#it just pours out sometimes

[facts-i-just-made-up]

facts about you please

"You Please" is a 1978 novel by Frank Mutterbruder about a hypersexual woman's growing lust for an artist who is only interested in her as a model. The story concerns her attempts to seduce him as they grow more and more outlandish and dangerous. The book's graphic sexuality and implied cannibalism caused it to be banned in several states, though the publisher, Grovemeat Press, appealed and won at the federal level.

Mutterbruder was likely inspired by his older friend, Frankie Powers-Jovani, a famous gay artist known for his Tom-Of-Finland style works depicting men in leather with large, round muscles and other bulging parts. Powers-Jovani had worked with a model, assumed by some to be Bettie Page (though no evidence of this exists) on an unreleased series, said to have been destroyed by either Frankie or the model upon their feud.

The book departs from reality however when its protagonist, Jessica Jellie, creates a love potion to make her artist friend love her back. She mixes the potion wrong and accidentally creates a fluid capable of melting men into a delicious putty. After killing the artist, she begins melting other men and serving the putty as a sort of cake fondant that she sells under the name of "Manzipan."

Frank Mutterbruder died in 1982 when he was himself melted into putty during the Pittsburgh Play-Dough Calamity. His novel has gone largely ignored until recently, when Yorgos Lanthimos optioned it with Emma Stone to play Jessica Jellie and Colin Farrell as artist Yakov Geww.

The original printing of the novel "You Please" also won the Albert A. Gore Award for Most Recyclable Paper, but this is generally considered irrelevant to its literary significance.

[reeseykins]

Thoughts on Emmrich while Rook is trapped in the Fade

Kind of obsessed with thinking about Emmrich's deteriorating mental state while Rook was trapped in the Fade.

The first few days he's ultra focused on finding a way to get Rook back. He's a Fade expert -- this sort of problem was made for him to solve. He tells himself he WILL find a solution, because that's why he's here, right? He keeps telling himself that over and over, willing himself to solve this impossible problem.

He stays awake for 48 hours straight. Bellara and Neve are with him at first, each pouring over an arcane text he's brought with him from Nevarra, searching for the very few-and-far-between references of anyone who has physically walked in the Fade. Sometime after the sun rises, he realizes he's alone. He doesn't remember when the others left, presumably to rest.

Lucanis brings coffee. He squeezes the elder mage's shoulder and assures him -- "We'll get her back." Emmrich doesn't look up from the page. He knows that if the Crow could see his eyes, he'd see all the fear and guilt he's trying so desperately to pretend isn't slowly consuming him from within.

By day three he's coming undone. He hasn't shaved, hasn't bathed, has barely moved from his seat amongst an ever-growing stack of books, each carefully flagged or left open wherever he's found even a hint of a clue that could bring her back to him. He dozes off, face down on an open tome. Bellara sneaks in and drapes a blanket over his shoulders, careful not to wake him.

He loses his focus on the seventh day. It's been a week - an entire week - since she's been gone. He'll never see her again. He spent their last night together arguing with her. He lays down on his bed and presses the palm of his hand to the mattress where Rook had once curled beside him. It's cold; there is no scrap of her warmth left.

By day ten he's manic. His mind still replays the argument over and over and over, but the memory is quieter now, interspersed with a hundred other, brighter moments. The curve of her lips as she smiled just for him, the fall of a lock of hair across her face that he gently pushed behind her ear, the sweet sound of her sudden inhalation of breath as they made love. These memories should be a comfort, but instead they torment him with the knowledge of what he's lost. He paces back and forth along the walkway at the top of the spiral staircase in his room, praying that a solution will materialize out of the haze clouding his mind. This cannot be the end.

Darkness takes hold. He's losing himself, losing the very essence of what makes him who he is. There are whispers at the edge of his consciousness, and he knows instinctually that he's become a target of some demon or another - desire, or perhaps despair. He'll rip open the Fade, he thinks to himself. To hell with the Dread Wolf, he'll bring down the Veil if only to get her back. He'll drown the world in demons, in blood, lay waste to everything. His chest heaves, he's frantic now, running his hands through his hair and panting. There is no air in the room, in his lungs. But then he feels a familiar presence behind him. Manfred is there with tea. The madness fades, he regains himself and musters the will to banish those evil fantasies from his mind.

What good would it do to get Rook back if he destroys himself, possibly everyone and everything, in the process? He washes up, shaves for the first time in days, changes his clothes, and goes to find the rest of the team. He cannot be alone anymore with his thoughts.

And then, she is back. She doesn't see how dangerously close he came to succumbing to despair. She doesn't see him unkempt or disheveled. But she knows. He wraps his arms around her in bed that night, hooks his foot over her ankle, drawing her in tight like a choking vine, and she knows.

