#paint the White House red

[neurantics-theythem]

This month surrounding US Independence, I hope us Americans have SO much fun celebrating our “freedom” as we continue to deny/ignore the current US-funded gen0cide 🫠

Not to mention **several** other gen0cides occurring while most of the rest of the world shrugs their shoulders and looks away, wondering what can be done

[angelnumber27]

*he spilled my cup of paint water all over everything idk why I said he spilled watercolors I just woke up girls

I literally walked away for two minutes tops to make coffee and came back to his ass sitting on this water color palette and my painting open after spilling my watercolor water all over it

Look at that face. He knows he did something wrong hahahha

[its-stimsca]

Stimboard of Rosie because I think women deserve to eat people sometimes

🥩 👠 🥩 / 👠 🥩 👠 / 🥩 👠 🥩

[classic-art-favourites]

Willem II, Prince of Orange and His Bride Mary Stuart by Anthony van Dyck, 1641.

[royalty-nobility]

Empress Carlota of Mexico

Artist: Santiago Rebull (Mexico, 1829–1902)

Date: 1867

Medium: Oil on Canvas

Collection: Instituto Nacional de Bellas Artes y Literatura, Mexico City, Mexico

Empress Carlota of Mexico

Charlotte of Belgium (French: Marie Charlotte Amélie Augustine Victoire Clémentine Léopoldine; 7 June 1840 – 19 January 1927), known by the Spanish version of her name, Carlota, was by birth a princess of Belgium and member of the House of Wettin in the branch of Saxe-Coburg and Gotha (as such she was also styled Princess of Saxe-Coburg and Gotha and Duchess in Saxony). As the wife of Archduke Maximilian of Austria, Viceroy of Lombardy-Venetia and later Emperor of Mexico, she became Archduchess of Austria (in 1857) and Empress of Mexico (in 1864). She was daughter, granddaughter, sister, sister in-law, cousin and wife of reigning or deposed sovereigns throughout Europe and Mexico.

[fauvester]

Not sure if you meant for the questions to be askes BUT 9 for like iskra or something would be interesting since there is a mix of human and cardassian culture, does julian celebrate any terran holidays with them?

omg I wish I was a better worldbuilder, people come up with so many fun fake little holidays. Thanks to that one throwaway line in ST:D I've unilaterally decided that Cardassian culture is very food-centric, so you know baby Iskra got taken to lots of street food festivals celebrating military victories and elections..

Julian trying to figure out which terran holidays can be safely transported and re-potted on post-Fire Cardassia (I feel like he still tries to celebrate Federation day at home just so the kids can have some positive associations. Cue him and Lim trying to figure out how to cook a desert lungfish without soliciting their neighbors' help with removing the fibrous capsule..)

Halloween is a safe bet, I think. Scaring the spirits away is vaguely Hebetian and the locals enjoy both tricks and treats. Julian gives his coworkers at the hospital candy to distribute to her.

Still got to be lots of nationalist holidays to celebrate after the war, but now they're very much tinged with bitter memories. Now they're more of an opportunity to complain about the current administration and get drunk (both activities Iskra vigorously enjoys as an adult)

[insertsickusername13]

constantly in that debate of is Jake or Rich more Icarus coded but considering Jake’s the one who literally falls (jumps?) out a window I think he wins

[stinkrascal]

im decorating the straud estate again which means i can finally do these recolors ive been meaning to do

[gregdotorg]

I know I'm late but also no one seems to have mentioned it, so maybe I'm early? But in the movie where President Uma Thurman's bisexual, biracial son falls in love with the English prince, and [spoiler] it all works out great for them all, the thing that screeeech turntable stops be out of the political fantasyworld is not that the Politico reporter hooked up with that same son, drunk on the campaign trail, when he would have been like, 18? 19? and it was nbd [until three years later, when it wasn't, obv], but that President Thurman borrowed Florine Stettheimer's 1939 painting The Cathedrals of Wall Street from the Metropolitan Museum to hang in the White House residence??

Did she say, get me the greatest portrait of FDR you can find, I'm sure my political constituents won't care what it's called, or that it's enshrined in a golden NY Stock Exchange, guarded by the ghost of JP Morgan, which I'm also sure my opponents won't make a big deal about? And fight for it if you have to, because the Met would be extremely reluctant to break up the set?

[the-darling-house]

Brass.

[egregiousderp]

We grew up with old tech in the house. So it was this or windows 3.1 before 95 came out. Which….yeah looks like this.

The game I feel most people know from this era is either Sim Earth, Civilization, or Myst.

