#anyways. thank you pita you did such a great job!!!! i love the art so much!! <3< /div> Explore tagged Tumblr posts

[aliensaresupergay]

What would you do if I told you I wrote a ryukita fic unlike any other where it takes an extremely oblivious Ryuji basically over 5k words to realize his feelings for Yusuke? read it here!

God damn is it fun to write these two, I never get tired of their dynamic!! I’m so happy for my first ever ryukita fic to be done and to have had @red-hot-kick draw summary art! If you’re a fic writer you should consider commissioning them >:)

[gotham-ruaidh]

Pas De Deux - A  Moodboard (Three Part) One-Shot

@iamnottrisha​ thank you for organizing!

Chapter 1

Claire Beauchamp – Miss Claire to her students – sighed and rolled her stiff shoulders, squinting at the pile of lab reports yet to be graded.

 Another Thursday night working late in her cramped office at PS 345, recognized for six straight years as one of Brooklyn’s top-performing middle schools. Two months ago she had started her fourth year as a seventh-grade science teacher, her creative approach to topics ranging from biology to buoyancy winning accolades from students and a precious tenure slot the year before.

 She truly loved the school – so much so that after leaving Frank she’d bought a co-op just a ten-minute walk away, on the border of Cobble Hill and Carroll Gardens. The charming brownstones and tree-lined streets were the perfect antidote to her years living in a Manhattan high-rise, all cold steel and glass and cold neighbors and a cold husband married to his deals.

 When she realized she’d been looking at the same diagram for five minutes, she sighed, feeling deflated. No use continuing tonight.

 Quickly she organized the papers on her desk, shrugged into her blue peacoat, and slipped the remaining lab reports into her satchel. Already thinking about the Lebanese food she’d pick up on the walk home, and how Adso would wrap his furry gray body around her ankles as soon as she unlocked the front door.

 She stepped into the hallway and locked the door behind her.

 Faint music drifted from the direction of the arts wing.

 Intrigued, she padded down the quiet hallway, passing lockers and darkened classrooms and walls covered with flyers of all colors and sizes. Turned at the corner –

 Ah. Light blazed from the art studio, where Jamie Fraser hunched over a sink, his back to her, washing paintbrushes, fast-paced orchestral music blaring from speakers mounted at two corners of the room.

 This wasn’t the first time that she and the second-year art teacher had found each other working late – and truth be told, seeing him there tonight made her smile.

 Shaking her head – damn, she was just like her students sometimes, mooning over a ridiculous crush – she knocked loudly on the classroom door.

 Jamie startled, turning to face her. Then smiled broadly, wiping paint-streaked hands on his denim smock.

 “What’s it tonight?” she teased.

 He fished a remote control out of his back pocket and dialed down the volume. “What did you say?”

 “I said,” she smiled, slowly walking into the studio, “what are you listening to tonight?”

 “Ah.” He leaned back against the sink. “Tchaikovsky – Swan Lake. I just got my hands on this great new recording from the Bolshoi, in Moscow. It’s amazing.”

 “Ballet?” Claire’s eyebrows quirked, and she set her satchel down on one of the classroom tables – careful of the coffee cans full of paintbrushes.

 Briefly Jamie turned away to set out the damp paintbrushes to dry on a towel beside the sink. “What – can’t a man have many tastes?”

 “Well – whenever I’ve found you in here blasting your music before, it’s been anything from rock to folk to country music. I thought all of you artistic types were into the indie stuff.”

 Jamie reached behind his back to untie the strings of his smock. “I only like the classics. Too much of art and music these days is bullshit. If you have to be told that it’s great, or told what political statement the art is making, then it’s not art.”

 She smiled. Feeling refreshingly alert. “So, Mr. Artist – what is art?”

 He hung up the smock on a peg beside the sink. Crossed the room to stand just a few steps away. Looking a bit tired in his flannel and corduroys – his eyes, however, so alive.

 “Art is something that stirs you, and resonates with you, and that you know is beautiful.”

 She swallowed.

 He ran paint-stained hands through his short, thick red hair. “And, well – my sister is a professional ballet dancer.”

 Claire laughed – tension suddenly relieved. “What?”

 “Yeah.” Why did his voice sound so shy? “I grew up going to her practices and recitals. So I’ve got a bit of a soft spot for ballet.”

 “Who was the Impressionist that was particularly enamored with drawing ballet dancers?”

 “That would be Edgar Degas. The Met has rooms dedicated to his pastels.” Jamie tilted his head a bit. “Since when do science teachers know anything about art or ballet?”

