But hey, it had been a crazy long weekend. You’d just spent the last 4 days cleaning up your hoarder of a great aunts shack in the Bon Temps bayou with the other scattered remainder of her family, rooting through about 4 unidentifiable rooms with confirmed animal carcasses and straight up trash-garbage piled to the ceilings. But since your mother died, any family connection at this point was appreciated, right?

‘Couldn’t be more wrong, but it’s too late now’, you think. It was way too late to back out now, you had something to prove. Your Great Aunt’s remaining son had called you ‘slicker’ because you lived in a town with more than one lighted intersection for Christ's sake. And because you used ‘whom’ in a sentence, that opened up an entirely new thrush of nicknames from your distant cousins. You wouldn’t be beaten down, you guys were almost all done with the cleanup anyway, the only remaining items being that of actual use or salvageable material. A couple family members had taken a few items home already, and since you weren’t particularly close with these relatives you weren’t about to ask for anything until-

Well until the little radio was brought out.

For some reason, the craftsmanship of this radio caught your eye. It was a beautiful dark wood, with intricate swirls carved around the speakers - the entire thing was shaped like a miniature church cathedral window. It was clearly vintage, basically a historical piece, you thought - and you did ask quietly if you could keep it. Your uncle fiddled with it to make it work but it needed some attention. It looked virtually untouched otherwise. It was a gorgeous piece, and it looked like it was a new acquisition to the deceased woman’s collection - there wasn’t a spec of dust visible on it. Your uncle figured it wouldn’t be able to pick up football (and also “why would I listen to football when I can WATCH it?”) he let you take it with you.

So you brought it back to your temporary home, the little motel at the outskirts of town (the only motel even close to the town) and set it on the little desk. And there it sat for 2 days before you finally dove in, trying to figure out what was going on with it. You had deduced it was likely the wiring, and after watching 5 or 6 videos on wiring repair on YouTube (good old YouTube) you were fairly confident a simple repair would take no time at all.

But things made in the 20s were a lot sharper, and more metal based, compared to the newer plastic models of recent years. So when you undid the back panel and attempted to unscrew a fastener around the side of the main component, you had successfully sliced your palm open on an errant piece of metal. And holy crow did it hurt AND gush blood immediately. Even though you had whipped your hand close to your chest almost as soon as you realised what had happened it was too late, there was a fair amount of blood that got on the inside of the machine.

Uttering curses, you’d rushed to the bathroom to grab a couple threadbare cloths and sop up some of the larger drops on the desk. Moving around the radio to the light, you had a clearer idea of where your blood landed. Palming one cloth in your wounded hand, your other one attempted to clean up the mess within the radio. Which is where you noticed the funny little symbols written on the inside of the back panel of the radio, which had lain facedown on the desk as soon as you had removed it. These little symbols looked like runes of some sort, unidentifiable to you. They almost looked like they were written out of blood themselves. It was clearly dried now, but the jagged nature of the strokes and brownish un-ink like material that was used to leave the symbols certainly looked like dried blood might look like on old wood.

You wiped your blood off the radio, and ran the cloth right over one of the runes, making it glow briefly with a green light. Maybe.

Well, that was what you thought you saw. But it was so brief you would have missed it with a well timed blink. The sun was setting, light streaming through the window in hazy little streaks, maybe you saw some prismatic effect? Or maybe, maybe you needed a shower and bed. Clearly if you sliced your hand open on a little radio you were tired. Sloppy coordination indeed. You reattached the back panel to the radio and decided to ignore it until you were in a better headspace.

Radio abandoned, you went and started to clean yourself up and get ready for sleep. But when the lights in the bathroom started to flicker, only to stay on slightly duller than before, paired with a strange static that scratched the inside of your eardrums, you decided to end your shower quicker than ever. Exiting the bathroom, you were chilled to realise that the main room had the same ambient experience waiting for you. And if you focused on the moving shadows from what you hoped were passing cars (electric, judging by the lack of engine noise) there was a solid larger mass lingering on the wall with the dresser and broken TV. One that looked like it had a smile, and glowing red eyes (from a car's tail lights, duh!). Yes, yes. Tired. SO tired.

Calling the front did not help, since the static was so loud when you lifted up the receiver you slammed it back down. Your own cell phone was still charging on the side table, flashing the little dead battery symbol to let you know you needed to be more responsible with your charging habits in the future. It could be another 15 minutes before it was ready to turn on.

So, obviously tired, it was time to attempt to sleep. Hopefully. If you were lucky. It wasn’t enough that the bayou was creepy all on its own, the evening took a sharp turn into scary-town after you started messing with the little radio.

Pyjama-clad and ready to sleep you decided that the hallucinations were exactly what you thought they were - hallucinations and nothing more. Nothing spooky, or supernatural, or dangerous.

