#i miss my one art teacher that i had for print making

[trashcreatyre]

Currently somewhere with lots of posters on the walls that are all hung up with magnets and it’s just making me think of my one art teacher who would put our art up on the board during critique days and would put push pins through the paper drawings and paintings and it would piss m off every time to the point where i just stopped letting her put my stuff up and I’d just do it myself

[wintrwinchestr]

strangers | part 1

summary: following in the footsteps of a girl you once knew, you decide to up and leave home one morning without looking back. when you find yourself to be tired, hungry, and alone in the middle of nowhere, you're thankful when a kind stranger offers you a ride, a warm meal, and a place to sleep for the night. he only tells you about himself in bits and pieces, but he seems trustworthy enough, and what you don't know can't hurt you, right?

!!PLEASE READ WARNINGS, THIS IS A VERY DARK FIC!!

I've tried to label this fic as detailed and as boldly as possible. I will not be held responsible or bullied off the internet if you choose to read this potentially upsetting/triggering work of fiction anyway.

warnings: joel miller x f!reader, 18+, smut, age gap (reader is college-aged, joel is mid-50s), no outbreak au, serial killer!joel, dark!joel, talk of death/murder and blood, mommy & daddy issues, brief talk of domestic violence, lying/gaslighting, manipulation, f-receiving non-con somnophilia (no sex, but groping, fingering, dry humping, kissing, and choking), degrading language toward victims, pet names (baby, darlin', sweetheart), some joel pov, no ellie/sarah but tommy has an unnamed daughter, somewhat inspired by "strangers" by ethel cain, takes place in illinois/ohio/indiana, vaguely set in the 70s/80s, this part is mostly introduction/storytelling/yapping, please respectfully let me know if i missed anything and i will rectify the tags

word count: 9.8k

a/n: i started this as a oneshot way back in november, and then it sat abandoned for a very long time. thank you to my lovely friends @polaroidpascal and @chippedowlmug for encouraging me to finish it, and also bestie kiers who never hesitates to match my freak. also thank you to the many writers who made me feel inspired to write something dark and not give a fuck what people think about it. i hope you enjoy this joel he's a freak and i love him and if you say anything mean about him i'll send him after you <3

divider by @saradika

series masterlist/moodboard

read this chapter on ao3

part 2

Ruby Carpenter.

You had spent all day trying to remember her name without really knowing why. Maybe it’s because as the sun sets on what would be the first day of your junior year at the nearby state school, you wonder if she ever made it to one of the fancy ivy leagues she had always aspired to attend. You wonder if she’s even still alive.

Ruby had disappeared a few years ago now, the summer after your senior year of high school. For nearly a year afterwards, her missing posters remained stapled onto every telephone pole and stuck onto every store window around town, until the paper began to disintegrate and the ink began to fade. In that time, you couldn’t even make a quick run to the grocery store without being confronted by dozens of replicas of her yearbook photo printed onto the sides of all the milk cartons. Despite all of the efforts to find her, including several search parties and a decent amount of statewide media coverage, everyone had just stopped looking for her, eventually. Even the police. Even her parents.

It was decided that she had probably just run away, and you can’t entirely blame her, but you can’t imagine why she would, either. You remember her perfect head of blonde ringlet curls that shone a yellow gold in the sun, and her bright blue eyes that turned fiery in her more passionate moments during classroom debates. She had every boy in your grade wrapped around her finger, was the teacher’s pet in every class, and it wasn’t even a question whether she would win prom queen your senior year. She was always sweet to you, always complimented your outfits or your makeup or your art projects with a genuine lilt in her voice and a kind smile, so you could never bring yourself to hate her even though it would’ve been so easy to. You figured she was going to cure cancer or become the president after you had all graduated, which is why you never really stopped wondering whatever happened to her that summer. She was beautiful, with boundless potential and a bright future ahead of her, why would she have just given it all up?

Everyone around town knew Ruby, or at least it seemed that way. But maybe nobody ever really knew her as well as they thought. Maybe she’d had a secret boyfriend all that time who whisked her away that summer, maybe she had decided to try drugs and fell down a rabbit hole that she couldn’t claw her way out of, maybe she had finally figured out that the only thing this town would ever be good for is holding people back. Maybe she did just wake up one day and decide to run without ever looking behind her.

Maybe you should do the same.

With your dad long gone now and your step-father doing a piss poor job of filling in the hole he left, following in Ruby’s footsteps has sounded like a better idea with each passing day. Rob isn’t even really your step-father, anyway, just your mom’s sorry fucking excuse for a boyfriend. The guy’s already been married upwards of three times before, why try for another one? He’s a lazy son of a bitch who can’t hold down a job at a fast food joint for more than a couple of weeks at a time, who sleeps every second of the day that he’s not chugging through a six pack, and who leaves marks on your mother uglier than his fucking face. 

She doesn’t deserve to be treated that way, of course, but it’s not like she’s winning the “mom of the year” award any time soon, either. She’s never even been nominated. She’s forgotten just about every one of your birthdays, been the reason you’ve never had any friends come over, and in her most recent offense, blew all the savings you had put away for your last two years of college. Which is why you’re not spending tonight celebrating being one year closer to at least having an official-looking piece of paper to show for yourself. Instead, you’re using the rattling of your bedroom window unit and the booming bass of your radio to drown out yet another drunken screaming match between your mother and the guy she lets live in your house now, watching the world outside pass you by and knowing that if you don’t do anything about it now, you’ll never make it out of here. You’re thinking about Ruby Carpenter, hoping she found somewhere greener and more promising and was able to make something of herself, far away from here. And you’re thinking that this rusted orange sunset is the last one you’ll ever see from your bedroom window.

It’s decided, then. You’re leaving, first thing tomorrow.

—

You’ve only gotten a few hours of sleep by the time your alarm clock chimes to life at five o’clock on the dot. You’re quick to silence the shrill beeping with a swift swat of your hand, careful not to wake anyone else in the house. The sun has just barely begun to stream in through the blinds of your bedroom window, but it illuminates the room just enough for your eyes to land on the backpack you had stuffed full of a few changes of clothes last night, waiting for you by the door. 

You don’t waste any time stripping off your pajamas and pulling on just about the only clothes left in your room that aren’t in your bag. You’ve got your teeth brushed, face washed, and hair tamed in all of about ten minutes, too anxious to spend even one more unnecessary second in this house. You swing your backpack over your shoulder, pull your bedroom door open at just the right speed so that the hinges don’t squeak too loud, and tiptoe delicately down the stairs, careful to avoid the creaky floorboards that you know like the back of your hand—the one three steps from the top, the one at the landing about halfway down, and the very bottom one.