[al-luviec]

something simple to try to get out of art block (it didn't work)

[solargeist]

Xelqua, God child, can destroy the server if he wanted to and rewrite history….. throws a tantrum over Grian giving him the wrong cup at dinner

[palahnyook]

You've punctured my solitude, I told you. (...) I feel I can give you everything without giving myself away.

— The Argonauts, Maggie Nelson

[moeblob]

I vote for Argenti! I hope you feel better soon!

Thank you ! I do feel much better (though I admit I hurt a little for very much my fault reasons but it's mostly manageable through light pain meds).

Take an Argenti o7 I got lazy and didn't draw the roses I was gonna draw to the left so there is now a wide open blank spot.

[danyartlife]

the greatest witch in 100 years

[vehemourn]

confession

[whats-that-teacup]

Hey! I’ve been trying to identify this tea set that my mom got at an antique mall. I’ve been combing the internet but I haven’t come up with anything yet. I was hoping you might have better luck :)

Thanks!

-Duck

WOW this is a gorgeous service!! Right off the bat I was thinking Limoges, and it turns out that isn't too far off!

I am getting some conflicting information on the studio itself, but overall I believe this was produced by the company Bawo & Dotter. Some databases online are connecting this backstamp to their studio in Austria, some are connecting it to their New York studio that imported and painted Limoges pieces. Regardless, this service would be around 90 to 100 years old, so long as the backstamp is authentic!

Unfortunately I don't think the company would have named and documented all of their patterns, especially not from the Limoges studio. They've got a Replacements page, but I didn't find this set in it, and Replacements is far from the end-all-be-all of everything a company ever produced. Still a beautiful service though and very reflective of popular styles coming out of Europe at the time!

[blackjackkent]

Prompt fill for @astreamofstars from this ask meme. Jaheira: "Tales take on a life of their own, like weeds. Unless they are tended."

-----

“Ah, my good friend, there you are!”

Jaheira can already feel her jaw clenching as the strident voice rings across the camp in her direction. “Hello, Volothamp.”

“Oh, my, the full name even!” Volo says jovially, striding over to settle himself on the stone ledge against which Jaheira has placed her tent. “Surely we of all people are beyond such formality, are we not?” 

Hector trails after him and catches Jaheira's eye; his lips are pressed tightly together with the effort not to laugh. “And here I was about to offer an introduction, but I see the two of you are already acquainted.”

“Yes, yes!” Volo says enthusiastically before Jaheira can respond. “Though who of the Sword Coast does not know of Jaheira, one might better ask.” His eyes crinkle at the corners in a conspiratorial smile towards her. “I trust you feel I have done my part to bring you the renown you so richly deserve.”

Jaheira quirks one eyebrow up minutely. “Certainly it is by your doing that every bard from here to Athkatla has made coin recounting the tales of my carnal escapades,” she says. Flicking her eyes to Hector, she adds dryly, “Inaccurately, no less.”

Hector frowns. “Is this so, Volo? You have spread falsehoods about her?” 

“Falsehoods? Never. Give me some credit, Lady Jaheira,” Volo says with an air of wounded pride. “I spoke ne'er a single jot of falsehood regarding your love in actuality, for I would never speak ill of the dead. Nor did I imply for an instant that your escapades had the whiff of philandering about them. But you have had many a year of adventuring alone, my dear, tales that deserved the telling, and like a good meal, every good story benefits from spice.”

Hector grins. “I thought every story benefitted from a dragon.”

“You'll find,” Volo says with dignity, “that the two are not mutually exclusive - a fact which has a far wider audience than you would imagine.”

Hector's eyebrows shoot up and then he blushes. “I see.”

Jaheira snorts softly. “They say tales take on a life of their own, like weeds, unless they are tended. But our good friend Volo is no tender of gardens, but rather the fertilizer.”

Volo smiles widely. “You mean that I am a rich and fertile ground upon which stories set their roots?”

“I mean that you are full of cow dung, Geddarm.” Jaheira’s lips twitch.

“Hmph.” Volo scoffs, utterly unbothered by this appraisal. “Genius is never appreciated in its own time. I content myself against the slings and arrows of criticism with the certainty that I set down knowledge which shall last through the ages.” He cocks his head in Hector’s direction. “You were a monk of the Silverlight Archives, were you not, Saer Carlisle? Surely you can appreciate this.”

“Oh, I do,” Hector says earnestly, his eyes glinting with humor. “Normally we insist upon veracity in our tomes but perhaps in your case we can make an exception.”