But you had been wrong before.

It was the initial crashing sound of the motel room door hitting the wall that woke you up first, screaming male voices really kicking your brain into high alert as you scrambled out of bed. Ending up in the corner facing the opposite corner where the door was, you took in what was happening. 2 men, yelling at you for whatever you had - but you were screaming louder than they were, scrambling for anything in your grasp - just that stupid, fucking radio - but judging by the hot impact of a projectile hitting your chest they were not thrilled you weren’t immediately cooperating. Hand clenching around the radio’s cord you hit the corner and slumped down to the floor, lungs burning and immense pain taking over your consciousness. As your mind faded, you could hear the two men bickering, freaking out over the turn their burglary took. Oh, you being shot was an accident? Stellar. Your vision became hazy, it even looked like shadows were overtaking the men as their arguing turned into painful screaming. Whoever came to your aid was simply too late, though you could appreciate the gesture as you died.

You always thought that you would end up looking down at your dying body when the time came, but from the forceful pull downwards your soul felt, it was clear the afterlife had different plans for you.

Now you weren’t really sure what the hell, like actual, literal, hell, was going on. The impact you felt from your sharp tug into the afterlife, landing on a very detailed rug at what looked like the lobby of a hotel was one thing. The tiny radio following your fall shortly after, merely denting a corner of the wood with a loud thunk was another, cord still clenched in your hand. Oh good!

Dazed, you were immediately hoisted up and hugged - yes hugged - by probably the tallest women you had ever met, and the fastest talking one as well. Rambling about “welcome”, “hell rehab”, something or other about redemption - honestly the look of relief you gave the shorter woman who approached and reined in the other made her smirk as she introduced them in a much clearer manner.

Vaggie and Charlie. Vaggie was a resident of the hotel with her girlfriend, the owner and operator of this ‘Hazbin Hotel’, Charlie, both working at redeeming the souls of sinners and getting them into heaven. There were 2 residents, Angel & Sir Pentious, who were not present, a Janitor Nifty (currently wiping your landing spot with a cloth) the bartender, an angry bird-cat man Husk, and the host (also missing) Alastor. Your open mouthed confusion clearly made Charlie snap into attention (finally) because she finally morphed into a being that was capable of conversation.

“So, new to hell?” She inquired.

Well. Duh. “Um yes. I think I was just shot? Am I actually dead?” You asked, hopeful this was a very vivid nightmare.

“As a doornail!” She exclaimed, chipper with positive energy, “Not that doornails are dead, they don’t have souls like you or Angel but really-”

“Yes. You’re dead. And a sinner, which is why you’re here.” Vaggie cut in, patting Charlie on the back. Charlie smiled brightly and nodded at you.

“Yes, and here you can redeem yourself and hopefully make it to heaven! I have faith in our program.”

Oh god this was too much. The sound of a door opening and closing was faintly heard in the background, but that didn’t stop you from being a speedy spiral into mania.

“So. One, I’m dead. Two, why am I in hell I am pretty sure I was a decent human? I didn’t go to church, sure, but I had very little control over my working schedule. Three, is it supposed to be so freaking loud down here? I’m-“

Intense breathing interrupted - yes, breathing. It was the janitor, her one eye staring at you while she lifted the little radio. ”This is diiiirty” she semi-sang. A horrific giggle was lingering under her breath. You grimaced at her behaviour and dropped the cord immediately, avoiding any contact by proxy with this creature. What a creepy little -

“Did that come with you?” Charlie asked, looking confused as you answered with a nod. “Strange, usually possessions don’t follow a soul into the afterlife…” She trailed off, finger tapping her chin with a frown. Everyone turned to look at the manic janitor essentially vibrating with the radio in her hands.

“Interesting! What has inspired us all to gather this fine evening?”

”Alastor!” Charlie greeted an individual behind you. ”This might be our newest resident…she’s just arrived!” Her hands wildly gestured from you to whoever was behind you. You could see the shadow of the person on the floor, stretching into a long figure that looked vaguely familiar. You were certain your eyes were burning a hole into the carpet beneath the shadow. If the shadow was this frightening what exactly was behind you? The shadow appeared to smile wider as you stared at it.

“Hmm!” Alastor, you supposed, responded. “What an exciting new development why - Oh!” Something had caught his attention. He walked towards the janitor, and you glanced at the back of his figure as he walked past you towards the tiny creature. He was tall, very tall, and slender. There was an ominous presence around him, even the nature of his clothing was fashioned in a way that seemed off. It was unnerving. Broad shoulders tapered into a very slim waistline, his jacket flared out behind him in a style reminiscent of a different time. Head to toe red and black, which was also just…something else. But the other patrons also had an interesting approach to their wardrobes as well, save the 2 women. Maybe that was just…how it was here.

