#macbook collage

[isax01m]

❄️💎🎀

#2016 #pink #2016 tumblr #victoria secret #adriana lima #girlblogging #king kylie #victoria secert model #pretty girls #macbook #photobooth #collage #girly stuff

[wheresscully]

xfiles collage (with a couple twin peaks elements cus i couldnt help myself) i made for my macbook bg :)

#txf #xfiles #collage #aesthetic #macbook #mac #desktop wallpaper #dana scully

[isabelaceves]

macbook photos :p

#photography #makeup #2014 tumblr #girlblogging #macbook #young artist #lol #your mom #collage #long hair #dark hair #blond hair #heart eyes #personality reading #advertising #jokes #cameras #mua

[pinkeuroz]

#pretty #bedroom #pinkcore #macbook #collage

[fy-wonwoo]

230809 dk_is_dokyeom: collage 🖤

wonwoo and dk comments on this post:

ww: i see you have some sense/feel for collage making?

dk: collage is jeon wonwoo of course👍

ww: for an iphone to beat a macbook..😂

dk: hyung is the best🩵..(shaking)

for more context check this! / trans

#jeon wonwoo #wonwoo #dokyeom #seventeen #svt #instagram #230809

[v-poiskah]

Collage. Tei-de Nan'ku.

A Macbook with a coffee cup didn't fit in :( Of course, she's all so cool: skins, skulls, weapons, but Netflix serials make up no less of her. But the idea with the red color is good, I think. We constantly forget that humans see the predator's world in a completely different way.

Коллаж. Тей-де Нан'ку.

Макбук с кофеечком не вписались :( Она конечно вся такая крутая: шкуры, черепа, оружие, но сериальчики на Нетфлекс составляют не меньшую её часть. Зато идея с красным цветом хороша. Мы постоянно забываем, что человек видит мир хищей совсем по-другому.

#art #oc #predator #she predator #хищница #fanfic #yautja #хищник #college #Red view

[everyoneswoo]

[230811] 원우 Weverse Post Update

trans: collage...

+his comments:

trans: they even made those right next to me during our schedule.

trans: but if carats are having fun then that's enough for me.😁

trans: they used an ipad.

it's similar to a macbook.😂

#wonwoo #jeon wonwoo #seventeen #text #weverse #230811 #2023 #my translations

[saintescuderia]

An ode to a fallen comrade, my laptop.

I’m weirdly sentimental when it comes to my laptops. I say this but I’ve only ever had two. My first was a chunk old silver MacBook Pro that was a gift from my father. It saw me all the way through those formative highschool years. I even used it at school. It was the laptop I used to give Tommy Bellamy a copy of channel.ORANGE with the fact that this version of Mac actually still had USB ports. And humanity also still used USBs. Not to mention the CD port in which I actually burnt music onto plain discs and made mixtapes for people.

I wrote countless stories on that laptop. It was where I wrote my 120k Avengers fanfiction, something I started when I was 14. Four years later and in my final year of school, I had a run of waking up at 5am to write. Never mind the fact that I was waking up at 5am to write a fic about Frank Ocean.

That laptop went through it all with me. Like old men with their cars, I named it. Stanley. Stanley was covered with homemade stickers that summed up the formative youth of my teenage years. A picture of Kendrick Lamar with his signature, a SAVE FERRIS collage, a photo of Chandler Bing (season 1), the screen card of Hugo Stiglitz from Tarantino’s Inglorious Basterds. And Frank Ocean, of course.

Stanley saw me through it all… until university where it promptly died. Or, ‘Apple died’ in which it just kept overheating, the battery life was horrible and I saw more circle spins of death in the last two weeks of use than I had in the last two years. Suffice, to say, it was time for an upgrade.

So I got another MacBook. His name was Bernie Mac which I thought clever and my first wallpaper was, indeed, a photo of the comedian. It was sleeker, didn’t have USB ports and in some odd and unexplainable way, didn’t seem as good as Stanley. Never mind that it was faster, thinner and had an actually life of a battery. I hated the keyboard, the darker colour and the fact that Bernie Mac just wasn’t Stanley.

Only after writing several novels - and one collection of poetry - creating various mixtapes (with a CD extension!), editing films, binging series and the countless PDFs I read and the essays I wrote of the two (and a half) degrees that this laptop went through did it finally die.

It’s funny. I’m not emotional. I won’t lie and say to you that the 18 year old who had to put Stanley down and admit defeat was emotional. So much so that she refused to trade it in and instead has it sat on her bookshelf beside a coffee table book on writers. In a way, that very first MacBook serves as a reminder of all the things I realised I could do. I could be a writer.

