#oh my hell

[willis-watches]

'get fucked 6 ways from sunday' don't threaten me with a good time, mister lester

[painted-starsys]

dunno what i have and havent posted but its been a fuckin week got a new pencil for crumpmas and ive been using my ipad a lot more <3

though first, a bunch of doodles sliver made

then things that dont need an explanation methinks

anyway im into outer wilds deeper than giants deep at this point and gabbro keeps on making giants deep references so im punting them /silly

[wickedwitchofthesouth]

"If you must inflict pain, perhaps I can take it so that others do not suffer"

[patchworkofravens]

HOLY SHIT WTF

[ifuckinglovestvincent]

Exclusive: St. Vincent and Carrie Brownstein Have Written a Concert Tour Film

April 16, 2019 at 3:34 pm

Written by Jeff Sneider

Annie Clark, who is perhaps better known as the popular musician St. Vincent, has co-written a concert tour film with Portlandia star Carrie Brownstein, Collider has exclusively learned.

Clark and Brownstein’s untitled script follows heightened versions of themselves as they interact with assistants, bandmates, music journalists and, of course, fans. The duo reportedly once dated in real life, and they also teamed up a few years ago to create a series of comedic videos that were released on Clark’s Instagram account.

Bill Benz, a longtime editor and director on both Portlandia and Kroll Show, is attached to direct the project, which Brownstein planned to produce with Jett Steiger and Lana Kim of Ways & Means, the company behind the acclaimed 2017 genre movie Super Dark Times. Topic Studios has been developing the film for some time now, and an insider at the company cautions that production is still a long ways off, if the project ever moves forward at all. They also said the project isn’t a “mockumentary,” as Collider first reported, but rather, a scripted film that was to have been shot like a documentary.

Brownstein’s feature credits include Todd Haynes‘ romantic drama Carol, Gus Van Sant‘s drama Don’t Worry, He Won’t Get Far on Foot, and Ike Barinholtz‘s directorial debut The Oath. In addition to wearing multiple hats on Portlandia, she has directed episodes of Shrill and Casual for Hulu. She’s represented by UTA and Brillstein Entertainment Partners.

Clark has performed as St. Vincent on numerous movie soundtracks, and she also wrote and directed a segment of the horror anthology film XX titled The Birthday Party. As a director, she has also been developing the indie The Picture of Dorian Gray. She’s repped by WME, while Mosaic reps Benz.

[katieamazeballs]

ChiBella Love

[ellstersmash]

awake, alive

Fandom: Dragon Age

Pairing: Solas x f!Lavellan (pre-relationship)

Rating: T for Teen

| Part One: Athi | Part Two: Solas |

Solas is not used to sleepless nights. It is warm, yes, and muggy. But the Fade’s obedience to his will has kept him comfortably resting in far worse. No, his unrest stems not from the unpleasant weather, but from her .

Weak, foolish man.

It has become difficult to sleep so near to her, so close on both sides of the Veil. Hard to fall asleep when he can hear the soft sounds of her breathing slow. Harder still to stay asleep, fighting the temptation to steal a glimpse of her mind.

Oh, he had been curious, before. Even entered her dreams and called it “research,” though he regretted his actions, now that she might be—

Regardless, he should not enter uninvited again. And so he had put space between them, hoping to find some rest.

And Wisdom.

They are standing by the memories of a vast lake that once filled an entire valley, likely forming the cave in which his companions still sleep. It is a peaceful place, for now.

“The last time we we spoke, you called her ‘shadow,’” the spirit says in the People's tongue. It is good to hear it spoken well. “Now she is ‘woman’ and ‘friend.’”

“Yes, much has changed since then.”

“Indeed it has. I am pleased that you are learning to accept the truth.”

“Truth is truth, my friend.” Solas waves his hand dismissively. “That I could not see it before does not make it a miracle that I see it now.”

“Nonetheless, it makes me glad.”

“This does not change the fact that it would not be right, for me . . . for us.”

“What makes it wrong?”

“I can think of a thousand things,” he says, staring out at the lake’s placid surface.

“And can you think of a thousand that make it right?”

“I can think of one.”

Wisdom gives a soft and knowing smile. “But it is very compelling.”

He chuckles. “Yes.”

The sky, clear and sapphire, grumbles far above them, and the water ripples as though some unseen being has waded into the shallows. He can taste her magic on his tongue, a familiar blend of sharp citrus and copper and ashes.