“Now where did you find this delightful little item, Nifty?” He said, his profile coming slightly into your view. Dear god, terrifying. You couldn’t even begin to describe his appearance. Chills ran down your back, and suddenly you remembered you were still in very thin pajamas.

“Eh-hehe a dirty radio sir!” She answered, thrilled with herself. “it came with our new guessst” her eye switching from the tallest, creepiest creature you had ever set your eyes upon to your gaze. You swear you could hear the bones crack in the man's neck as he fired his gaze to yours. You were trapped.

“Is that so?” He began to slowly walk towards you, the room filling with a static hum similar to what you felt in the motel room, your skin tingling as he got closer. It was getting harder to hear the others try and talk to the approaching figure, the hum was getting louder.

“And what,” he started, “are you doing with my Radio, my dear?” His eyes were radio dials at this point, sharp jagged teeth glowing alongside them as his head tilted in an inhuman manner, the cracking from before louder than before.

What? Oh for fucks sake. Fuck your backwater, bayou-residing, rude, nasty, hoarder family-

As your eyes rolled back into your head, your body went limp and you hit the foyer carpet. Hard. For the second time that night

**

Part One : Part Two : Part Three : Part Four

[staticvn]

the foxes : random headcanons (because i need to let it all out somewhere)

• Renee & Matt are both huge fans of atla and the pjo series. Dan likes it as well but not as much as they do. They also tried to convince Allison to watch it with them and despite saying it’s “not her thing” she really likes it.

• Renee keeps her own garden. Mostly plants and flowers though. She tries for some veggies as well but they never grow right

• At some point, Andrew would stop smoking completely. The withdrawals are crazy and he’s cranky as hell through the whole thing but yeah.

• Renee would definitely love visiting churches and cathedrals in different countries. Not only cuz she’s religious but also because she loves the architecture and art a lot.

• also also Renee would keep the coolest looking patterned stuff. Fox shaped & cat paw carved ceramic mugs, knitted sweaters with a lot of patchworks and so on.

• Renee taught Neil ASL. For no particular reason just that it’s a good thing to know. After that she also tried teaching some of the other foxes but mostly just the basics.

• Kind of surprise to everyone, Aaron would be really good at chess. Neil and Matt on the other hand… very much not. He sometimes has chess matches with Kevin but Kev always loses which genuinely drives him mad.

• Aaron knows latin- not just the medical terms that med students have to know but like the language. So you bet that whenever someone gets him angry he starts to yap at them in latin just to make a point of some sort.

• Andrew would like those old/retro gameboys

• Andrew always beats everyone in mario kart with Nicky often being either close second or complete last - no in between.

• Nicky is the #1 pancake maker. He was kind of awful at it at first but after many many tries he perfected it for the twins

• Kev is also the #1 cook in healthy but completely flavourless prison-looking meals (though it is not his fault. i blame the nest.)

• if the foxes would ever have escape room night best believe Neil would be the first to figure it out and in record time as well.

• Kevin is a mosquito magnet and won’t stop complaining about it…like ever. (had to google synonym for bitching btw)

• to fight off the “eboy Andrew” allegations im fighting back with “absolute loser Andrew” where he wears too big sweaters, reading glasses, has crooked teeth, and searches through different cryptid or internet mysteries- related sites for too long (…projecting but still)

• Neil hates coffee. his favorite tea is peppermint or earl grey.

• the monsters watch cartoons in the morning if they don’t have classes i said what i said

• Neil definitely got into photography (or sketching or both) at some point. there is just something so symbolic about that i just can’t wire up my brain rn to figure out why.

• Kevin listens to podcasts instead of music while working out because he is simply that type. sigh

ok im done

[smallgodseries]

They are best-beloved of the young, when they must compete with a host of other divinities for attention, with small gods of plush toys and fashion dolls, of cartoons and new experiences, of fear and joy and novelty.  They are never powerful in the eyes of their youngest applicants, although they are sometimes leant additional strength by the allure of the forbidden.  They don’t make kids hyper.  That’s an urban legend, bolstered by the natural excitement born of getting something rare and nice, and the occasional child whose system is wired to respond to a burst of energy by burning it off immediately.  Still, they receive credit—or perhaps blame—for any number of hijinks, for broken windows and woken infants, for the natural exuberance of childhood, and they don’t deny it, because they are not a small god of childhood nutrition or the like.

They are small, and simple, and content to be what they are.  Bright, colorful, cartoonish, and implicitly extraterrestrial, even though there is more of Boise than Betelgeuse in their list of ingredients.  Their boxes are designed to be inviting, and they can make any kitchen their cathedral with a minimum of preparation and but a single invitation to arrive.  With cleverly clipped coupons, they will come virtually for free, and they like it that way.  It allows them better access to their adherents.