Now, this laptop before me, the one that refuses to turn on, might not hold as much sentimental weight but it’s still a nice marker of times gone by. It travelled with me across countries and it did get me through those incredibly painful and awkward years of your early 20s.

I went through lockdown with it.

What’s more, I watched my first ever F1 race on it.

So I won’t let the frustrations of the end get to me. The fact that I had to walk around with a charger because 100% battery didn’t mean anything. Or the fact that it would overheat and kick the fan into overdrive and it sounded like an airplane. Or the fact that it’s died when I decided to start becoming a little more serious with this ‘I want to be a writer’ business and now I have to type on my iPad like I’m Toto Wolff in Drive to Survive. Maybe that will make this whole March 30 Day challenge all the more memorable - I did it despite the fact that my laptop literally fucking died after three days! What’s more than that though the three days into this, it died literally the day before university starts.

It’s okay, though. I’ve already ordered another laptop from Apple that should be coming next week. And maybe that’s just what I need; a fresh start with a fresh laptop to bring in the next chapter of adventures. Even though you can still trust that the first song that’ll play from that yet-to-be-named MacBook is finna be Pyramids.

#frank ocean #tyler #tyler the creator #memoir #highschool #laptop #writer #writer things #ao3 writer #writers on tumblr #writer stuff #female writers #writerscommunity #writers and poets #writerblr #writer problems #macbook #apple #technology #i miss my laptop already #f1 #toto wolff #drive to survive #dts #netflix dts #jokes #on writing #writeblr #creative writing #writing

[grad603laura]

My 20 Elements

These are some of the quick observations I have gathered within my range of items that I have selected that have significance to me personally and creatively. As I have gone through and analysed each object, I have realised that many of them don't have deep enough meaning to me, and I was simply looking at what I looked most on the surface ( the visual appearance of the objects, and the immediate meaning). Due to this, I have decided to change many of my previously selected objects, and thought deeply about the objects I have chosen. I still need to take photos of my new items to then edit and assemble into the collage I am planning to create.

List of new objects I have selected:

Vintage Seiko watch from my grandmother - looking at its historical and personal importance to me and my ancestry.

Pandora Charm Bracelet

Plant in Face Vase

Print of Girl on Phone

Salt Lamp

Teva ADHD Medication

Glasses

Childhood Travel Journal

Drivers License

032C Magazine

Green Sea Urchin Shell

Heart Ring

Amethyst Crystal

Post Stamp Paper Cache Heart

Union Jack Jewellery Box

Childhood Photo Album

Koala Stuffed Animal

Intermediate Arts Academy Badge

Black Converse High Top Sneakers

Macbook laptop

Why have I chosen them:

I have begun to write about my chose objects to create my inventory. Looking at my in-depth observations and thoughts about the objects which I will need to summarise when creating the poster inventory.

[17-todate]

WEVERSE 🌟

230811 WONWOO

🐈 Collage…

🐈» they even made it next to me during a schedule

🐈» but if carats are having fun, then I’m satisfied/happy. 😁

🐈» they used an iPad, but it looks similar to a MacBook 😂(tn: the results/quality looks like they used the MacBook — like he did)

#seventeen #seventeen (세븐틴) #seventeen translations #seventeen updates #17 todate #wonwoo #oh wonwoo😭😭 he’s not going to forget about this for monthsss

[projectionproj]

'I need to make things. The physical interaction with the medium has a curative effect. I need the physical acting out. I need to have these objects exist in relation to my body.' Louise Bourgeois (quoted in Kellein 2006, p.16.)

Research Study the artist's life and style for inspiration.

Louise Bourgeois: The Spider the Mistress and the Tangerine (full film available on youtube)

Louise Bourgeois – Art to Read Series (book link – I had bought this one at Mass MoCA a while back)

Articles:

A Dangerous Method – Artforum

Spiraling into Louise Bourgeois's Inner Realm - Galerie

Texts - Louise Bourgeois: the return of the repressed - Exhibiciones | Fundación PROA

Louise Bourgeois, recognizing the self the artist's way, with Jason Smith | Art World Women

Bio from Tate

Louise Joséphine Bourgeois (1911 – 2010) was a French-American artist. Although she is best known for her large-scale sculpture and installation art, Bourgeois was also a prolific painter and printmaker. She explored a variety of themes over the course of her long career including domesticity and the family, sexuality and the body, as well as death and the unconscious. These themes connect to events from her childhood which she considered to be a therapeutic process. Although Bourgeois exhibited with the Abstract Expressionists and her work has much in common with Surrealism and Feminist art, she was not formally affiliated with a particular artistic movement.