You land softly when you leap over that tattletale bottom step, successful in the most difficult part of your escape plan so far. Rob is passed out on the living room couch in typical fashion, his mouth full of crooked teeth hanging open as his grating snores permeate the calm morning air. He’s still got a death grip around an empty beer can, even in his sleep, and your mother will likely be the one to toss it into the trash for him, useless fucker that he is. You aren’t going to miss either of them, and you imagine they’ll just skip trying to replicate the first half of the aftermath of Ruby’s disappearance altogether—no posters, no search parties, no police. You’ll just be gone, one less mouth for your mother to feed. Though, you’d been mostly feeding yourself since you were tall enough to slide a couple of bills across the counter at the corner store down the street, anyway. You’re ready to disappear, the same as candle wax when it burns, the same as the end of a rainbow, the same as Ruby Carpenter.

You don’t bother looking back when you shut the door behind you, content to leave it all behind just as the sun begins to rise and set the sky ablaze. By the time it sets again tonight, you hope to be in a different county, in a different state, anywhere that isn’t here. The rest, you’ll just have to figure out when you get there, wherever “there” may be.

—

You had only realized about an hour ago that you’d forgotten your cheap digital watch in the drawer of your bedside table, where it’s laid unused for the past couple of months, because who needs to tell time during the summer? You never had anywhere to be, never had to get to class or turn in a paper by a certain time, so it’s just been collecting dust since you had unclipped it from your wrist on the last day of spring semester. It sure would have come in handy right about now, when you have no fucking clue what time it is. The sun had disappeared behind the hills several mile markers back, so it must be… eight o’clock? Ten o’clock? Fucking midnight? You have no idea. What you do know is that you’re exhausted, hungry, and your feet hurt like hell. You aren’t really sure what you expected, the reality only just now setting in that you don’t even have ten bucks to your name anymore, thanks to your narcissist of a mother. The crumpled up bills you do have in your pocket are hardly enough for a goddamn sandwich, let alone a motel room. The cool night breeze raises goosebumps on your skin, and you swear you can see your fucking breath, even in the middle of August. You wrap your arms around yourself just as tears begin to prick at your waterlines, and you let them fall as you collapse onto the scratchy patch of dead grass on the side of the freeway, not a park bench or a bus stop or even a gas station in sight for God knows how many more miles.

You sit cross-legged, elbows propped up on your knees so that your hands can support your weary head, the skin of your palms becoming slippery with salty tears as your crying just doesn’t seem to stop. The road you’ve found yourself on seems relatively low-trafficked, the heaving sounds of your sobs accompanied by more cricket chirps and rustling wheat than rumbling tires. But a few high beams do streak across your vision every once in a while, coloring the backs of your eyelids a flaming scarlet.

After several minutes, your tears seem to dry up on their own, your body likely too dehydrated now to produce any more. You wipe the moisture from under your eyes with the back of your hand, sniffling as you gnaw at the skin of your bottom lip and debate if you should just turn back now, give up on your stupid little plan (or lack thereof) and just call the whole thing a loss, pretend it never even happened. Your mother and Rob won’t have even noticed you’d left.

Just as you pull yourself back up to your feet, set on at least finding somewhere that isn’t the hard ground to sleep on tonight before you make your way back home tomorrow, the warm headlights of an old pickup truck are shining bright in your eyes. You put your arm up to block them as the truck slowly squeals to a halt in front of where you’re standing, and you squint your eyes at the driver as your vision adjusts.

“You need a ride, sweetheart?” A man asks in a gravelly voice, and you can still hardly make out what he looks like. Based on the southern accent you pick up on, he doesn’t sound like he’s from around here. 

“N-no, thank you. I’m okay,” you respond shakily, taking a nervous step back from the stranger and his rusted pickup.

“You sure? Looked like you were cryin’ over here, like you might be lost or somethin’.”

“‘M not lost, I know where I’m going.”

“Oh yeah? Where’s that?”

Shit. 

You take a guess.

“Um… the motel down the road,” you reply, tilting your head in the direction you had been walking in.

“There ain’t a motel down there, sweetheart. Ain’t nothin’ in either direction for miles, ‘s all just farmland out here. Reckon you’ve already figured that out, though.”

You pause, unsure of what your next move should be. He knows you’re lying, knows you’re alone with no fucking idea where you are or where you’re going. You could run, but even that shitty truck of his could catch up to you in a matter of seconds. You take another step back, swiveling your head around to look up and down the road as you try to figure your best way out of this.

“Just lemme give you a ride somewhere, darlin’. There’s a diner just off the exit, ‘bout twenty miles up ahead. Could take you that far, at least, get you somethin’ to eat,” he offers. A warm meal does sound pretty good right now, and you suppose you aren’t exactly in a position to refuse his help.

You think on it for a second. “What’s it called? The diner.”

The stranger huffs. “Moody’s.”

“What do they have?” you challenge.

He sighs. “It’s a fuckin’ diner off the side of the freeway, darlin’. They got greasy food and black coffee, ‘s about all you need.”

You don’t say anything.

Then, after a beat—“They got some kinda sloppy mess they call the Thunder Burger. ‘S got onion rings and shit on it. Ain’t half bad.”

You have to admit, he’s passing your pop quiz with flying colors. His answers have been too quick, too specific for him to be lying to you. There’s a pretty solid chance this diner does exist, and that he’s been there before. The man hasn’t said anything that’s indicated he wants more to do with you than to offer you a ride and some dinner. He’s probably just somebody’s harmless grandfather, anyway, judging by his motheaten flannel and gray-stricken beard you can see now that you’ve approached his truck a few paces closer.

“Okay,” you concede, your stomach growling loudly as the man leans over the bench seat to pop open the passenger side door for you. You shrug off your backpack and climb into the cabin, clicking your seatbelt into place as you situate yourself on the cracked leather seat. 

“All set?” the stranger asks.

“Mhm,” you hum, finally getting a better look at the man you might just owe the rest of your life to after tonight. For being somebody’s grandfather, he’s… kinda handsome. Really fucking handsome, actually, in a rugged sort of way. He’s got warm amber eyes that sparkle even in the dark of night, a kind smile that completely disarms you in an instant, and a splintering scar across the bridge of his nose that somehow only adds to his good looks. You try to suppress your own grin as you look away from him quickly, opting to focus on fidgeting with one of the fraying edges of your denim shorts instead. Even in your peripheral vision, you don’t miss how his eyes shift from your own to the exposed skin of your thighs. He doesn’t say anything, just clears his throat as he shifts gears and steers his truck back onto the road again. 

He lets the next few minutes pass in comfortable silence before asking, “You got a name, sweetheart?”

You tell him, and he flashes another charming smile at you. “I like that, ‘s pretty… Well, I’m Joel. Sure you were wonderin’. Now you ain’t gettin’ a ride from a stranger no more, are ya?”

“Yeah, I guess I’m not,” you giggle, and you’re surprised at how comfortable you feel with him. “So… you’ve been to Moody’s before?”

“Handful of times, yeah. When I’m passin’ through.”

You nod. “So you come up here, like… for work or somethin’?”

Joel chuckles. “Or somethin’. You never even heard of the damn place, so… reckon you don’t find yourself out here very often, do ya?”

“No… ‘M not even really sure where ‘here’ is, to be honest. I just kinda… started walking.”