And of course, there are always those who will continue their worship into adulthood, those for whom marshmallow sweetness and color-changing milk are reminders of a childhood spent sweetly, or proof that they are finally secure, finally free from the ownership of parents who put their own preferences at the head of the line, finally able to live their own lives.  Those will not always be the people you assume.  The judge in her solemn black robes eats a bowl of Frostie-Os before she proceeds to the courthouse, the accountant in linen and wool enjoys Fruity Sugar Dreams every morning before he turns to his spreadsheets.  They turn none away.

They do not cause tooth decay when proper dental hygiene is practiced; they are not solely responsible for poor nutrition or any other ill.  They are only here to bring us light and joy and to serve as part of a balanced breakfast.

They are a neutral god, and we would do well to treat them as such.

[marc--chilton]

screaming going insane im begging you to talk more about house developing a pavlovian response to wilsons nagging. like you’re right.

like house is already not subtle about wilson (you can only joke about wanting to fuck a guy so much before people start thinking you actually wanna fuck the guy) (i am not convinced he was ever joking)

and house has sooo many issues, the most prevalent being ones that stem from his leg and resulting disability after a life of activity, BUT we also must consider also those that stem from his childhood..... when a parent treats you terribly even the most logic-minded and rational people will think they deserve it. and when that is normal for you, it's almost a comfort. especially if that's the only attention you're getting from them

now let's set that aside for a second. house has always thought of wilson positively from day one (finding him "interesting" which is like the normal person equivalent of saying love at first sight, in this case) and i am not alone in thinking that house is pining in some form. and he fucks. the wires get crossed. something in his brain goes from "no one can make him mad like i can :) " to "he's hot when he's negging me" to house beating it in the hospital showers

95% (why did the numbers get HUGE just then. like i'm making a point sure but goddamn 70 point font pop off) of the time house will walk away from an interaction with wilson feeling great, even if he just got lectured within an inch of his life. just look at how often he gets the Diagnosis Revelation just from bothering wilson for five minutes (and that being all of wilson's screentime in the ep)

they're sick. they're basically having sex every episode. there are cathedrals everywhere for those with the eyes to see

[beesmygod]

What are some of your favorite pieces of art/ art that has made you think a lot?

this is such a cheesy cop-out answer, but there's a lot of things that im going to struggle remembering because of 1. how situational the experience was (as in, the context in which i experienced the piece) 2. how wide the word "art piece" is. 3. the great fortune to have been born to parents with strong artistic sensibilities and a love of travel/education. so these are like. really weird and specific but maybe thats the way it should be:

let's start with the most overly dramatic: st. paul's cathedral in london has guided tours where they take you into rooms and let you mill around before moving to the next one. my family took a trip overseas as a really, really big special vacation to celebrate my sister and i graduating from high school (we're not twins, we just combo'd it after she graduated) that i was too brain-broken and teenage to fully appreciate. its a beautiful cathedral but i was in my edgy internet atheist stage and refused to be impressed by it until i stood over a grate in the floor. through the grates you can see the crypt that you visit next. but standing over the grate, someone below started to sing something hymnal and very catholic. and i realized i was the only one who could hear it because of the crowd chatter. and it made me feel, in the moment, so special and so lonely in a way that i still think about, a lot. it was for me only. divine providence.

a date with adam to a place i had no idea existed but he had been to before: the bad art museum, which is split over like 3 different buildings in a bizarre way. we only went to the one where you have to buy a ticket to a movie as entry and it was some truly lovely bad art and made me sad how inaccessible it was but resolute about my love of the nuances of uncelebrated anti-art masterpieces. then we watched "assassination nation" and it was fucking terrible. great date.

reading the theory regarding the "venus of willendorf" being a self portrait as a 20-something year old and running into the bathroom to take my clothes off and look down at myself and having my mind blown. not just by how much i instantly understood it, but because of the tugging feeling on my heart when i feel that strand of history connecting women artists driven by that unknown compulsion to create for creations sake!

similarly, seeing artemisia gentileschi's work next to her fathers and realizing how much she outclassed him in every single way and feeling the tugging feeling again, but this time with a dark woe of realization of how history minimizes achievement and talent when it eases a narrative

reading jane erye's descriptions of herself and her approaches to her plights and for the first time feeling like someone had walked a path that i currently found myself lost on.

reading 1984 as a middle schooler and becoming so angry at the ending i threw the book across the room (something i had never done before and never did again in my life) and stormed out of my room to complain to my mom lol. IT REALLY UPSET ME!!!