Concept & Mood Board Create a simple concept for your installation & make a mood board for visual inspiration

Concept Ideas:

Project different Louise Bourgeois works on to a miniature scene set up on the desk in my small home office/studio space, using found objects from the space, and referencing some of the architectures of Bourgeois’ works and the aesthetic of her home/studio space

Emerging perhaps in part from my background in social work and past job providing counseling to young children living with parental illness, I want to work to understand and explore Bourgeois’ reflection of trauma and repressed childhood memories in her work

Group series of works thematically and juxtapose different forms

Mood Board Pinterest Including LB Visual references: Link

Mapping & Content: Choose 2D or 3D mapping and create content related to your choice.

2D mapping, with some additional exploration of using the projector as a light source to illuminate existing objects/structures

Content: paintings/drawings/sculptures from Louise Bourgeois’ body of work, as well as small sculptural elements that reference her work (wire recreation of her Maman spider sculpture, placement of clay carving tools to cast shadow mimicking Personages sculpture, books stacked to recall  Memling Dawn, small stone fire pit hanging wire to create space for projection of suspended sculptures, small toy chairs from my own childhood lit red to recall her work with C-project / Cells / Red Room, small stone fire pit to represent Nature Study – Velvet Eyes)

Equipment List and briefly explain the equipment you'll use, including your projector choice.

Vamvo 12400 (far from the most high quality projector, but this is the one I have at home at the moment)

Step ladder for stabilizing projector

Macbook Pro with MadMapper

Desktop surface in my home office/studio to setup scene

Found materials from home office/studio to create scene:

Newspaper collage box

Glass-domed display case

Spider bent out of black wire

Mini dollhouse chairs

Stone mini firepit

Mini canvas

Antique wooden box sewing set

Black hanging wire

Red/gold encyclopedia stack

Tools for clay sculpting and wooden sculptural toy base

Paper bag

Sunset lamp for underdesk illumination

Reflection

Representing the work of an artist like Louise Bourgeois, even in such a small way, is a massive task, given the extent of her body of work and the longevity of her artistic life. I think any number of pieces that I settled on, even if I had been able to project 100 works, would have felt minuscule and never close to fully representative of all that Bourgeois created. Between watching the documentary, The Spider the Mistress and the Tangerine and collecting and projecting imagery, I do feel like I've spent more time with her work and have more context for the pieces of hers I've seen in person at Mass MoCA, Storm King, and Dia Beacon over the years.

Practically/technically, I had some challenges with the fragility of the environment once the projector was set up, having to reset or adjust masks if objects shifted, etc. That made tinkering with the setup on the desk feel hard, and I found myself stuck at one point, not thrilled with the initial balance but not wanting to move things around and re-mask. I eventually did make changes to the physical environment, and am glad I did - even having to go through and re-arrange elements in MadMapper. There was a lot of testing, doing and undoing, to understand what kind of surfaces do and do not work well for representing images/light.

Representing or curating another artist's work in a way where they cannot consent and be involved in the process, especially with an artist who was often so protective of where and how her work was shown, certainly impacted the choices I made creatively, wanting to be sensitive to the original work and its varied contexts. Having watched the documentary mentioned above relatively recently, I found myself recalling Bourgeois' voice throughout the process.

Documenting projection work is also tricky, but it was nice to have the piece up for a while at home so that I could try different angles and lighting situations, etc. Projector quality is also something I'm thinking more about now, potentially wanting to invest in a higher quality projector for use in contexts like this and beyond.

Working through this project, I started to feel my own aesthetics emerging in projection, and in crafting balance in a scene, editing what to include and what not to include when there is so much to reference and still being able to get a sense of the thematics of a work.

Lastly, completing this project while having COVID was certainly its own challenge, given my fluctuating energy levels and body/brain temperatures, but it was a good exercise in breaking creative work down into discrete tasks and production planning.

[dotcie]

— BAD DOG. [2]

》 PAIRING: simon 'ghost' riley x f!oc 》 NOTES: taglist is open! please let me know if you want to be added or removed. 》 WARNINGS: 18+ | MDNI | hair pulling 》 CHAPTER: 3.9k | 2/? [masterlist] | AO3

Before she met Laswell, Jane did media monitoring for the DISA. 

It paid well for a job straight out of undergrad. Had reasonable hours, pleasant enough colleagues. She commuted the twenty minutes from her shitty apartment in Kingman Park to the Pentagon—arrived at seven forty-five with a cream cheese bagel and a skim milk latte. Wrote reports, emails, and memos. Hours and hours of political speeches, barking rifles, and screaming civilians ingrained in her brain. 

''Like a fucked up collage of the human greed for oil and retribution,'' she once called it over an almost empty espresso martini. Condensation pearled off the glass's rim and pooled on the table of an overpriced speakeasy bar, so unimpressive it was not worth remembering its name. Her questionable Tinder date had been late, his small-talk rather boring; No, she didn't like her job. Who ever did? But rent was expensive in DC, and Jane had student loans, expensive taste, and maybe eight hundred dollars in her checking account. 