“Ah… a runaway, then, are ya?” Joel asks, with an appreciated amount of understanding in his tone rather than judgment. “‘M sure your folks are missin’ ya right about now, must have your boyfriend worried sick.”

You scoff at that. “Fuck no. They probably don’t even know I’m gone, won’t even bother trying to come look for me. And I don’t have a boyfriend, so…”

“Damn shame. ‘M sorry about that, sweetheart,” Joel comforts, placing a large calloused hand on your thigh. It makes your breath hitch, but his touch isn’t entirely unwelcome. You let him squeeze once at the plush of your leg before he replaces his hand on the wheel, and your cunt spasms out a little fluttering pulse against the seam of your shorts, despite yourself.

The rest of the drive to Moody’s is relatively quiet, save for the gentle crooning of an old country singer emanating from the cassette player on the dash. The soft singing and steady strumming of a banjo combined with the muffled chugging of the truck’s engine is enough to lull you to sleep, especially after the day you’ve had. You know that just about every mental alarm bell you have should be screaming at you to jump out of the car, to run, that sleeping alone in the dirt would’ve been a better decision than getting into this strange man’s—Joel’s—truck, but you’re too tired to hear them. He smells good, like woodsmoke and pine and cinnamon, and if he wanted to do something awful to you, he probably would’ve done it by now. So you trust him, for now at least, and let your lashes fan out against your cheeks as your head falls back against the cushioned headrest, coaxed into sleep by the lullaby of tires against pavement and fingertips against guitar strings.

—

You only rouse when you feel the truck come to a stop about half an hour or so later, slowly blinking your eyes open against the bright neon sign that reads “MOODY’S” in bold capital letters. Your jaw stretches wide as a yawn overtakes the muscles, and you hear Joel’s southern drawl replace the one from the cassette as he shuts the engine off.

“Mornin’, sleepyhead. Not too tired to eat somethin’ now, are ya?”

Another unpleasant-sounding rumble from your empty stomach answers for you, loud enough for both of you to hear this time. The air puffing out of the diner’s kitchen smells strongly of fatty bacon and rich coffee, just like Joel had promised you the place would offer. Although the digital clock on the dash read just after 10:30 before you fell asleep, you’ve never craved breakfast quite like you do right now. You absentmindedly lick your lips as you imagine the sweet and savory—and more importantly free—meal that could be waiting for you beyond that blinding beacon of a sign.

“Well, alright then. Let’s get some food in ya before you keel over, hm?” Joel says as he exits the truck, landing on his feet in the dirt parking lot with a soft groan. He waits by the hood for you to meet up with him, and you walk up the couple of steps to the entrance together. He holds the door open for you, and you offer him a shy ‘thank you’, to which he responds with a soft spoken ‘welcome, sweetheart’. You stand shyly behind his broad form as he asks the hostess for a table for two, and she leads you to a green leather booth tucked into the corner of the diner. She hands each of you a sticky laminated menu, the pages a charming mess of clashing colors and faded pictures and retro-looking fonts, then departs with a promise that your waitress will bring the two of you some water as you take your time deciding on what you might like. 

You light up upon reading that Moody’s serves breakfast all day, and that they can make you exactly what you were hoping for—a stack of chocolate chip pancakes with sides of bacon and hashbrowns. You can’t help but smile to yourself as you wiggle in your seat, excitedly anticipating the waitress to come back around so you can order.

“Whatcha so excited about over there?” Joel asks, eyeing you from across the table as he glances up from his own menu.

“Nothin’, I was just hoping I could get some pancakes, and they have ‘em on the menu,” you explain giddily. “I’ll probably get some coffee, too, really complete the whole ‘breakfast for dinner’ thing.”

Joel huffs through his nose. “Decaf, I hope. ‘S the middle of the goddamn night, sweetheart. Gonna be bouncin’ off the walls in the room later, hardly get any sleep.”

He’s right, you suppose. But wait—“What room?”

Joel shrugs casually. “There’s a decent motel another exit or two down, figured they could probably get us a couple o’ beds for the night. But, ‘m sorry, shouldn’t have assumed—”

“No! No, it’s okay.”

Is it? You only met the man less than an hour ago, and you already agreed to let him give you a ride before you even knew his name. You suppose you hadn’t really thought about what would happen after he bought you dinner, but not thinking ahead seems to have been a theme today, hasn’t it? You remind yourself that he’s only been kind and respectful to you so far, save for that placement of his hand on your upper thigh soon after he picked you up. But that could’ve just been a friendly, paternal gesture, right? And he said a couple of beds, when he mentioned the motel, which seemed to imply that he plans on the two of you sleeping in separate beds, maybe even separate rooms. You’ve found yourself having to make yet another somewhat reckless decision tonight, but one that would be in your best interest to say ‘yes’ to, at this point. What other option would you have if you declined his offer?

“Don’t really have anywhere else to go, so… yeah, okay. Motel sounds good. And decaf it is, I guess.”

Joel’s apologetic expression quickly morphs into a satisfied smirk. “Good girl,” he praises. You like how the words sound coated in his thick drawl, even though you probably shouldn’t. You shift where you sit as that familiar fluttering sensation returns to the seat of your panties, just for a moment. You’re grateful that the waitress arrives at the booth not a second later, cheerily introducing herself as she sets down a glass of water for each of you. When she asks if you’re ready to order, Joel gestures to you as if to say ‘ladies first’, and you politely prattle off your request. You make sure to emphasize that you’d like your coffee decaf, and ask if she could please bring some more of the little cups of vanilla creamer to the table. “Not a problem, honey,” she replies, and Joel winks at you as she asks what she can get for him. He orders the Thunder Burger he had told you about earlier, and a black coffee, which he doesn’t request to be decaf. The waitress leaves the two of you alone again with an ‘I’ll have that right out for ya,’ and you let your eyes follow the calming baby blue color of her dress as she glides her way back to the kitchen. When she disappears around the corner of the bar, you take the opportunity to study Moody’s other patrons. There isn’t another young person in sight, mostly just men around Joel’s age with similarly heavy bags under their eyes, likely truck drivers indulging in their first hot meal of the day within the diner’s comforting wood-paneled walls. You wonder if that’s how Joel knows about this place, because he “passes through” this area on long hauls across the midwest. You open your mouth to ask him if your assumption is correct, but he cuts you off before you can say anything.

“I gotta admit, sweetheart, I’m curious… The hell was a pretty thing like you doin’ out in the middle of goddamn nowhere tonight? I mean, I know you’re a runaway ‘n all, but… shouldn’t you be one o’ those college party girls or somethin’? ‘M sure you got plenty of friends wonderin’ where you are.”

You sigh, shaking your head as you distractedly pick at a splintered piece of wood at the edge of the table.

“I was in college. Was supposed to be going back again this year, but… my mom spent all the fucking savings I had left for the rest of it on fixing up her dumb boyfriend’s car. It’s just been sitting in the fucking lawn all summer, sure as hell not being used for something useful like going to the job he doesn’t have. That bastard…” You say the last part under your breath through gritted teeth.