Wisdom rests a near-weightless hand on his shoulder. “Go, my friend, and travel safely. We will meet again soon.”

He opens his eyes in the waking world and is plunged into darkness. Unlike the sky reflected in the Fade, this one is made up of dense, black clouds. It is barely drizzling, and lightning skitters across the horizon to the low and constant rumble of thunder.

She is there, a silhouette against the distant lights. Dressed in next to nothing, what little fabric she is wearing whipped and tugged by the wind. Standing out there in the grass with her head tipped back and a hand turned up. His eyes follow her form, from her capable fingers, past the curves of her waist and hips and down to her legs, lean and naked.

Her body is marred by scrapes and scars, covered in dust and gleaming with sweat. But oh, she is lovely.

It takes a great deal of willpower to tear his gaze from her and decide to care about the clouds.

What makes it wrong?

As usual, Wisdom’s words have only served to complicate matters. Not that the woman in front of him was ever uncomplicated. She has stumbled into the plans of powerful beings, survived that which should have killed her thrice over, and saved all of Thedas. And that was before she ever even woke in Haven. She is unexpected in every way.

Then, when she did wake, she had seemed so small. Was small. And frightened, and quiet, and unremarkable. Until she wasn’t. Until her lips broke into that very first grin and he found his own widening in unconscious response. Until her eyes blazed with anger at his own thoughtless, hurtful words and she spit fire back in his face. Until he saw her fight. Until he asked her why she dangled from cliff faces and threw herself at enemies twice her size and she said, “To make my heart beat.” Until he followed her across rivers and mountains and watched her move like she had never done anything else.

Until she swept in like a summer storm, screaming to life with every bit of her.

“Lethallan.”

Athi turns at the sound of his voice, her eyes wide and wondering, bright against the navy backdrop of the sky. He walks to her side and she watches, her focus drifting down his form. Her transparency is both refreshing and amusing. With a quick, deep breath, she straightens and closes her eyes.

“I’m waiting for the rain.”

Of course she is. He smiles to himself and settles in to wait with her.

The space between them is small, and he feels the heat of her skin at his fingertips before he flinches away, flexing them back into submission.

It would not be right, his inner voice chides.

The truth is painful. Hard, ever-present, and sinking into his gut. Gnawing at his core, mingling with the stirrings that even now awake at the thought of her. As he has done twice before, he clenches his fists and readies himself to say what he must. The kiss must remain in the past. It is better for them both, for their cause, that it be so. Duty must come first.

This time, he will not fail.

“Athi, I—”

Even as he forms the words, the sky groans and then shatters. Its long-held waters smack against the stone behind them and roil the tall grasses. Rain, torrential and cold, turns the dirt beneath their feet to mud and runs in rivulets down his body.

And hers .

He curses under his breath, though it might as well be a shout for all she could hear him. He is a weak, foolish man, and each failed attempt to wrench himself away makes him weaker still. And now she is gone, distracted, lost in the downpour as he is lost in her. She is happy, and lets down her hair into a thick curtain. It doesn’t look soft, it looks as tangled and wild as she is, and he wants to feel it. Wants to feel everything.

Then she laughs at something secret and a rare contentment settles on her features.

Surely it is not too much to admit that she is lovely. Lovely, even like this. Perhaps especially like this. Even without light from moon or stars, or sun, or flame, he knows. He knows the warm green of her eyes, surrounded by dark lashes and the lines of June. He knows the slope of her forehead and the shape of her lips, knows the freckles across her cheeks and nose that disappear when the warm color of her skin deepens in the sun. He knows the contour of her curves and the callouses on her hands.

But it is not her face or her body that moves him. Her spirit is infectious, contagious, a wildfire. A flood. She inspires and destroys. She is reckless and gentle. She is dangerous and good. This is why they follow her.

This is why he follows her.

This is why he loves her.

It is not right, his inner voice warns.

He takes her by the arm and catches her eye. Hoping, wanting, impatient as ever.

It is not right, his inner voice cries.

But then he pulls and she is close and it’s very hard to hear that voice with her wrapped around him and held within him. With her wet skin pressed to his own, and dripping hair underneath his chin, and a warm cheek against his chest. Inside, his heart beats hard and fast, chanting a new truth.

She is real.

She is real.

She is real.

[bradmarchrad]

Danault just lived the nightmare of every single hockey player in a league with Chara