 She lifted her chin. “My uncle raised me after my parents died – he worked very hard to give me a well-rounded education.” She balled her hands into fists, safe within the pockets of her coat.

 Jamie sat on the edge of the table. “My parents died too.”

 Claire’s hand flew to her mouth. “Oh, I’m – ”

 “Don’t apologize – please. Mom was an artist – she encouraged me, and my sister. After she died, my father did the same. And now, here I am.”

 Claire swallowed. Wanting nothing more than to keep talking to this man.

 “Do you like Lebanese food?”

 --

 “I can’t believe I’ve never been here before.”

 Jamie wiped his mouth with a napkin before diving back into his piping-hot lamb sandwich.

 “I love this place.” Claire took another bite of falafel, digging deep into the paper bag for another slice of pita. “It’s been owned by the same family since the turn of the century. And you saw all the grocery items, right?”

 Jamie nodded, re-crossing his legs on the bench, watching the cars whizz by on Atlantic Avenue. “Do you live close to here?”

 “Yeah. I love it. What about you?”

 “I’m up in Greenpoint. I inherited Mom and Dad’s brownstone. It’s silly to be in such a big house by myself, but – ”

 “But you can’t part with it. I understand.”

 He turned to look at her. Really look at her – crazy curly hair pulled back in a messy bun, falafel crumbs on her coat, a smudge of white sauce on her chin.

 Why hasn’t some lucky man snapped you up?

 It took five seconds for his tired brain to realize he’d spoken the words aloud.

 How he wanted to sink into the sidewalk.

 But Claire set down her styrofoam tray. Pursed her lips. Really looked at him.

 “One did,” she whispered. “But he threw me away.”

 Chastened, Jamie reached across the bench. Wiped the sauce from her chin with the flimsy paper napkin from the take-out bag.

 “I’m sorry.”

 “Don’t apologize – please. I’ve got my own life now. My students – a job that I love.”

 He didn’t say anything for a long time – watching her, and the taxicabs gliding by, and the hundreds and hundreds of people hurrying past on the sidewalk.

 She cleared her throat. “Anyway. We got some baklava for dessert, right?”

 “What are you doing tomorrow night?”

 She blinked. “Friday? Um…nothing, I guess.”

 He nodded. “Good. I want to take you somewhere, if that would be all right. Wear something halfway nice – we’ll leave from school.”

 She raised her eyebrows. “Are you taking me out on a date, Jamie?”

 He smirked. “Just returning the favor, Claire.”

[flapperfromthefuture]

Having lived in various corners of the Midwest all my life, I’ve had little to no desire to ever spend time in the state of Wisconsin. Oh, how wrong I was.

Long story short, the only stop where we could see Hillary Clinton speak was Milwaukee. And we were not going to miss a chance to see Hillary Clinton. From the moment we bought the tickets, A has been counting down with a level of intensity that is usually reserved for space shuttle missions.

Finally, after a month and a half of waiting and worrying about what to wear, we arrived in the fine city of Milwaukee, where even the parking garage attendants are super cheerful and friendly, even when they’re freezing. Our first stop was the Milwaukee Public Market, which is a lot like the Food and Wine Festival at Epcot, only the food is all from local vendors and everything is way less expensive.

“We could buy a chocolate swan full of jellybeans!” said A. “Or oysters! Or sandwiches!”

For lunch, I ate the spiciest burrito I’ve ever had. Milwaukee was surprising me already.

While we ate, A and I watched a Mexican telenovela set in a hospital decorated to look like a Ramada Inn circa 1987. The sound was turned down and we can’t read lips at all, let alone in Spanish, but the plot was this: a very hunky gentleman in a wheelchair—who had somehow managed to get his clothes specially tailored and his bangs immaculately swept despite being hospitalized—was flirting with his very cute nurse, whose hair was layered to frame her face to a degree of perfection that I had never seen, so clearly they had to get together. When she helped him up from his wheelchair in order to do those parallel bar things, it looked like the scene was set up perfectly for a mid-physical therapy make-out session. But then the hunky guy FELL! And not right into the nurse’s cleavage like you would expect! He hit the ground like a beautiful sack of chiseled potatoes and started convulsing exactly the way someone seizing would not.

Smash cut to hunky guy in his hospital bed, bangs still flawless and jawline lit beautifully. The tearful nurse made an impassioned speech at his bedside and then fled the hospital, which apparently only had one other employee with the sole job of walking back and forth in the background every thirty seconds.

And that was the end of the show!

“Is he going to wake up?!” said A. “We have to find out.”

Sadly, it was not to be—Milwaukee was calling us! We headed out into the brisk and slightly Arctic wind to our next destination: the Milwaukee Art Museum.