“Shit… Tha’s a tough deal, baby, ‘m real sorry to hear that,” Joel comforts. “But y’know, everybody’s got mommy ‘n daddy issues, don’t mean you just up and start walkin’ all by your lonesome, not even have any idea where you’re goin’.”

“Well, it wasn’t just that. There was… nevermind, it’s stupid.” You slump into the cushioned booth, silently cursing yourself for even bringing it up.

“What is it?” Joel pushes, sitting up straighter to show you that he wants to listen, wants to get to know you. And God dammit, he might be the first person you’ve met in a long time who actually seems to care about what you have to say, as strange as it is. You flick your eyes up to his face, and he’s wearing a sincere gaze that convinces you to continue.

“There was this girl I went to high school with. She disappeared a couple of years ago, nobody ever found out what happened to her. People figured she probably just ran away, and I thought… I dunno. That maybe she had the right idea, leaving that place behind. I always held onto this hope that maybe she was still out there somewhere actually doing something with her life, that maybe she just changed her name or something and disappeared on purpose.” You pause. “I guess I just thought I might be able to do the same, if I left.”

“I see…” Joel muses sympathetically. “Maybe I oughta give you a lil’ more credit, then. Must’a been tough losin’ a friend like that, not knowin’ where she ended up.”

“I mean, Ruby wasn’t really my friend. She just—”

“Hang on. Ruby, you said?” Joel interrupts, his eyes suddenly looking a little wild.

“...Yeah. Her name was Ruby. Ruby Carpenter.”

—

Fuck.

Joel has to adjust himself under the table, his dick now hardening uncomfortably in his jeans at just the mention of her name. He remembers Ruby, remembers chuckling to himself when he realized the irony of her name matching the color of her blood, remembers watching the news coverage of her disappearance in this very same diner, those handful of years ago. She was a sweet thing, he remembers this, too. It was a shame she had ended up being such a fighter, that she had to get put down the way she did. But she shouldn’t have thrown that fucking rock at his face, called him a sick fuck and a freak as she made her pitiful little escape attempt. Joel is lucky that all he came away from it with is that ugly little scar that mars the bridge of his nose. He can’t say the same for her.

“Why? You heard her name before?” You ask him, an unfortunate little twinkle of hope in your eyes.

“Maybe.” Yes. “Sounds a lil’ familiar, might remember hearin’ about it on the news or somethin’.”

That goddamn news coverage sure as hell taught him a lesson. Joel had spent months trying to keep the cops off his fucking tail after he had dumped her body on some forgettable patch of land behind an old decaying barn. He had even gotten pulled in for a fucking interview at the station in what he now presumes to be your hometown, where they had questioned him for an hour or so about her disappearance. He still isn’t sure how he talked his way out of that one. Ruby might not have been good for much else, other than pissing him the hell off with all of her pathetic crying and begging to just please, please let me go back home, but she did help him perfect his craft, he can give her that much. It’s because of her that Joel makes certain now that any girl he picks up doesn’t have anybody who will miss her or plaster her face on every local channel or send out goddamn search parties to find her. Girls like you.

You’re just so perfect, it would be so fucking easy for him to make you disappear for good, it’s almost comical. It had hardly taken any convincing at all to get you to climb into his truck, had taken even less to get you to agree to go to some seedy ass motel with him that might not even exist, for all you know. It does, but you didn’t even try to test him about it this time, just put all of your trust in him like a stray puppy would to the first person to pick it up off the street. That is just about what you are, he supposes. So far, you seem like the perfect candidate to become his little captive pet. If you keep it up, maybe you won’t meet the same fate as the rest of them. He’d told himself he’d be done after the last one, anyway, his body too old and achy and slow now to chase after the ones who put up a little more fight, like she had. She’d nearly escaped, made it a decent way through the woods and almost reached the main road before tripping on an exposed root and snapping her ankle. He remembers how weak and scared she’d looked before he’d used his knife to put her out of her misery, and it makes his dick twitch. Joel doesn’t plan on snuffing you out, not right now at least, since you haven’t given him a reason to. But his fingers still twitch where they rest on the table, moving out of instinct as he can’t help but imagine what they’d look like wrapped so tightly around your little throat. Would you cry? Would you beg? Would you pray? Would he have to glide his blade across your vocal chords just to get you to stop screaming so fucking loud? He wonders.

“Oh… Was that one of the times you were just ‘passin’ through’ for whatever reason you haven’t told me yet?”

Joel hadn’t realized that his eyes had been unfocused for so long, or that he’d been holding his breath, or that his hand had been squeezing his glass of water so hard he’s glad it hadn’t shattered. The airy sound of your voice brings him back to reality, and he huffs a light chuckle as he fixes his face into a more pleasant expression. 

“Yeah, ‘spose it was.” 

You roll your eyes at him playfully. “Come on, Joel. I just told you, like, my whole sob story. I feel like I deserve to know at least one thing about you now.”

You have a point.

He gives in. “Fine. I got a brother, used to come through this area when I’d pay him a visit. That good enough for ya?”

You cross your arms. “No. What’s his name?”

“Tommy.”

“What’s he look like?”

“Like me. Little younger. Little uglier.”

You laugh at that.

It makes Joel smile.

Maybe you could be the one he’s been looking for all this time. Too bad he had to waste so many others before he finally got to you.

—

The waitress comes back to your table soon after that, with your steaming plates of delicious-smelling food and hot mugs of coffee balanced expertly on a large plastic tray. She sets them down in front of the pair of you with a cheery smile, and you thank her happily when she doesn’t forget the extra sickeningly sweet cups of creamer you had requested. Joel doesn’t take his eyes off you once during the interaction, not even to feast his eyes upon the monstrous burger now sitting before him, not even as he thanks the waitress for delivering it to him. His lingering gaze makes you feel a little warm, but it could just be from the heat radiating off of your plates.

“What? You’re not getting a bite of mine, if that’s why you’re looking at me,” you tease, already getting to work putting the sugary creamer to good use.

Joel just shakes his head, his caramel colored eyes still never leaving you as your coffee begins to resemble their hue. “No, ‘s not why.”

“Whatever,” you reply through a giggle, making a poor attempt to hide your girlish grin behind the lip of your white ceramic mug. 

The two of you eat your meals in relative silence, mostly enjoying each other’s company and basking in the relaxing ambience created by silverware tapping against porcelain, hushed conversations, and the local country station playing through the old radio sitting on the counter. The reception is a little spotty way out here in wherever the hell you are, so you can’t quite tell what song it is. But Joel seems to know, judging by the rhythmic bouncing of his knee under the table that creates little circular ripples in your coffee. Maybe you’ll ask him what it is later, how he knows it, if you can listen to it again in the truck together. He doesn’t seem to be as much of an open book as you’ve already given yourself away to be, and you respect that about him. It doesn’t make you any less curious, but you resign yourself to getting to know him better in the small doses he’s willing to offer you. 