She covered newsstreams out of Egypt, Lebanon, and Jordan. Iraq, and Yemen. Algeria. Libya.

Ate lunch at her desk—usually a salad and a protein bar, four busy screens in front of her. 

Had meetings with Cairo, Beirut, Amman, Baghdad, Sana'a, Algiers, and Tripoli.

She joined the white-collar crowd on their evening run around the Mall after work. From the Capitol steps to the Lincoln Memorial, around the reflecting pool. Two times, sometimes three. Always depending on the restlessness that hummed in her bones and tingled in her fingertips. 

Jane shoved her damp hair up with a clip and hopped on the blue metro line afterwards; sweaty and breathless, body humming with spent energy. She stopped at Whole Foods on her way home; bought dinner-for-one and a four-pack of sugar free Redbull. Put on noise canceling headphones without listening to anything on her way home—spying into warm lit windows and other people's lives. 

She ate in bed, crouched over her Macbook, the TV always set to CNN. She practiced Arabic. Scrolled through subreddits about zero-day exploits, but never commented on them. Went to bed late, woke up early. Got up the next day and did it all over again. 

Washington is a big city, in a big country, in a big world, and nothing ever changed. Jane just sat in her gunny-covered cubicle and watched whole cities crumble to dust like sandcastles. The local newspapers only covered a watered-down version of the turmoil overseas, but the mental images were always in the back of her head—no matter how loud she turned the TV. 

It's all part of a grand plan, she told herself. Just another rung on the ladder, an essential middle-step in her career. It was comfortable and disturbing. Exciting enough, but nothing impactful.

Nothing with an edge. 

The job had a sky-high turnover; a bad impact on employees. Turns out, swallowing the documentation of invasions, and civil wars, and an endless flow of American exceptionalism was only manageable for a couple of months. Jane became miserable and angry. Tired and strung-out. When handing in her two-weeks notice without a back-up plan, her supervisor accepted the neatly printed note with tired eyes and an annoyed flick of the wrist. 

Her therapist blamed her sense of weightlessness for everything she did afterwards: the thrill-seeking, the risk-taking. All her screw-ups in pursuit of sticking her fingers in better pies. When the agency sent her to the embassy in Urzikstan, Jane canceled her rent-controlled apartment lease early and donated most of her belongings to the Habitat For Humanity in Capitol Hill. Burning the boats, she called it. 

For months, no one could get a hold of her. 

Analyst positions for counter-terrorism overseas will chew you up and spit out your bones, a friend in the IOC had warned her. Jane was up for it anyway—of course she was. She had witnessed a few horrendous things through screens in Washington, but nothing compared to the situation in Sakhra. Like most soul-crushing things in life, it all wasn't real until it was. 

The first time she experienced the ruthlessness of the real world, a local contractor whose family was killed by American soldiers blew up half a base with some DIY C4. 12 soldiers dead, 24 injured. If not for Laswell yanking her into the shadows behind a M1A2 when panic erupted, she would have been trampled to death under the burning afternoon sun. 

Instead, Jane heaved, and coughed, then sank to the dusty ground with ringing ears. Kate towered over her with a drawn P890, yelling all-too-calmly over the wailing of sirens: You have twenty seconds to get it together.

They made her take time off two years later, after a black site she was stationed at suffered another, similar attack. Jane was resentful of it, but she wanted to keep her clearance, so she left with the next supply plane and said what she needed to say to pass the psych evaluation. 

She considered moving back into her grandparents ranch in Arizona. Maybe traveling through Europe, starting a new hobby (rock climbing, pottery, crocheting); but there was no real drive or push behind it. Instead, she bled in secret. Fucked strangers on her frameless king-size mattress and worked out too much in her unfurnished apartment. She got offers; a few private-sector contracts she knew she couldn't entertain. Jane wanted to stick it out with the agency—and Laswell. Especially with Laswell. 

The first question Shepherd asked her when she stepped into his office was if she had any family; a partner, kids, siblings. Parents to take care of. The General asked bluntly, but Jane was used to force as the most efficient method to get answers. 

She had spent three years interrogating Al-Qatala members and contacts. Trading money, safety, and threats for intelligence. Sleeping through the sound of gunfire, bystanding interrogations, interpreting intelligence, and snooping in places Americans aren't supposed to. Jane had left her old life behind and dove head-first into a tunnel vision.

No. She had no one. 

When saying it out loud she almost sounded proud. 

Working for the General is different. Non-official cover work for SAD intel suits her better—scratches a certain itch, too. Like finally tasting blood after biting your tongue for years. 