reading les miserables for the first time and weeping piteously for days after the ending and having it impact my brain so hard it re-wired how i think about the concept of "legacy" and what it means to matter in the world and how love is nothing without the courage to stand up for it. and that mercy should, and will, always supersede unwavering justice (hard lesson to remember, maybe im due for a re-read)

sneaking into my parents room to read the books i wasnt supposed to yet as a really little kid lol. my mom used to get "dykes to watch out for" in a newsletter she was subscribed to! but i didnt read those bc they were dumb relationship comics for grown-ups. i wanted to read about opus the penguin and lee iacocca, as if i knew who that was. my mother's comic collection was the single most influential constant in my life. knowing that i was exposed to bill watterson's commentary about his own work via the big collections my mom owned probably explains a lot about what's wrong with me. but she also had a lot of berke breathed before he fully wussed out

the general experience of playing a video game that you arent supposed to/when you arent supposed to is probably one of the most freeing means of meaningless rebellion as a kid that everyone should experience. i used to be up playing pokemon past my bedtime under my covers with a huge heavy rubber flashlight i stole from the kitchen and had to replace every morning without getting caught once i was done with it. god, the days before backlit screens we had to get really fucking wild with it. in high school i would wake up at 5:00am, sneak into the computer room where the ps2 was and play an hour of FFX bc its the longest fucking non-persona game in the world, stop playing before my mom woke up at 6:00am and sneak back into bed. if i hit a part where i couldnt save i would just turn the screen off and come back to it tomorrow lol. secrets......

reading the "pictures for sad children" arc about paul, who is a ghost, finally losing it and going on a rant about how it has never mattered how thin a computer screen is. they were right and reading it helped me articulate and understand a growing feeling of restless frustration at the world around me that i felt singular and alone in. im glad that last i heard that artist is doing ok. i hope they recognize the incredible value in their work as imperfect as they perceived it to be. i do not think they would be happy to know that their old work was impactful, but i hope they realize that what people are able to tease out of their work is meaningful, at least to me it is. ill transcribe the comic rather than repost it i think: paul [while smashing electronics]: "have i told you about [bam] how nerds destroy the world take conspicuous consumption as a lifestyle choice and combine it with early hardware adoption and you have great swaths of gadgetry out of stock because they're incrementally better than the last model and there are landfills full of functioning electronics wasted time, resources, money, etc. the best part is that these things were never necessary it has never mattered how thing a computer is." [smash]

this is too long. i like art.

[rosewaterandivy]

hit me like a hook of the right

a series of blurbs & one shots featuring modern!actor!steve x rockstar!gf

🎶 Down, down in my bones, somewhere I'd never ever known, right at the back of my head it hit me like a beam of light 🎶

summary: Girl meets boy, seems pretty simple, all things considered. And in any other reality than the one you’re living, it would be. But being one half of a Hollywood It-Couple is … complicated at best, and devastating at worst.

vignettes from your life as Cherry McGowan, rockstar and girlfriend to actor Steve Harrington.

warnings: my blog is 18+ MDNI reader/rockstar!gf & steve are in their late twenties/early thirties, drinking, smoking, invasion of privacy & general celebrity nonsense.

a/n: just a bit of escapism for ya! updates will be sporadic, at best.

Series playlist

listed in chronological order & (*) denotes 18+ content

won me over in spite of me

pynk like the inside of your*

girl crush*

got lovesick all over my bed*

honey, you were mine

Emmy's drabble

wild & fluorescent

dancing in the dark

nothing compares 2 u

flipped the script, shot the plot

let gravity win

cathedrals - posted 5/8

almost wilting away

didn’t know I was broken ‘til i wanted to change

real love baby

more than being unknown

my days on a wire

misc. (requests, one shots, drabbles, hcs, etc.)

craving through the dark

tender charm

checkmate

i don't cook, i don't clean

lookin’ for eternal bliss

oh, look what you’ve done

[kitcat992]

Identity Within︱Chapter 11 - To Have and To Hold (PREVIEW)

The noise of city life hit him at every angle, sounding from far down below and matching the same pace as the breeze passing by.

It was distant, but audible; playing in the background while the hammering of his pulse took center stage.

Standing outside on the historic cathedral’s balcony, Tony paid none of it any attention. He looked out to the skyline ahead of him, with the tint of lavender over his eyes covering the towering buildings of Manhattan in front of him.

The city of New York was nothing but a background to the live video that played through his high-tech lenses; something he and only he could see.

“Thirty minutes before the ceremony starts.” Tony smirked, grabbing the balcony railing with both his hands and subconsciously gripping them tight. “A little under the wire there, don’t you think?”

The clock sitting in the corner of his eyes kept counting down, but the video that played through his glasses was more than enough of a distraction.

For a fleeting moment, one that came with the sudden gust of wind, Tony found himself taking in a deep breath for the first time since arriving outside. That feeling, one normally taken for granted, was enough to relax him — if only by small measures.

Staving off a panic attack was surely the last thing he expected to be doing today. And yet here he was.