You decide to begin a mental list of all the things you want to ask him later, knowing that by the time you make it to the motel tonight, you’ll be far too exhausted to do anything more than just collapse onto the springy mattress and sleep until you get kicked out of the room the next morning. You almost wish you hadn’t listened to Joel’s request for you to take your coffee decaffeinated tonight, and you still aren’t quite sure why you did. It just feels so strangely easy to give into him, to trust him, to let him make decisions for you. You suppose that’s what you’ve been needing all this time, someone to guide you and understand you and at least pretend like they care about you. Joel has shown you more concern and care and protection in the last hour or so than either of your parents have pretty much your whole life. And he’s good at this, making you feel wanted, making you feel like somebody, even in subtle ways, just by looking at you.

“A’right, why don’t you finish up, darlin’, ‘n we’ll hit the road again. Practically usin’ your pancakes as a pillow over there.”

“Oh, sorry,” you apologize sleepily, waking yourself up enough to make quick work finishing off your plate and your last few sips of coffee. 

“Nothin’ to be sorry ‘bout, sweetheart. Lord knows you need some rest, won’t be too much longer now,” Joel assures, fishing a few tens out of his faded leather wallet and placing them on the table. He slides to the edge of the booth and stands himself up with only a few pained noises as he straightens out his back, then offers his hand for you to take. You use it as leverage to pull yourself upright, and your hands linger in each other’s hold for a few seconds longer than they need to. The hostess thanks the two of you for stopping in when you pass her by, and Joel opens the door for you again as you leave Moody’s. He opens the truck door for you, too, and promises you that the motel is just another couple of minutes down the freeway. You make an effort to stay awake in your seat this time as Joel begins the drive, opting to gaze out the window and focus on trying to make out the sparkling constellations above the treeline. You smile privately at the moon when you find that she’s following closely behind you just as she always does, bright and full. 

She doesn’t leave your side until you reach the unassuming little roadside motel, which to your gratitude, proudly displays their vacancy on the flickering sign in the parking lot. It doesn’t look like a five star joint by any means, but you know it will serve its purpose just fine. Joel instructs you to stay in the truck while he goes about getting a room for the two of you, and you don’t object. He’d insisted that you didn’t need to be on your feet any longer than you already had been today, and you were too tired to argue with him even if you wanted to. When he returns, he taps lightly on the passenger side window so as not to startle you from the half-asleep, half-awake state you’ve found yourself in, and swings your backpack over his shoulder as he helps you out of the truck. He leads you to the room at the end of the row, and the door takes some finessing of the key and a shove of his shoulder to open. Joel flicks on the light, and you let out a disappointed-sounding ‘oh…’ when it reveals your accommodations.

There aren’t two beds like you had assumed Joel was going to request. There’s only one.

Joel catches your reaction. “‘S this gonna be alright? I know it ain’t the Ritz Carlton, but—”

“No, the room’s fine, it’s not that. I just thought… I just assumed that… I didn’t know it was gonna be, like… just the one bed.” You try to explain your discomfort as gently as possible, without seeming ungrateful for everything Joel has done for you tonight.

He looks at you sympathetically. “I know, I ain’t tryin’ anythin’, I swear. Guy told me it was the last room they had, jus’ figured it was better than nothin’.” 

You offer him a soft smile, but your eyes must still look a little wide as you begin to nervously pick at your fingernails. Joel continues, “I can take the chair if you want, darlin’. Get the bed all to yourself, how’s that sound?”

You visibly relax at that, your shoulders deflating as your smile becomes a little more genuine. “Okay, that’s good. Thank you.”

“‘Course, sweetheart. How’s about you take a nice hot shower, rinse off some o’ that dirt you picked up from walkin’ all day… Don’t suppose you got some suitable clothes in here for sleepin’ in?” Joel asks, handing your backpack off to you.

You shake your head. “Just some jeans and t-shirts, and another pair of shoes. And… y’know, some underwear, and stuff.”

Joel pinches the bridge of his nose, then rubs his fingers across his forehead exasperatedly. “I swear… it’s like you didn’t think there’d be a tomorrow or somethin’, girl. Christ.” Joel looks out the window to his truck parked just outside. “Tell you what, think I got somethin’ in the truck you can wear. Why don’t you see if they got anythin’ on the TV tha’s worth a damn, ‘n I’ll be back, alright?”

You nod, “Okay,” then set your backpack down on the drab carpet in favor of picking up the remote perched in front of the small square television. You sit yourself down on the edge of the bed as Joel leaves the room, and begin to flick through the few channels that aren’t just a screen full of snowy static.

Local news. Commercial. Game show. Commercial. Documentary. Commercial. 

Eventually, you land on what seems to be one of those old black-and-white western shows that you can never remember the name of. You only know that the reruns used to play on Sundays around lunchtime, because Rob would always be half paying attention to it with a beer in his hand when you and your mom would get home from church. For how adamant she was that you attend every weekend, she sure never called him a harlot and a sinner for not wanting to go with her. You’re not sure she had ever even tried to get him to go, but he probably didn’t own anything decent enough to wear, anyway. Whatever, fuck them. The show seems like the kind of thing Joel would like, so you let it keep playing. 

He comes back a moment later with a small stack of folded up clothes, tossing them over to where you sit on the bed. You unfold what he’s given you and examine them—a pair of simple pink cotton shorts, and a white tank top with a ditsy floral pattern scattered across the fabric. The clothing is a little more revealing than you’d like, but you figure you’d be a hell of a lot more comfortable wearing them to sleep than the denim shorts you have on now.

“These are… great. Thank you, Joel. But…” you snicker. “Should I be concerned that you have a very convenient supply of girls’ clothes in your truck?” Joel scoffs. “‘S for when I got Tommy’s kid with me, smartass. He’s got a daughter, few years younger ‘n you.”

“Okay, well, I dunno how I was supposed to know that, but… as long as you don’t have a girlfriend who’s gonna come after me for wearing her clothes.”

Joel only chuckles in response, his attention suddenly pulled to the TV.

“Gunsmoke, huh? ‘S a good choice, definitely what I’d classify as ‘worth a damn’.”

You smile to yourself, and his approval makes that warm fluttery feeling return to your belly. “I didn’t even know what it was called, just seemed like something you’d like.”

He turns back to you. “That obvious, huh? ‘S just ‘cause I’m old and southern, ain’t it?”

“Maybe a little,” you admit, making a pinching gesture with your hand.

Joel nods as he makes his way over to the armchair on the corner of the room, collapsing onto it with a groan. “Well, why don’t you go ‘n get yourself all changed and cleaned up, ‘n if you’re quick enough maybe we can finish the episode together and then get some shuteye, hm?”

You swiftly unzip your backpack to retrieve one of your clean pairs of underwear, then bound over to the small bathroom with them and your new change of clothes in hand. It’s not the most spotless one you’ve ever had to use, but you’ve honestly seen much worse. You rinse off quickly in the steaming shower, using the scratchy motel-provided washcloth to scrub the dirt from your legs, stuck to you with the sweat you worked up from God knows how many miles of walking today. 