Laswell has been helpful, the additional training too; but nothing ever prepared her for the void between long-term missions. When the work is done and restlessness returns in weird jet-lagged hours of the fading days. When there are no objectives to sink her teeth into. No foreign streets to roam under false identities. No predictions to be made, no strings to pull. 

She's stuck in Iceland now, attending debrief after debrief. Her target is dead, the missile prototypes returned to the lab, but that isn't enough. They want to know everything. First the higher-ups at the Headquarters, then the Senate Intelligence Committee. They want the process. The months of searching, the people involved, the rules she broke. 

She did a good job, she got what she wanted, but she is part of Shepherd's system now, and he didn't approve of her moving forward with the operation. 

Since she returned to the lab, he hadn't answered any of her calls. 

Ghost is nothing but a silhouette in the low light of the crescent moon; sitting against a weathered wall of heavy concrete, a half-burned cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth. Insects batter against a naked lightbulb overhead—the light orange and warm against the dark of night, casting long, unproportionate shadows over the smoking area. 

The sky hangs bruised and stormy over Vatnajökull, a million stars dotting the night. It's quarter to one, and the grounds of 102 are deadly still—so still, that the sound of a nearby metal door opening and closing shut remind him of gunshots piercing through the air. 

Years ago, he would have flinched at the sound, but there is not much left that startles Simon Riley anymore. 

Jane tips her head back in annoyance as she steps outside, cradling her phone between ear and shoulder. ''Listen—,'' she scolds into it, patting the outside of her clothes for the pack of cigarettes she bought from one of the kitchen workers yesterday. ''Louise, right? Louise, with all due respect—'' 

She takes a deep breath of restraint when she finds nothing but a crumbled straw wrapper in the pockets of her leather jacket. Sharp words spill on the other end of the line, and she squeezes her eyes shut, pinches the bridge of her nose. ''I'm not going to argue with some mid-level bureaucrat, get him on the phone— No, no, you listen! I need a black passport, don't— Fuck—'' 

Jane's grip on the iPhone loosens with the sound of a disconnected call echoing blatantly against her ear. Simon can hear her mutter a spool of curses, the sound of gravel screeching under her feet, and how all sound seizes as she pauses at the sight of him. 

The smoking area is dimly lit, but there's no mistaking the broad-shouldered figure with the cramped up skull mask looming in the corner of the building. Simon appeared in her sight so suddenly, so unexpectedly, that Jane would not be surprised if he materialized out of thin air. It would suit him; Ghost that he is.

Smoke pools out of the soldier's mouth, the balaclava pulled up to his nose; exposing a sharp chin with a shadow of stubble forming its way up a jaw set tight. He is hunched over, his elbows digging into his thighs. He doesn't look up to see that the expression on her face is one of mute surprise, or that her eyes narrow at the sight of him. 

''Thought you'd be gone already,'' she calls over, lounging near the door she slipped out of. 

''Change of plans,'' he returns easy and low, eyes glued to the book in his calloused hands. 

It's only been a few days, but his voice is as deep and as resonant as Jane remembers; it fills the air and makes her blood rush with the mental images of his fingertips digging into her skin. 

There's always a certain quietness after she's been fucked good—the world stands still for a moment, and it helps to quench the thirst, to fill the void.

Jane needs to hold something in her arms sometimes. Something unattainable and distant. Something unwise. Something like him. 

''Mind if I bum one?'' She nods to the lit cigarette between his scarred fingers, stepping closer.

For a split second, she thinks he's going to ignore her—then he dog-ears the page he was reading and abandons the book onto his lap. 

Simon looks up all casually and unfazed, shakes his head. 

''Last one,'' he says, half-lidded stare fixed on her in that particular Ghost sort-of-way. The way he always gets when you rip out the half-assed social niceties and expose the weirdo underneath. 

Jane exhales through her nose, leaning against a pole holding up the roof. The urge for frustration refuses to be ignored, so she buckles, comments: ''Of course,'' like she's taking notes on the irony of it all. 

''Stop pondering, will ya?'' Inhaling another mouthful of tar, Simon stretches out along the bench, crossing his booted feet at the ankles. The set of dog tags around his neck clink together when he scratches the underside of his chin. "No point in gettin' all antsy." 

She shoots him a cold, hard look for it—the one that makes his blood sing, makes him remember the expression in her eyes when she told him she wanted her target dead. 

''Thank you, Simon, for your unsolicited wisdom.'' 

The subtle fuck you isn't boarded in her voice, but it throbs under every word of hers. He doesn't bother scolding her for saying his name again, but the bitter taste of disapproval sure does coat his tongue. He's not foolish enough to argue with her when she's like this; all gutted and pent-up. Ready to hiss, bite, and lunge at his throat. 