“What I think is that it is very stereotypically egotistic of yourself to assume my timing was done on mistake.”

Tony looked back ahead at the video, his smirk only growing at the voice that followed.

“Mhm-hm,” he sounded, humorously; with a quick glance to the corner of his glasses causing his chest to tighten up, making it impossible for him to take in another deep breath. He swore the minutes were counting down faster than usual. “You sure you didn’t just get the timezones wrong?”

The look Shuri gave him was almost hot enough to be felt across the world.

“Oh, trust me, when I had first inputted New York, New York, I was sure I had to be mistaken,” she remarked, slyly, with an equally sly smirk. “You American’s have such wildly barbaric names for your cities, you know this, right?”

A part of Tony tried to be frustrated with the young girl’s attitude, but not even he could resist the good-natured chuckle that slipped through the tension in his jaw.

Receiving a personal greeting from the Princess of Wakanda was also something he didn’t expect today, but of all curve balls he could be thrown, that one didn’t bother him so much.

“Twenty-eight minutes,” he told her, the prideful spark in his eyes hidden behind the frames that he wore. Subconsciously, he stared off beyond her view and into the distant background of the New York City skyline. “Hate to break it to you, Xena, but today’s kinda an important day and I’m kinda an important part of it. You might wanna shake a leg with the congratulations, time’s ticking down.”

The grin that stretched Shuri’s lips was almost as bright as the afternoon sun barreling down onto the cathedrals balcony. The few potted plants that lined the walls took in that sunlight with the same kind of glisten as her smile.

“And that is the reason for my timing.” Shuri leaned back into her chair, arms crossed with the glow of surrounding technology only highlighting her hubris.

Even on video call, her ego stole the room.

Tony gave her a look in return, his head cocking to the side with the grip he had on the banister tightening.

“Okay, your highness,” he drawled out, letting a hard beat fall next. “Feel free to elaborate.”

While Shuri’s ear-to-ear grin was as cocky as any teenage genius could get, Tony had no remaining energy to focus on anything other than the towering buildings of Manhattan from all around him. The near-afternoon sun had become bright enough to cast a sharp reflection off the glass windows of the many skyscrapers, adding a warmth to the air that didn’t do much to help Tony’s breathing.

It felt like an elephant was sitting on his chest. Or ten.

“Oh, there is nothing to elaborate on, Stark,” Shuri answered, a little too easily. “It is very obvious. You have cold feet.”

[foolish-clown]

Clairvoyance

A/N: Guess who got into Aespa in the space of 2 days 

Warnings: Violence, blood, deaths, threats, injury and cursing

Word Count: 2.1k 

Her eyes pierce through your defenses, everything that you are laid bare for her to view for her own pleasure and amusement. 

The demon sits upon her throne, and somehow you find yourself at her side. 

Mafia-Boss!Winter

Frigid air forces white puffs to exit passed your lips, their existence lasting but a few seconds before they evade your vision.

The scar on your arm itches.

The cathedral was empty upon your arrival - the stone walls doing very little to contain any heat from the carefully placed candles. All in rows of three.

This was by no means new to you, because while the building was used for its intended purpose, it was all a farce. A cover-up.

Sin and debauchery lay just below the surface, away from watchful eyes and curious ears.

The first time you had timidly stepped through the threshold, you had almost expected God himself to smite you down, and force you to repent for any and all sins that you have committed in the short amount of time you had been on this world.

You wore sin like a silk scarf, greeted it like the long-time friend it has always been.

After all, it was the reason you had forced tensed limbs passed the sturdy wooden doors that belonged to this particular place of worship, arms clutching a package with some very questionable words written upon its surface.

You had entered with nothing but a goal and a name.

Kim Winter.

Back then she had been a means to an end; you needed something she could provide, and in turn you would place your life and loyalty in her hands.

A desperate cry, perhaps, but in a city such as this one each sunrise you got to witness was nothing but pure luck.

Gangs ravaged each corner, deals of all kinds conducted with hushed whispers and stacks of green.

Never in your wildest dreams would you have expected things to turn out the way they did.

- - - - - - - - - - ☆ - - - - - - - - - -  

Your grip on the package tightens once you enter the main space, eyes taking in the rows of pews.

It was cold, uncomfortably so.

A shuffle has your wired muscles bouncing; fight and flight response activated as you turn to whatever made the noise.

Jihyo raises an amused eyebrow at your response, the corner of her lips twitching for the briefest moment before she continues her approach.

“So, you took my advice?”

A strained breath causes a dull ache to shoot up your sides, shoulders very much still tense. “I can’t afford to take my time.”

She nods her head once in understanding, “Winter is in her office. To the left,” she points at a single wooden door hidden away. Your heart seems to pick up with the knowledge.