[timmurleyart]

The snowy city. 🏙❄️🌲

[crazypercheron]

Surprise, decided to draw art of my oc pretty much in the Two-Forks fire tower instead of art of the usual boys. Need to get the hang of "painting trees" but hey, you never learn unless you constantly keep painting it.

Media used: Carano D'ache nonphoto blue sketcher, Sakurai micron felt tip pens, Bic ballpoint (outline of Wren's reflection), and ohuhu art markers

[batterycityraces]

the fact that i even considered going into interior design is fucking wild when every house listing is coated in a thick layer of Landlord White.

[mothercain]

Circus

What if I broke my spine forever? My sister would come into the room to draw her portraits in charcoal, of two bulging eyes in a sea of haze grey. Each portrait is no bigger than an index card, arranged on a piece of rigid stock paper, tessellated and horribly consistent. All those dead eyes staring out at her as she renders them incapable of telling her anything. “I hate you” she would say to me, every time she would finish another. “You’ve ruined it. You’ve completely ruined it.” She would storm out the room, echoing for complete lack of furniture, and I would be left alone with them to watch over me.

I would ask you to pick me up and you would do so carefully, my limp body soft and complete. Can you carry me, lay me on the mattress in the back of the house? Or on the ground, it doesn’t make a difference to me. Sometimes I think you don’t believe I can’t feel anything and most of the time I don’t believe you can imagine what that’s like.

“Crush me” I tell you. I can only blink my eyes and move my mouth. I could probably wiggle my ears if I tried but I never feel up to it. You would gently press down on my breasts and my rib cage.

“Can you feel that?”

I slowly move my head left to right and back again.

I think about outside and what it feels like to be there. The treetops and the june-bugs and the hatred I feel for summertime. Everyone has gone on without me.

“Hit me.”

You look at me like you don’t want to but I know where your wonder hides, in the small places like a boy afraid of his own shadow.

You punch me in my side, my arm, my stomach.

“Can you feel that?”

I smile so big like I’m at the circus.

“Cut me.”

“What?”

“Cut me.”

You look down at me on the mattress. Here I am, unmoving and so horny.

“Please, baby, if I never ask anything of you ever again, just cut me.”

Wonder-boy takes his buck knife and carves a small canyon on my upper thigh. I wouldn’t know if I hadn’t watched him do it.

“Again.”

He looks me in my eyes as he separates another layer of subcutaneous. It is pink and red and yellow and blue and disgusting. I am butter and cottage cheese inside.

He stands there over me, belt unbuckled, denim undone, sweating, afraid, wonder creeping out for a closer look. His eyes are wild, so far from the fog of mine. Yet, we both want the very same thing. He removes his penis from his clothes and his clothes from his body and he slides it, hard as stone, back and forth through the gushing flesh of my upper thigh. I can’t feel a thing but I could cum just from watching. I have my own wonder too. The air in the room is hung from the ceiling unmoving like a puppet sleeping on his gallows. I am so lucky that he loves me, I am I am I am. He fucks my butchered leg like a stray dog and I cum over and over and over again watching him.

We embrace like kin in the hospital waiting room. “I am so lucky that he loves me” I think as he holds me. Despite the bright red picture I’ve painted in the white lobby tonight, they ask of me just five minutes. I don’t mind. If I don’t look, it makes no difference to me.

[er1nne]

rafe hates when you buy things without using his card

(do not copy or plagarize, original work) The Range Rover hummed quietly, its blacked-out interior wrapping you and Rafe in a cocoon of shadows and muted streetlights. It had been his idea to take you for a nail day—completely unprompted but not surprising. Rafe had a way of knowing when you needed a little spoiling, especially after the week you’d had. The air smelled like his cologne, something expensive and sharp, mixing with the faint scent of leather from the seats. You were reclined comfortably with both legs stretched out, your freshly painted white toes wiggling lazily as you scrolled through your phone.

Rafe sat in the driver’s seat, one hand on the wheel and the other resting on your thigh. His thumb stroked absentminded circles into your skin while his sharp blue eyes flicked toward the darkened street ahead. Traffic was crawling, a sea of red taillights stretching endlessly ahead. Rafe didn’t seem too bothered, one hand resting on the wheel while the other stayed on your thigh. His thumb moved in slow, hypnotic circles against your skin, his blue eyes flicking between the road and the glow of your phone screen. He was calm—you liked him this way.

“What’s got you so quiet, huh?” His voice broke the silence, smooth but with an edge that always demanded your attention.