“How thoroughly gracious of you,” Volo says gravely. “I knew from the first moment I set eyes upon you, you know. I said to myself, ‘Volo, that is a man who can be trusted as a patron of artistic endeavor.’ And I am never wrong in my judgment of character.”

“Mm,” Hector says. “That would be, of course, why you offered to stick an ice pick into my eye three days later.”

Jaheira’s eyes narrow abruptly to slits. “You what?” she snaps.

Volo does flinch just slightly at the sudden ferocity in her tone. “It was a scientific procedure,” he says defensively. “And one I would still happily offer, for I believe your little brain problem has not resolved itself in my absence.”

“He will pass,” Jaheira says coolly before Hector can even formulate a response. “If there is one thing I would trust you less with than history, it is surgery.”

Volo gives an elaborate sigh and waves a hand in resignation. “Very well, very well. By all rights you should have undergone ceremorphosis long ago, in any event, so clearly not availing yourself of my talents hasn’t done you any harm. Besides, we have greater issues at hand. We must speak of Orin the Red, and her--”

“VOLO!” There’s a thundering crash as Minsc comes barreling out of his tent and across the cobblestone of their camp, a wide smile stretching his face from ear to ear. Boo, on his shoulder, sits eyeing Volo with beady-eyed skepticism.

“Oh!” Volo looks mildly alarmed for a moment, but quickly recovers his sang-froid and smiles broadly in return. “Minsc, is it not? What a joy it is to see you and your hamster again!”

“Ah! You see, Boo!” Minsc bellows happily. “I told you he would remember you! And now we shall finally hear the end of the tale!”

“Eh? What tale might that be?” Volo asks.

“Why, the tale of Jaheira and the dragon!” Minsc says with an earnest nod. “The bard which Minsc heard said the ending was not fit for polite company.”

Jaheira groans, rubbing her fingertips against her temples. “Oh, ye gods…” she mumbles wearily.

“Minsc did not think the tavern company was so very polite, for they poured ale upon Boo,” Minsc says, coming down to a more normal volume, his expression pensive. “But nevertheless, Minsc’s curiosity was not to be sated on that day.”

“Nor shall it be today, ranger,” Jaheira says, shaking her head with a pointed look at Volo. “I hear tell that that particular tale has been… suppressed.”

“Mm. Yes. Terribly sorry, my young stone-addled friend,” Volo says brightly, “but instead, come to the fire and I shall regale you with all the tales I have told of your little hamster. For truly he is a hero spoken of with great reverence.”

Minsc considers this. “As well he should be,” he says modestly. “Minsc would hear these tales!”

“Excellent. Excellent.” Volo bounds to his feet and gives an elaborate bow in Jaheira’s direction. “We will speak again, my dear Miss Jaheira.”

“Unfortunately, I’m sure that is true,” Jaheira says ruefully, but she offers a half-bow in return anyway, and she and Hector watch the truly odd pairing of bard and berserker retreat towards the center of camp.

Hector chuckles softly. “It’s hard to hate him, for all his faults. He certainly doesn’t lack for enthusiasm.”

“Mm. Yes.” Jaheira lets out a heavy breath. “I do not begrudge him his tall tales, in truth,” she murmurs, more to herself than to Hector. “The world has need of tales of heroes, and I know this as well as any. But it is… tiring, at times, to hear myself spoken of in such terms, to be painted so larger-than-life with appetites to match, when I know myself to be only life-sized, and with a heart whose pieces have been left behind with the dead more than once.” 

A pause. Then she shakes herself and plasters a smile back onto her face, shooting him a look sideways. “You will come to know this feeling yourself, I suspect, if we continue on this road. There will be no shortage of songs sung of you.”

Hector grins. “I could say I was looking forward to it, but I’d be lying. I’m sure it will make Karlach happy, though.”

Jaheira really does smile now. “Now that is a cause for such stories which I can get behind. She of all people has earned it.”

[desertfangs]

Through the Garden Gate [AO3] Lestat/Daniel - Explicit - 4,459

Not long after Tale of the Body Thief, Lestat and Daniel talk about Lestat's body swap and how Daniel worries his relationship with Armand is falling apart.

I wrote this in kind of a flash of inspiration but I figured I might as well post it now, since I'll be posting a lot of stuff in February for fandom events and don't know when I'll get around to it otherwise.

I really just love Lestat and Daniel having deep conversations and I think Daniel tends to ask the best questions. They are my BROTP with benefits and I know some of y'all love them as much as I do, so I hope you like this!

Brief excerpt:

“Is it true that you swapped bodies with a mortal?” Daniel had been burning to ask about it since Lestat first jumped him in Pirate Alley, and the question tumbled out almost immediately after they sat at the small bar table. 

A storm of emotion passed over Lestat’s face. “I did.” 