Strange.

Jihyo turns back to you, then, and you can feel any blood exit your face at the expression she dominates you with. “If, at any point, you become a threat to her, your death will be slow and torturous. You will be begging me to end you, do you understand?”

Threatened promises cause your tongue to fall limp where it lies in your mouth; a nod is all you can give.

Your relationship with Jihyo had been nothing but friendly banter till now, but even you know that means little if you make one wrong move.

Once at the door, you juggle the package into one hand, shaky fingers raising until timid knuckles can tap against the frame.

“Enter.”

With one last breath, you take hold of the handle and twist, wincing with the slight creek once you begin to push.

Before you even have the chance to see the inside of the office, the temperature makes a sudden and heavy drop. Bumps immediately erupt along your arms and invoke a full-body shiver.

You say nothing as you slip your way in, the natural habit of not wanting to get in the way making you appear small as you all but cower once inside.

Your gaze is slow to pull itself from the floor, but once you manage the difficult feat you are left stranded alone and enraptured.

Sitting hunched on a large leather seat, Winter regards you for a tense moment, hands neatly folded for her chin to be placed upon.

Her eyes meet your own, daring you to make a move before they drop for the briefest of moments. So quickly, in fact, that you are pretty certain that it was all in your head, especially as she takes a stand.

Her expression gives away nothing as she makes her way closer, each step calm and calculated. This was her domain, her territory, and she was making that very clear during this moment.

You fail to hold in the stuttered breath when her eyebrow twitches in what you can only assume to be amusement, her eyes continuing to force their way passed your already diminished defenses and look deep into your soul.

“It would seem you need something from me,” she says, nonchalance dripping from her fangs.

“You better not be wasting my time.”

- - - - - - - - - - ☆ - - - - - - - - - -  

It was safe to say your first impression of Winter Kim was as memorable as it was terrifying. Something she holds over you even to this day.

She loves holding the power, thrives from it. Authority practically drips from each syllable whenever she speaks.

You had gotten used to it after joining her operation, to the point where you sometimes find it difficult to reach the same level of terror you held after the first day.

Winter was as enigmatic as she was contradictive, and it makes you wonder why you find yourself paying such rapt attention to every little thing she does.

There was a need, deep and primal, to prove your worth for her eyes to feast on. To have you be someone she could rely on for tasks she wouldn’t be able to entrust with just anyone.  

Ryujin says you’re like a lost puppy.

You purposely ignore her.

It doesn’t help that you have already made mistakes, stupid little things that could have very easily been avoided if you had just thought about it.

And then there are those moments, little cracks in time and space where her smile is genuine in nature, her words holding just a tinge of softness.

They leave you weak and obsessed, always craving for more.

She’s become an expert on giving you just enough to catch your attention, to gain your interest before the mask of indifference is placed firmly back on and she’s telling you to get back to work.

You fail to notice Jihyo’s Chesire grin whenever you stumble out of Winter's office, confusion clear on your face, before you straighten out your blazer and head back to your post.

It continues like that, weeks coming and going, before an attack on the cathedral changes everything.

- - - - - - - - - - ☆ - - - - - - - - - -  

Business has been running slow all day, the yawns forcing open your jaw becoming more and more frequent with each hour that passes.

You would have loved nothing more than to track down Jihyo or Ryujin, to tease and banter, anything to pass the time. But both of them had jobs outside of the cathedral for the night, which meant you were left to suffer the prospect of boredom all alone.

There is a small tug within your chest, working together alongside the scar on your arm, reminding you that Winter was in her office.

You lift up the white sleeve of your dress shirt to look at the discolored skin.

A sign of your loyalty.

Everyone that works for her had one, brought forth due to a burn.

Unconventional perhaps, after all the other gangs had tattoos and the like to discern them from others, but there’s a part of you that prefers this.

Growing up without a home, the scar made you feel like you belonged in some dark, twisted way.

Pushing your sleeve back down, you were just about to go and find something to hold your attention when an explosion rocks the stone walls, some of the stained windows smashing in the process.

Confusion forces your brain to close up shop, but your capacity to work in sync with your instinct means you’ve already begun to move.

Bullets come raining through the doors as you begin passing the rows of pews, and tight muscles propel you behind one before sharp metal can imbed itself into soft flesh.

Reaching into your blazer, you automatically reach for the set of knives, your preferred weapon, before taking out the pistol instead.

You sigh, listening, waiting for a break before you’re once again on the move.

A bullet from you strikes true into one of the assailants, leaving no time for yourself to gloat as you’ve crossed the walkway to the pews on the other side, crouching for cover as you go.

The need for your own life and safety is non-existent during that moment, everything, every desire coursing through your body urges you to get to her, to Winter, and make sure no harm comes her way.