Today. You can hardly believe it hasn’t even been a full 24 hours since you left home yet. It seems like you’ve already known Joel for days, maybe even years, as silly as it sounds. You wonder if he might just take you in after this, or if he’ll have had enough of providing for you after just one night. He seems like a man of limited means, and he’s already given you so much. If you’re brave enough, maybe you’ll ask him tomorrow, when you get to the ‘so… what now?’ part of your time together.

For now, you step out of the shower and dry yourself off with an impossibly scratchier towel, then pull on your panties and the tank top and shorts Joel provided you with.

Jesus, how much younger is Tommy’s daughter?

The shorts just barely cover your ass, and there’s a sizable gap between their waistband and the bottom hem of your top. The thin, white material of the shirt only serves to accentuate the way your nipples poke through the fabric, but you suppose there isn’t anything you can do about that.

You quietly crack open the bathroom door, and are somewhat relieved to find that Joel’s already fallen asleep in the chair. You do wish you could’ve finished the episode of Gunsmoke with him, but the end credits seem to be rolling already anyway, and you’d rather avoid being seen in your very ill-fitting pajamas. Although, you do wonder if he’d say anything, or if he’d just let his hungry gaze linger in silence again, holding himself back from touching you beyond a comforting pat on the thigh.

You pick the remote up off the bed and use it to make the TV screen sizzle to black, then tip toe over to the lightswitch by the door and turn it off, the room now completely shrouded in darkness. Joel snores softly from the chair as you blindly feel your way back over to the bed, pulling the covers back and nestling yourself underneath them. The bed is surprisingly comfortable, considering, and it doesn’t take long for your exhaustion to catch up with you. Your thoughts become slower and slower along with your breathing, and you’re asleep not even five minutes after your head hits the pillow.

—

The last room they had, yeah, right. You’re just the most pathetic little thing, aren’t you? You’ll believe just about anything that comes out of his mouth if he turns up the ‘southern charm’ dial a few ticks, throws in a feigned apologetic-looking expression for good measure. It’s sad, really. For you, anyway.

Joel fakes his snoring for another thirty minutes or so, until he’s certain you’re sound asleep. He had heard your breath even out almost immediately after you had tucked yourself in, but he had chosen to lay in wait for a little while longer, just to make sure you wouldn’t put up too much of a fight when he made his move. You don’t seem like the type, considering how you’d hardly argued with him at all tonight, like when he had convinced you to forgo the caffeine with your dinner. There’s a reason he wanted you sleepy and subdued tonight, but you didn’t know that. Joel likes how well you listen to him, how easily you do as he asks.

He also likes how warm you are, how small your body is compared to his own, the difference in size especially prominent now that he’s laying snugly against you, his front pressing firmly into the back of you. You don’t wake from his lumbering movement, only coming to slightly when you feel his arm slide underneath your body, his warm hand snaking its way beneath your tiny shirt to squeeze at your plush tits. 

You mumble out a little “Hm?”, which he’s quick to quiet with, “Sorry, darlin’. Chair was too hard on my damn back. Just go back to sleep, ‘kay?” That chair felt like laying on a goddamn cloud compared to some of the other surfaces he’s found himself having to sleep on before, but again, you don’t know that, and what you don’t know won’t hurt you. You probably won’t even remember this in the morning, how his hard cock is slotted so perfectly against your ass, especially without the confines of his thick jeans holding him back. They’re discarded onto the floor now in front of the armchair, along with his flannel shirt and jacket. Joel holds you tightly against his bare, hairy chest as he circles a roughened pad of his finger around one of your nipples, smirking to himself at how quickly the bud hardens from his touch. He knew you wanted this, and the wet spot that the fingers of his other hand are teasing in the gusset of your panties is proof of it. How long have you been leaking for him like this? Had you been soaking the seat of his truck earlier today? Filthy thing.

You still don’t rouse when he pulls your panties aside and slips a finger inside your slick cunt, or when his grip on your tit loosens in favor of sliding up higher under your tank top, his hand coming to a rest around the base of your throat as he pumps his finger in and out of your tight heat. It would be so fucking easy…

But he can’t, he won’t, because you’re not like the others. You want to get to know him, you let him take care of you, you seem to like his company, and you don’t leap out of bed and call him a fucking perv and a dirty old man for what he’s doing to you. That’s what the others would have done. It’s what they have done. And they faced the consequences.

But you’re different. You’re not like them. You’re like him. A lost soul, that’s what you are. Nowhere to call home, no one who misses you or loves you or gives a damn what happens to you. Joel’s mouth had tasted bitter when he had told you about Tommy, or rather, lied about him. Joel hasn’t seen the fucker in years, certainly doesn’t pay him any visits or watch his brat, not since Tommy had learned the truth. You better not show your goddamn face around here ever again, you understand me? Tommy had spat at him. You’re fuckin’ sick. Only reason I don’t turn your ass in myself is ‘cause you’re my goddamn brother. But if I ever fuckin’ see you again, I won’t hesitate. Better make yourself pretty fuckin’ scarce ‘fore I change my mind. That might’ve been about the only time Joel had ever taken orders from his little brother. 

That bitter flavor is cut by the sweet tang of you that he tastes on his finger now, so young and eager and fresh. The hand around your throat squeezes a little tighter, and Joel’s hips begin to move against your ass as he allows himself to suck wet kisses onto the skin under the hinge of your jaw. Softly, gently, so as not to wake you. He could come just like this, using your pliant body in your sleep, rutting himself against your still form with the taste of your pussy on his tongue and his fingers pressed against your pulse points.

He’s close when you stir again, making broken hiccuping sounds as you choke on your breath.

“Shh, shh,” Joel soothes. “You’re alright, sweetheart. ‘S just me. Just—fuck—hold still, go back to sleep, baby.” You let out a quiet whimper, squirming against him just a little bit, but return to your unmoving and silent state a second later. Joel finishes himself off quickly with another couple of shallow thrusts against you, his large hand still gripped around the column of your neck, trying to stifle his groans as he spills into his briefs. He removes his suffocating hand and keeps you pressed tightly against him for a while after that, tanned arms wrapped around your waist and breathing in your scent as he waits for you to settle back down. 

When he’s sure he won’t disturb you again, Joel releases you from his hold and pads quietly back over to the armchair, redressing himself and resuming the position you had left him in. In the morning, if you do remember any of it, you’ll just chalk it up to a very strange dream, one fueled by the desire he knows you’ve felt towards him since he picked you up. You’ll be left with a strange assuredness that he feels the same way about you, without really knowing why. 

But Joel will always know.

—

The digital clock on the nightstand only reads around 8:00 when you’re awoken by a beam of sunlight shining brightly against the backs of your eyelids, streaming in from the window’s lopsided blinds. You had gone to sleep with your back to Joel, but you find yourself facing him now. He looks kind of peaceful when he’s asleep, that permanent furrow etched between his brows finally smoothed out as he dozes. A small smile tugs at the corners of your lips, but they fall quickly when you adjust your legs and feel the cool dampness against your core, the sensation bringing back the memory of the dream you’d had last night. 