“Just trying to check out before everything sells out,” you mumbled, barely glancing up. You were busy, furiously tapping away as you finalized your cart. The latest House of CB drop was a battlefield, and you weren’t about to lose.

“Lemme see.” He leaned closer, his sharp gaze cutting toward your screen. When he caught sight of the digits you were typing, his brows furrowed, his jaw tightening. “Wait, is that your card?”

You paused, immediately bracing for what was coming. “Yeah? Why?”

Rafe let out a short, irritated laugh, like he couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “You have all of my cards saved to your phone, and you’re using your own card? What the hell for?”

“It’s not a big deal, Rafe.” You kept your voice calm, like you weren’t trying to spark an argument in the middle of what was such a nice day. “It’s not like I can’t afford it.”

Rafe raised an eyebrow, his lips curling into a humorless smirk. “Afford it?” he repeated, voice tinged with a certain tone to it. “Sweetheart, I literally pay for your life. Why do you even have a card? For decoration?”

You glared at him, but the faint smile tugging at the corners of your lips betrayed you. “Rafe—”

“No, seriously,” he cut in, shaking his head as if the idea itself was absurd. “What are you holding onto that thing for? Just in case I drop dead tomorrow and you suddenly need it?”

You huffed an air of annoyance as a pout covered your slightly glossed lips and starred out the car window. The car filled with an almost unbearable silence. His hand, which had been rubbing your thigh, went still.

He turned to glance at you a few times before looking back at the road, the corner of his mouth twitching with a mix of disbelief and annoyance. “Afford-” he repeated again slightly scoffing, voice low and slow, like he was trying to decide if you were messing with him. “Do you even hear yourself?”

You rolled your eyes and crossed your arms leaning slightly closer to his natural warmth. “It’s not that much.”

“To you. To me, that’s pocket change.” His fingers drummed a little harder against the steering wheel now, a restless energy creeping into his movements more obvious than ever.

“Rafe,” you started to whine, but he cut you off, shaking his head.

“Nah. Don’t start.” He turned fully to face you now, his hand lifting to cup your jaw, gently but firmly enough that you couldn’t look away. “Why do you always make this a thing? Is it so hard to let me take care of you? That’s why I’m here. To take care of you. You’re supposed to let me.”

Your resolve faltered under his intense gaze. He wasn’t just irritated—he was hurt. His words were a reminder, the same ones he’d given you before. Rafe wasn’t just possessive for the sake of it—he hated seeing you stress over anything, especially when he had the means to give you whatever you needed, whenever you wanted it. He didn’t want you holding onto burdens you didn’t have to carry. He’d told you before how it made him feel when you refused to lean on him, how he hated the idea of you ever struggling when he had the means to make your life easier. Rafe always told you how much he loved taking care of you, he felt proud to. Anything you ever want, he would give you, plus more.

“I’m not helpless,” you said softly, and it sounded weak even to your own ears.

“Did I say that you were?” he shot back immediately, his sharp blue eyes flicking from the road to meet yours. There was no trace of anger in his voice, just a steady, unyielding determination. “I know what you’re capable of. But you don’t have to do it all alone anymore.”

He gave your hand a gentle squeeze, his gaze softening, though his tone stayed firm. “I’ve got you. I’m right here. You’re mine, remember? So stop making it harder than it needs to be. Let me do my job.”

Even while navigating the slow-moving traffic, his focus on you didn’t waver. His eyes flicked back to yours, holding them for just a second longer than he should have, but long enough to make your heart skip a beat. You felt the weight of his words settle over you, the quiet conviction in his voice leaving no room for argument.

“Rafe…” you started. You stared at him for a long moment before finally relenting, handing over your phone with a quiet sigh. “Fine. Just this once.”

He smirked, already deleting your card details and replacing them with his own Amex Black information. The confirmation dinged almost immediately, and he handed the phone back to you, smug satisfaction written all over his face. “There. Easy. Now you’ve got your shit, and I’ve got my peace of mind.”

“Thank you,” you muttered, cheeks warming as you avoided his eyes.

Rafe tilted your chin up, his fingers brushing against your jaw as he pressed a lingering kiss to your lips. “Don’t thank me, baby. Just stop making this harder than it has to be. Just let me take care of you?” A small pout covered your slighly glossed lips as you responded to him in a small voice, "Okay."

“That’s my girl,” He smiled and leaned back in his seat, hand returning to your thigh as he glanced toward the street, his usual sharp focus slipping back into place.

You smiled slightly, your frustration melting away as you leaned into him. Because no matter how stubborn you could be, you both knew he’d always win in the end. And deep down, you didn’t mind.