Daniel leaned closer, across the small bar table between them. “What was it like?” 

“What do you think? Incredible. Messy. Uncomfortable. Amazing.” Lestat shook his head. “Impossibly strange. But it had been hundreds of years since I’d known mortal urges, mortal discomfort.”

“Sucks, doesn’t it?” Daniel laughed slightly. Mortal discomfort—aches and pains and hangovers and head colds—had been the bane of his existence during his last mortal years. He’d been in his early thirties and yet already his body had changed so much. Sleeping at the wrong angle could ruin him for days. 

“Not entirely. There were good things.” Lestat smiled, but it didn’t reach his blue gray eyes, which were trained on his martini glass full of blue curaçao and vodka. “The taste of wine. The sun.” 

Daniel reached across the table and touched Lestat’s hand, which was a rich, tan color, like the rest of his skin. “And how did this happen?” 

Lestat sighed. “I had a moment of weakness and went into the Gobi desert. It’s not important now.” 

Daniel snorted. “Yeah, clearly. Are you okay?” 

Lestat waved a hand and then his magnificent, winning smile returned. “How did you hear about my last misadventure anyway? I’m still working on the book.” 

Daniel sat back against the booth and tapped his fingers on the table, keenly aware of the pack of cigarettes in his pocket. “Louis wrote a very concerned letter about the whole affair.” 

Lestat frowned. “To you?” 

Daniel flushed. “To Armand. Sent to Night Island. I stopped by to check on the house and I opened the mail.” He hadn’t thought much of it at the time—he and Armand often treated each other’s things as if they were their own, which was perhaps a bad habit, but it had always worked for them. Once he’d read it, he’d felt a bit like he’d overstepped, and he’d tucked the letter away to give to Armand next time he saw him.

“And where is that impish maker of yours, hm?” Lestat asked. “Where are you two living these days?” 

“Barcelona, for now,” Daniel said. “Assuming he’s still there when I get back.” 

Lestat smirked. “Trouble in paradise?” 

“You could say that.” Daniel thought of Armand’s hardened expression, his cold kiss against Daniel’s cheek as he’d left. The icy atmosphere of the flat they shared. Daniel fiddled with the plastic sword that held an olive and onion in his cocktail, stirring it around the drink. “He’s gotten so damn volatile. The smallest thing sets off these terrible fights. Or worse, he gets quiet and sullen and avoids me. To be honest, I prefer the fighting.” 

Armand had barely said a word when he’d left. Daniel had been pushed past all reason and needed a break, so he’d offered to go check on The Night Island, an errand they did from time to time as they traveled around in hopes that some new location might fix all their problems. 

In truth, he’d hoped Armand would come with him. Maybe being home again for a few days would rekindle something, give them some perspective. But Armand had simply wished him bon voyage, without so much as a suggestion he didn’t want him to go, and now Daniel was procrastinating going back.

“He and Louis could teach a masterclass in administering the silent treatment,” Lestat said morosely. He stabbed the cherry in his drink with his own plastic sword, a little green one, and then let it drop, blue liquid splashing out of the glass.

Read the Rest on AO3

[kerryweaverlesbian]

The Winchester brothers? Oh I think you mean Sam Leahy and Dean Singer <3 I think their mom is Mary Campbell-Winchester so maybe that's where you got confused <3

[jojo-schmo]

JOJO I THINK YOUVE BEEN POSSESSED BY THE HIGHLY INFECTIOUS HAPPY-DOMESTIC-SMILEY-SUGAR-CAVITY-VIRUS YOU MAY BE ENTITLED TO FINANCIAL COMPENSATION

I’ve got a fever!!! And the only cure is DRAWING FLUFF !!!!!

[wormonastringtime]

perfectly average glass of water

[suekre]

Ramble on.

Being an online (OC) artist just sucks so much these days haha. It's just no fun anymore. I won't stop doing what I love doing and I like interacting with my little bubble but honestly... it's tedious, sometimes I really DO wonder how I have not given up yet.

[saviourkingslut]

not to be about opera again but to be about opera again. as an art form it has the reputation of being super stuffy and something for snobs who don't know how to have fun only but honestly this was one of, perhaps even THE main theatrical entertainment for centuries. i wish people knew how hard these things can go and how engaging they can be. like characters kill and die and fight wars and (almost) commit human sacrifice left and right. characters fall in love they mourn they're ecstatic they cry they're furious it's an extremely dramatic and emotional art form! and i understand that opera does not appear approachable bc of the general conventions of the art form but i promise old works can be fun and engaging if you go watch them with some preparation beforehand (reading the libretto helps) - not to mention not all operas are old bc there are so many modern operas which engage with topical events! also the music slaps.