It had felt so real, but it couldn’t have been, could it? There’s no evidence that Joel had really laid next to you last night, that he’d really touched you like that, that you’d wanted him to keep going. It must just be some kind of strange side effect of the affection you feel toward the man who had rescued you, more or less. You’ll likely just part ways after today, anyway, so it’s probably best to just try and forget about the whole thing, put on a fresh pair of underwear and pretend it never happened. 

Joel is awake by the time you’re done freshening up in the bathroom, and he greets you with a raspy ‘Mornin’, sweetheart’ as you retrieve your backpack from next to the bed and shove your ruined underwear into the bottom of it. “You get some good sleep last night?” He asks, rubbing a hand over his eye.

“Mhm, the bed was nice, more comfortable than the one I had at home, honestly.” You finish zipping your backpack closed and sit back down on the bed, pulling on some socks and the lace up sneakers you had been wearing yesterday. “I hope the chair was okay, like, for your back and everything.”

“What makes you say that, baby?”

You pause in the middle of tying one of your shoelaces, turning to look at him with a confused pout. “Didn’t you…? I thought you had told me something about how the chair would be hard on your back. Like, last night.”

Joel frowns, shaking his head. “Don’t think so, darlin’. Chair was just fine.”

“Oh… Well, that’s good.”

Maybe it had just been a dream, then.

Joel hands you a few bills from his wallet, and tasks you with getting the two of you some breakfast from the gas station across the street while he cleans himself up. He tells you that he doesn’t eat much in the mornings, but that you can get yourself whatever you want, as long as you bring him back a carton of cigarettes and a black coffee. You obey eagerly, retrieving what he asked for and getting a pack of miniature powdered donuts and an equally as sugary coffee for yourself.

He’s just stepped out of the bathroom when you return to the room, and your face feels hot when you see him with his dark hair slicked back and wet from the shower. The few strands that fall onto his forehead as he laces up his boots almost make him look a little boyish, despite his whitened temples. 

“Such a good girl, thank you,” Joel praises when you hand him his items. 

You respond with a shy ‘You’re welcome’, but he doesn’t miss how you seem to light up at his words. You plop yourself down onto the worn-in chair that Joel had used as a bed last night, happily munching on your gas station donuts and sipping on your coffee. It all makes you feel warm from the inside out.

But you figure you should find out what the rest of today might look like before you let yourself enjoy the beginnings of it too much.

“So, um… We’re just gonna check out this morning and then… what?” 

“Whaddya mean, baby?”

“I mean… are you just gonna, like… take me to the nearest bus station or something?”

Joel’s confusion is written all over his face, embedded deep into those lines between his brows. You could swear he almost looks a little hurt. “Why would I do that? ‘S that what you want?” He asks softly.

You try to backpedal a little, afraid you might’ve offended him or seemed ungrateful in your question. “I just thought it might be what you want. That you probably have somewhere else you need to be, like Tommy’s or—”

“No, I don’t,” Joel says definitively.

You pause. “Okay, so—”

“You ever been to California?”

His question stumps you for a moment, seeming so random in its nature. “No.”

“You want to?”

You shrug. “I mean… sure. Maybe someday—”

“Why don’t you come with me then, baby?”

You let out an awkward giggle. “...Come with you where?”

“To California. Come with me.” Joel’s tone is genuine but firm.

“Like, today? Are you sure?”

“I mean, we ain’t gettin’ there today, darlin’. But yeah, I’m sure. We both got nowhere else to be, do we? So let’s just go, we’ll see it together.”

You beam up at him, realizing that he’s being serious. Joel does want you, wants you to be his companion, maybe even something more that you’ll discover on familiar-looking back roads and in cities you’ve only ever seen pictures of. 

“Okay,” you agree excitedly. 

Joel nods. “Okay, then. Lemme go check us out ‘n we’ll get back on the road again. Burnin’ daylight already,” he jokes. He carries your backpack out to the truck for you, setting it down between your feet after he opens the door and helps you inside with a stable hand. It only takes a few minutes for Joel to hand in the room key and pay for the night, and then he’s back at your side. You begin to feel like that’s where you always want him to stay. 

“So, where to first, baby? California ain’t goin’ anywhere, can take as long to get there as we wanna. We’ll go wherever you like, take your pick.” Joel leans across your body to dig a folded up map out of the glove compartment, handing it to you. 

You examine it, your eyes darting across the dozens of dots with the names of cities next to them, some you’ve never even heard of. You point to one that you have heard of, but have never been to, because you’ve never even left the state you grew up in before.

“Um… how about Detroit? I’ve heard it’s nice, I think.”

Joel belly laughs at that. “It ain’t, but sure. You wanna go to Detroit, that’s where we’ll go. Buckle up, baby,” he instructs, patting your thigh. You oblige, and it feels good to finally know where you’re going, and that you’re going there with someone who cares about you, who feels safe, who wants you around. You also feel a little hopeful that maybe you were right about Ruby, after all. That you didn’t start walking for nothing, that you weren’t following some childish delusion, that if something as good as Joel had happened to you when you left, that maybe she had found herself on a similar path, ran into somebody good who took her wherever she wanted to go and helped her find someplace she belonged. Maybe she found her way out to California, eventually. What you are certain of is that neither of you ever have to go back to that town ever again, and that feels good, too.

And if it feels good, then it can’t be bad.

tag list: tag list: @beefrobeefcal @iamasaddie @rebel-held @dilfgestivo @zliteraturehoe @joeldjarin @kamcrazy123 @hellowoolf @rexamongthestars @stevie75 @luxurychristmaspudding @noisynightmarepoetry @mewantpeepaw @pedritoferg @alex-does-art-things @evolnoomym @annoyingmarvelreader @k1l4ni @joelsdagger (if your name is crossed out, it won’t let me tag you!!)

[marvel-ous-m]

Been thinking about modern AU Elementary School Librarian!Eddie and Substitute Teacher!Steve.

Eddie, who doesn’t really know how he ended up working at the school. A series of events that made him luck out, he supposed. He had always loved books, and practically lived at the public library in between working at the shop and sleeping. He had gotten to know the librarians there over time, had familiarized himself with the Dewey Decimal System from browsing the aisles, and had begun to explore different genres of books after finishing his sci-fi/fantasy bucket list. One evening, while he was curled up on one of the couches in the corner, re-reading The Hobbit for the hundredth time, a little girl with fire-red hair and her front two teeth missing ran up to him and begged him to read to her. He had glanced around the room for a moment, searching for the girl’s parent, but came up with nothing. At a loss, he decided he might as well read to her.