The familiarity of it all stirs something up in him. For a moment, Ghost almost believes that it's sympathy, maybe—or at least a pinch of pity. A distant part of his mind remembers the dogged woman he faced when they first met; working out of a one-room shithole in a broken-down, brutalist apartment building somewhere in the Balkans. Reviewing surveillance logs, transcripts, and maps in shorts and a sports bra because the AC was utter rubbish. He recalls her hunched figure and unwashed hair as she worked out of the tiny living room—the space a mess of cables and empty microwave meals, her tech always charging. Her curtains always closed, dust dancing in the beams of light that crept their way inside.

Two days after the exfil, he barely recognized her anymore; with fresh clothes, twelve-hours of sleep, and hair neatly cut to a shoulder-length. It was like meeting a stranger, a whole different woman. He was certain, then, that the only way out for her was the same as his: leaving rotten and zipped up in a body bag.

Simon holds his half-smoked cigarette out to her, and she lets her head roll to consider the silent peace-offer. Her expression bleeds into something less angry in the face of him, and she hates that it makes him snort in response. 

Jane gives him the illusion of thinking it over before breaking away from her frozen stance and closing the distance between them. She takes the stub, and sinks onto the wooden bench next to him.

''Thanks.'' — ''Mhmh.''

Even with some distance between them, Simon towers over her. He doesn't make a sound, doesn't attempt to embarrass himself with comforting words and distracting small-talk. He's quiet—a man of few words and fewer smiles—but that's what drew her to him in the first place. There's caution behind his eyes, and his words are always cleaved off at the knee. A person weathered and hardy. A man who, just like her, has seen things most wouldn't even believe.

They both fall quiet passing the cigarette back and forth, and for a moment he thinks that the conversation has faded out completely. Simon's eyes return to the book in his lap, trying to find the spot where he left off before she interrupted him, but— 

''Do you think I went too far?'' Jane keeps her eyes forward, burying her free hand in the left pocket of her jacket. 

Simon hums in response, dark and low. ''Doesn't matter what I think,'' he says in a way that makes it clear he believes it, too.

''But you are somewhat capable of forming opinions, yeah?'' 

It coaxes a half-huff, half-laugh from him. He gets it. Logically, he gets it. Everybody is somebody's dog, hanging onto a leash; but he's military, and he much prefers to not comment on any of it. 

''You ignored authority,'' he starts, then pauses. ''Whether or not it was worth it, all y'can do now is handle the repercussions.'' 

''That's not an answer.'' Two dimples appear on either side of Jane's frown as she tucks some loose strands of hair behind her ears and leans forward. ''Forget I even—''

''I think," he interrupts calmly, but stern, ''that your self-doubt won't help you.''

Jane keeps her gaze flat, level. Perhaps if she mimics the face of apathy, Simon won't be able to see that she's hanging onto every word of his. What he says resonates; a quiet truth echoing through the air between them. The regret in her chest strikes like a bomb and for a moment, she fears the possibility of Shepherd cutting her TS/SCI clearance once and for all. She's been ignoring the thought, avoiding any evidence of worry that could shape her suspicions into something tangible, something real.

''Just thinking ahead'' she says quietly, scuffing her boot against the pavement below. "Little catastrophizing, worst-case-scenario planning." 

"Doomsday prepping?" He offers and gets a little smile for that. 

His chest tightens at the sight, an aching warmth interweaving his thoughts with sympathy. He looks away then, trying to collect himself. Seeking control, reaching for reason. Better judgment. Something else.

Jane studies his side profile for a moment, and Simon suddenly feels like she's too close, too comfortable in his presence. It's only a split second, the length of a heartbeat, but it's enough for Jane to take in the way he blinks his intrusive thoughts away. 

''Why are you still here, anyway?'' She asks in a change of tone, plucking the cigarette from his fingers.

''Taking a break,'' he drawls, words dripping slowly as molasses from his mouth. There is no further explanation offered, no words wasted on reasons or truths. Simon blinks languidly, his lips pressing together as he closes his book for good. 

''Because of Soap?'' There's an off-tone in her voice. ''I thought he is getting better already?"

Simon exhales roughly. ''No,'' he says with a lazy shrug. ''Yes.'' 

It's short and curt, but she doesn't let his vague hostility deter her. Jane just stares at him, impatience reflecting in her eyes, and he's not used to it; all the questions, the curiosity. 

''Do you know,'' he continues slowly, taking the cigarette back to keep his hands busy, ''the number of classifications and regulations I'd have to ignore to tell you shite like this?'' 

It's easier than admitting that he failed his psych evaluation for a second time in three years. 