The hinges of the door almost snap with the force you use to open it, the darkened end of your demise greeting you once you turn.

Winter’s hardened eyes widen when she realizes it’s you, and she quickly lowers the gun she had pointed to your face.

“Hello to you too,” you grin, quickly regretting your choice of words when it looks like she’s going to raise the gun again. “Sorry! I can’t help it. Stress brings out my inner comedian.”

“Keep telling yourself that,” she huffs. “But how about we leave that for when we get out.”

You salute despite yourself, “Aye, aye boss.”

Even when staring death in the face, you could never take things seriously.

With a tighter grip on your own weapon, you instinctively reach out with your free hand, fingers greeted with Winter’s unnaturally cold touch as you bring her hand into your own.

A deep breath in, and on the count of 3, you charge.

- - - - - - - - - - ☆ - - - - - - - - - -  

“Fuc- ow!”

You flinch away more due to the unimpressed glare Winter shoots you rather than the stinging pain in your abdomen.

Situated in her home, on her couch, you were stripped of your blazer and shirt so she could tend to the only would you had managed to obtain from your escape.

“Shut up before I give you something to whine over,” she threatens, but her words are empty, even you and your lack of social skills could tell.

However, when she leans in once again, you pull back, heat coursing through your veins. This was doing little to calm your already overworked heart.

With the slightest hint of a growl she reaches out, forcing you close with one arm as the other continues to tend to your injury.

While still embarrassed from the proximity, you comply with her orders, watching intently as her furrowed brow seems to deepen as she works. The way the hardened line of her lips seems to be fighting off a… pout?

Perhaps you hit your head without even knowing?

Too enraptured, you don’t even process when she moves, bringing both hands up to your face and daring your gaze to pull away from the fire raging deep within her own.

“You’re an idiot.”

“H-huh?”

Lips meet your own, and you’re left floundering for even a shred of sanity you know you don’t have.

She pulls back, hands still on your cheeks, “What am I supposed to do if you die?”

You blink once, twice, eyes fluttering in confusion when you see the hint of tears laying just against her eyes.

“I’m… sorry?”

Your mind is a whirlwind, so many things raging havoc at once that you don’t even know where to begin.

She pulls you in again, and this time your body reacts before your mind short circuits once more. Your heart at odds with so many different emotions trying to take control of the strained muscle.

She places her forehead against your own, and with one puff of cold air from her lips, you feel yourself take control for the first time that night.

“You were never subtle about things, you know,” she whispers, and you can feel your face flush with the knowledge that she had been aware of your feelings for the entire time.

“Why didn’t you say anything?”

A smirk is slow to spread against her lips, and you attempt to push down the shiver it evokes. “Because I wanted to see if you actually ask me.”

“Well,” you clear your throat when your words come out strained, “would it be weird if I asked now?”

She pulls back, and you watch as the demon before you teases and beckons, “I don’t know.” She says, looking away in an attempt to appear as if she was pondering. Her eyes alight like wildfire when she turns back to you.

“There is only one way to find out.”

[masculinepeacock]

a goddess and her immortal servant.

@teaboot // Sylvia Plath, The Unabridged Journals of Sylvia Plath // Carolyn Forché, The Lightkeeper // Frank Bidart, The War of Vaslav Nijinsky // Anne Carson, Grief Lessons // Amethyst Kiah, Wild Turkey // @punkbarbarian // dead & gone // Elizabeth Wein, Code Name Verity // William Shakespeare, Julius Caesar

[Image Description: Ten photos of quotes.

1: “Her: Do I annoy you?

Me: If I didn’t love you, yeah.”

2: “I need a father, I need a mother, I need some older, wiser being to cry to. I talk to God but the sky is empty.”

3: “You say to me stay awake, be like the

lensmaker who died with his

lungs full of glass, be the yew in blossom

when bees swarm, be

their amber cathedral and even the

ghost of Cistercians will be kind to

you.”

4: “God said:

GOD MADE YOU. GOD DOES NOT CARE IF YOU ARE ‘GUILTY’ OR NOT.

I said:

I CARE IF I AM GUILTY!

I CARE IF I AM GUILTY!…”

5: “I am someone who did not die when I should have died.”

6: “Tried so hard to be an automaton

Body of steel and wired circuits for my backbone

‘Cause she’s never coming back

No, she’s never coming back”

7: “leo (he/him): lensa is. god?”

8: “dead & gone

The old version of me

is dead & gone

because I killed her.”

9: “I am no longer afraid of getting old. Indeed I can’t believe I ever said anything so stupid. So childish. So offensive and arrogant. But mainly, so very, very stupid. I desperately want to grow old.”

10: “Danger knows full well that Caesar is more dangerous than he. We are two lions litter’d in one day, and I the elder and more terrible.” /end ID]