I’ve been to a lot of art museums in my time, and I have to say, the Milwaukee Art Museum is just about perfect. Not so big and crowded that it’s overwhelming, but large enough to have some really incredible works and lots of hidden treasures. You can really get lost and explore and discover art that you didn’t know existed, without actually getting lost and then panicking and feeling total rage and defeat because the Renaissance wing is supposed to be on the second floor but the damn elevators only go to the mezzanine.

Anyway. I can’t recommend it enough. The building is beautiful, the staff is very friendly and helpful, and the gift shop gave me great ideas for my holiday shopping list, namely my list of things for other people to get for me.

The current temporary exhibition is called “From Degas to Picasso,” and they had some great stuff: not just sketches by Picasso and sculptures by Degas, but drawings by Monet and Seurat, paintings by the great Impressionists and the great Cubists, and this little picture that pretty much blew my mind.

Vincent Van Gogh made this etching of a French doctor named Paul Gachet, who’d taken him on as a patient during the last months of Van Gogh’s life. Dr. Gachet was a great champion of artists and an amateur painter himself, and he gave Van Gogh some etching tools and suggested he give it a try. Van Gogh had never made an etching before, and was said to have been pleased with the results.

My first attempt at etching resulted in nearly slicing off my own thumb just trying to etch a circle.

“You can see the concern in the doctor’s eyes,” said A, as this sentence stopped me in my tracks: “Van Gogh died three weeks after making this etching.”

I could not believe I was seeing a) the only etching ever made by one of the greatest artists of all time b) one of the last things that artist ever created and c) a portrait of a person who was important to the artist and is well-known to enthusiasts and scholars of his work. And in Milwaukee, of all places.

Van Gogh painted two portraits of Dr. Gachet—one is in the Musee d’Orsay in Paris, the other was sold to a private collector.

For 82.5 million dollars.

A did not believe me when I told her that Van Gogh only sold two paintings during his life. “That can’t be right,” she said.

“Life is cruel and unfair,” I said. Which brings us to Hillary Clinton.

We returned to the Public Market for dinner—excellent falafel pitas, again in Milwaukee,  who saw that coming?

Then we ventured out into the 19 degree weather (that’s -7 in the other one!) and stood in line for a good long while to get in the theater.

I didn’t bring a coat. That’s the only thing I forgot. I brought everything else we could possibly need but I didn’t think I’d need a coat. In Wisconsin. Oh well.

We finally got in the theater just as I was losing feeling in not one, not two, but all of my extremities, and took our seats wayyyyyy up high in the very beautiful Riverside Theater.

“I’m going to go through all of the stages of grief, but not necessarily in the right order,” A warned me. “So good luck.”

Our moderator was the actor Bradley Whitford, from The West Wing and Get Out and many other fine works of film and television. He was also the villain in the ’90s classic Billy Madison.

Bradley introduced Hillary, and the crowd went wild. People were waving and shouting “We love you!” and A was losing her mind and yelling incoherently and I felt very honored and unworthy of sharing oxygen with Hillary Clinton. Like I needed to hold my breath so she could stay strong and keep up the good fight.

Even Bradley Whitford was overwhelmed by her presence—he struggled to find words and his questions were not that great. Even though he made some good jokes and appealed to the hometown crowd as a Wisconsin native, we weren’t super impressed with him. The guy went to Juilliard, don’t they teach actors to prepare?

“What if they need a new moderator?” whispered A. “A young female moderator who is also a lawyer?”

“Is there a lawyer in the house?!” I said.

Hillary, of course, was amazing and capable and passionate and eloquent and everything we need in our leaders. She talked about fighting for healthcare, the fact that we need to do something about the opioid crisis because 90 people are dying a day, and that we need to invest in environmentally sustainable industries before we’re beaten by China and the entire planet dies. She also made some rather cutting points about sexism—namely that for men, success and likability go hand-in-hand, but success makes women unlikable.

Serving the tea!

Hillary explained that whenever she served others, as First Lady, as a Senator, as the Secretary of State, she had high approval ratings and was well-liked, but the moment she stepped into the leadership ring and sought a position of authority, people turned on her. A man would never be vilified the way she has been.

I believe history will vindicate her in a big way.

In closing, Hillary said, “This country is still worth fighting for,” and for the first time in over a year, I agree.

So thanks, Milwaukee. I hope to return to your excellent cultural attractions and cuisine and sense of hope in the face of despair very soon.

Milwaukee, Who Knew? Having lived in various corners of the Midwest all my life, I've had little to no desire to ever spend time in the state of Wisconsin.