Price is doing the paperwork for him, because they apparently want to negotiate some kind of terms for him. No rumors, no records, no further questions asked. Simon would be mad about it, if he wasn't so bloody tired. 

It's been years of regaining control and gripping bloody bathroom sinks. Endless hours of running, shooting, yelling over comms, and saving Johnny from the stupid, stupid shit he gets up to when nobody's there to keep an eye out for him. Simon is not a reckless man—at least not when he doesn't let his rage blind him—but you can't teach an old dog new tricks. 

He's not sure why he hasn't been able to admit to himself that his life has been nothing but fear, rage, vigilance, wanting, and searching, wanting, and never finding what eases the pain. 

He knows that Price goes back to a Rosewood desk with whisky and cigars in the upper right drawer, before driving home to a house and a woman that were once his. Laswell has a wife named June and a flourishing garden waiting at home. Gaz goes back to a two-bedroom flat in London, decorated by a girl he met during the siege of the U.S. embassy in Urzikstan. Simon doesn't have anywhere to be—nobody's waiting for him—so he stays. For Soap, he tells himself, and everyone who's paid to listen. 

The Scot's injuries happened under his watch, so he might as well play messenger for his moms, sisters and one-thousand nephews until he can travel back home. It's what a good Lieutenant does. It's what Price would do. 

''Alright,'' Jane says cold, flatly. ''It's none of my business anyway.'' 

She declines the last drag of the cigarette when Simon offers it to her, and he can't help but feel like he's been rude; like he just ruined something delicate. A particular flavor of guilt clings to the underside of his tongue, and he's willing to answer whatever her next question might be in order to make it up to her. 

He stubs out the cigarette, and it takes a moment or two before he realizes that his guilt is the reason she gave in so quickly in the first place.

''I'm not gonna tell ya,'' he says, prompting a smile to tug at the corners of her mouth; like she doesn't fully believe it, but is willing to play along. 

He is too exhausted to not condemn her for it, so he covers himself in heavy silence. Simon doesn't break eye contact, doesn't move—his dark glance intervenes with the amusement in her eyes, and when the quiet stretches on for too long, her eyes dart to his exposed lips shamelessly. 

''Anyone ever tell ya' to mind yer' own business, Spade?''

It coaxes a genuine laugh out of her. Simon is not sure he's ever heard her laugh before; the way the sound bubbles out of her throat, limpid and clear, and then almost turns into a snort. 

''I like you,'' she says pointedly, with purpose. 

"You're just bored.'' — ''And you aren't?" 

Simon remains silent, and the glint in her glance grows bright, pinning. Like she just learned a secret; an inside joke. 

It's unhealthy, this habit she's developed of digging her fingers in his wounds. She feels like a parasite trying to crawl under his skin, and she should probably feel far more ashamed of how much she enjoys the thrill of it. 

She has heard the stories, of course. The legends about the masked, faceless man; the perfect soldier, the silent killer. Everyone affiliated with Shepherd or Shadow Company in the slightest is aware of Ghosts' reputation, and Jane had been curious to meet the man. Dead-eyed, mass of muscle. A walking depiction of death. 

The warning signs about him are written in blood, telltale stories, and that half-lidded stare of his; Stay away, they say. Keep your distance. 

''Don't—,'' he starts with the exhaustive sort of contempt: the kind that says he is tired and bored of this tedious game. ''Don't look at me like that.''

Jane bats her eyelashes at him. ''Like what?''

 ''Like you want something from me.''

''Maybe I do—''

"You don't,'' he interrupts, tongue like a blade. ''All bark no bite, last time I fucked you.'' 

In some twisted ways, his fury excites her. The insistence on his dominance, too, and Jane laughs out loud at words that don't sting. She's practiced; chin tipped up, meeting his disapproving stare with a smirk.

''You ever let anyone kiss you, Lieutenant?''

He looks away, hisses through his teeth in frustration. ''That what you want?''

''I think,'' Jane retorts in a tone both cruel and tender, ''you want it, too.''

The hard look in his eyes lets something uncurl in her. Something satisfied, something real. 

''You do,'' she says again, and then he's on her; hand tangled in her hair, pulling her close. His grip on her scalp is not gentle, nothing about him is, and she smiles—shows teeth—at the broad display of it. 

Simon stares at her for a long moment, a frustrated hum forming at the back of his throat. She can feel his breath on her face. Almost hears the whir of the wheels turning in his head; calculating, calibrating. 

''You don't know what you're getting yourself into,'' he finally says, loosening his grip. 

''I've done worse,'' she spits out, pulling away. 

It happens somewhere between her leaning back and him not wanting her to. It happens and it's familiar, and new all at once; the way he stops her from turning away, pulls her closer by a fist of hair. He kisses her like he does everything else: a little cocky, a little mean. Their teeth clack together, and Simon kisses Jane long and searching—like he was waiting for it to happen.

Like he means it. 

》 Previous Part | Next Part 》 Masterlist.

》 Tag-list: @devcica @glitterypirateduck @queen-ilmaree @widemiffyhappy @cathnoneofyourbusiness

#simon ghost riley #simon riley x f!oc #cod fanfiction #mw2 #simon riley fanfic #simon riley call of duty #ghost mw2 #ghost cod #ghost call of duty #call of duty modern warfare 2 #cod mw2 #Simon Riley smut #ghost smut #call of duty mwii #simon riley x oc #call of duty #simon ghost riley x f!oc #simon ghost riley x oc #cod mw3

[kyeomshuset]

[230809] dk ig update

collage🖤

replies

everyone_woo: do you have any feelings? dk_is_dokyeom: (when you talk about) collage it’s jeon wonwoo👍

everyone_woo: can iphone win macbook.. 😂dk_is_dokyeom: hyung is the best🩵.. ㄷㄷ*

*ㄷㄷ means feeling scared or threatened to the point of trembling

#seventeen #svt #dk #wonwoo #jikseonz #source: instagram

[journalgirl]

The Joy of Running Out

Let’s pick up like old friends…

I’m not sure these days how many people read blogs, so I’ll write for myself and let you read. 😉

My art and materials have changed since we last spoke. I’ve shifted to coloring my own drawings, and messy collage work in my art journals. The imagery and details have deeper meaning — I referenced one in my last therapy appointment to the delight of my therapist.

When I started creating art, it was a struggle to translate my emotions from words — which was my primary way of expressing myself — to images. When you pick up art later in life, after college, there’s a learning curve. Composition. Color. Line. Medium. Substrate. I feel my early days was me throwing whatever made me smile at the page and seeing what stuck. Then manipulated to try and tell a narrative.

I rarely use paint, unless it’s in the form of a marker. I collage with a glue stick. Whatever I use most is within reach of my giant chair in the living room, where I do 80% of my art. And for a girl who rejected many coloring books because the tiny details made my hands ache…it appears that doesn’t apply when I am the one doing the drawing!

What’s different is me.

While we all long for the inspiration that propels us to create every day, I often struggled doing so. I was ill and exhausted and wished I could do more, create and experiment, like my friends. I did my best, said, “Good enough,” a lot.

I’m living in a new state — my third! — in my own comfortable apartment filled to the rafters with art supplies. I encourage you to find a closet or cabinet that holds anything else (ok the kitchen is just the bulbs for my studio lights, but it’s the safest space). You won’t find one. There’s less stress and more self-care. I work a wonderful day job I love, but also continue to struggle with mental and physical health issues.

I say this because, about a year ago, something amazing happened: I started working at least 2 hours a day on art. It started with coloring the work of other artists, then drawing florals, collage, and now I live in the world of mandalas and the mix of supplies that continue to inspire me.

(I’m actually taking a break from my current one; I’m in hour 7.)

As you can figure by the tumbleweeds gathered in the corners of this blog, I didn’t share much on social media. I don’t spend nearly as much time on my phone, and when I post, I’m in the frame of mind that I’m sharing with my friends. There are rarely hashtags, the posts are inconsistant, and doesn’t see much engagement past my Facebook friends. It wasn’t very important, running to share something the moment I put pencil to paper; I fell into this pitfall a few times in my life, and it always ruined and disrupted my inspiration.

Now? Now I make stuff, and if people like it, awesome! I actually taught my first class in 10 years to a small group of friends and delighted more in the kind words from friends who shared my post. Because my students were friends, I didn’t feel pressure to have everything set up perfectly. I no longer have a DSLR to film with, and my laptop is a modified MacBook Pro from 2009. I loved teaching live, as I could get feedback from my students, as well as answer their questions, in real time.

(I’m working on a ‘sequel’ right now, as I ran out of time to share everything!)

The joy? Using much loved supplies to the point they need replacing because of how much you use them. Being able to info dump at friends all I’ve learned from wearing out even the expensive stuff.

Sometimes, you need to run out of what was so there’s room for what can come. But the only way you get there is to just run free with radical acceptance, use the pretty things, and allow something you never expected to take root and grow.

I’ll see you next week, friends.

💜 Kira

(Yes, I am changing my legal name!)

[fy-wonwoo]

230811 wonwoo weverse update + comments:

Collage…

They even made that next to me during a schedule.

But if carats are having fun, i’m satisfied.😁

They did it with an ipad. It’s similar to a macbook*.😂

he’s referring to this / trans

*he made his Collage with a macbook lol

#jeon wonwoo #wonwoo #seventeen #svt #weverse #230811

[rameshds12]

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