They got through three books that the girl- Max, she had said her name was- had picked out. By the end of his time reading to her, a small group of kids had crowded around him, and a couple of parents were on the outskirts of the makeshift circle smiling at him, clearly pleased that their kids were enjoying “story time”. One of the librarians noticed too, apparently. As Eddie was leaving to walk back to his apartment that night, he was slid a printed-out job posting for the librarian at the elementary school. Eddie never really saw himself as a ‘kids’ guy, but reading to them had been the highlight of his day, and they had all said he’d done the voices well… maybe this would be a good thing. Certainly better than the muscle strain he had almost daily from fixing cars.

So he submitted a resume. He got a letter of recommendation from the librarian who slid him the job posting, and somehow, even without having any certification past his High School Diploma, he landed an interview. They had been desperate, apparently. It was a tiny school in their tiny town and they needed someone to fill in. After only fifteen minutes, he got offered the job- pending results of a four week job shadow with the retiring librarian they were trying to replace and background checks. Two months later and he had become a well-established faculty member at the school, ‘Mr. M’, who did the best monster voices (according to the kids), decorated the library to make it look like it was out of a fairytale (with the help of the art teacher and his now-best-friend Robin Buckley), and even filled in for the music teacher on occasion. It was the best thing to ever happen to him.

Roughly three years after he was hired, he finds one of his lunch breaks being interrupted by Mrs. Harrington’s 3rd grade class. She had always been a bit of a bitch, but she never operated off-schedule. Eddie put his lunch away and observed as the kids flooded into the library and ran around, all finding a book to read or an activity to quietly play with. Will Byers (one of his favorite kids- not that he had favorites, but he totally did) ran up to him, holding watercolor markers and giving him puppy dog eyes. Eddie sighed and rolled up his sleeve, then helped Will sit on his desk so he could reach Eddie’s arm better. Will had asked about Eddie’s tattoos at the beginning of the year, wondering why there wasn’t any color on some of them, and then had been determined to color them in. And Eddie? Well, he couldn’t say no to the kid. Plus it was pretty adorable to have his ‘metal’ tattoos covered in washable marker.

“Will! Did he say you could do that?” Eddie looked up at the exclamation, surprised to come face-to-face with somebody who was definitely not Mrs. Harrington.

“Wait- who are you? Do I need to get the security guard?”

“What? No- no, I’m Mrs. Harrington’s substitute. They sent an email out about me I think? I’m- her son, actually. But you can just call me Steve. Or- probably Mr. Steve in front of the kids? I’m still kind of new at this- my mom called me last week and said she needed to stop teaching for a while because she needed to go on my dad’s business trips with him, she’s always been a bit suspicious of what he really does on the trip, and since I just got my teaching certification she figured it would be best for me too be her substitute- and shi-oot, shoot, I’m totally over sharing right now- it’s just the kids begged me to come here and they weren’t doing our math activity so I kinda panicked-“

“Whoa, alright, slow down big boy.” Eddie chuckled under his breath, then grabbed a sticky note and a pen with his free hand and scrawled out his number. Once he was done he handed it to Steve with a smirk. “I’m absolutely terrible at checking my email. So there ya go- the first number is for my cell- teaching these rascals can be a handful, especially with Henderson and Mayfield in your class, so feel free to text me anytime. We can talk about school or… other things.” Eddie let his eyes take in the man in front of him- and damn, this guy was hot.

Steve blushed, stuttering as he spoke. “A-and the second?” Oh shit, he wasn’t just hot, he was cute too. Eddie suddenly wanted to make Steve this flustered all the time.

“Second number is my extension for the phones here, if the kids get to be too much I can come down the hall for a visit and get them focused while you take a break. They have library time on Tuesdays and Thursdays from 1pm to 2:30pm.” Eddie smiled at him, softer this time. “I’m sure you’re doing a great job. They’re just antsy because of the change- but I think they’d like anybody more than your mom- um, no offense.”

“None taken, she’s a bitc- um, a not super nice lady.” Steve coughed, smiling nervously. “Still getting used to kid-friendly language.”

Eddie shook his head fondly. This was certainly the start of something very interesting.

[beloved-child-of-the-house]

i stand with you in the face of a defensive misunderstanding of what critique is.

i think understanding what a critique actually is is a skill that increasingly is not taught. i remember going through freshman art courses feeling the frustration that all negative, nasty, unhelpful, and missed-the-point-entirely feedback is so commonly conflated with critique, and then critique gets a bad name because everyone remembers the time someone said their painting looked like an asshole (true story, altho now i think i would take it as a compliment) instead of the time a teacher or friend or classmate helped them uncover a hurtful bias or think of new ways to explore the same idea or how to connect it to related ideas or how to look up and understand other people's ideas on the same topic.

anyway i think you're great.

ahhh you're so kind to me!! i appreciate your support, and i think you are great also.

i have experience with giving and receiving critique as a student myself, and i think it was the best part of my degree! i majored in creative writing in college, and critique was just a generally accepted part of learning to become a writer. i don't even remember people being especially worried about receiving critique on their work. we had guidance on what kind of feedback was useful, but we were still at liberty to give it as we saw fit as like messy 19 year olds. the standard was that we gave it both written on printed copies of the work AND aloud in front of the whole class, and the writer receiving it was not permitted to speak during the critique. understanding how people are perceiving your work is important!

i don't have any particularly negative recollections of the critique process, although once in a high school writing class, the boys in the class told me that my male characters touched each other too gently and real boys are more rough with each other. in particular, they took issue with me writing that one boy nudged another. nudging is too soft. nudging is for girls. that was more than 20 years ago, and i still think about it sometimes because it was such an interesting perspective! i did not take their advice, though.

i should dig up that piece and see if it reads queer in any other ways. i think that's what they were getting at. (actually i once had a non-fiction class tell me i was in love with my roommate after reading an essay i wrote about her)(i did not listen to that advice either, but having 12 acquaintances tell you that you're gay in 2006 before you realize it yourself is Truly Something!)

i think people have conflated criticism and critique and think that being more openly analytical is the same thing as being negative. but analysis is so fun to me! analysis is why i joined fandom in the first place, and it's why i write fic! can we trust each other to be respectful and to speak in good faith even when we're not singing each other's praises? for me fandom would be better if we could.

oh i also want to clarify that i don't think it's impossible to demonstrate that you've thought deeply about a piece of fanwork while remaining completely positive. people do it all the time and do it very well!

i know i sometimes have tunnel vision wrt my own perspective. in a lot of situations, i wish it were more acceptable to be more direct, and i know people sometimes find the way i express myself to be kind of shocking. i know a lot of people like to be spoken to more indirectly than comes natural to me, and i don't mean to imply that my perspective is the only correct one or that there's no good reason to err on the side of gentleness/politeness in our responses to amateur art and writing. i just think that at a certain level of circumspection, it feels like we're all holding each other at arm's length.

i think for people who can't bear to feel exposed, making and sharing art is always going to be painful and difficult, and maybe too painful and difficult to enjoy the process unless they're sure of a soft landing. but like. the rewards of being loved only come after the mortifying ordeal of being known, right?

[onegirllis]

So, about the new LIS trailer

It took me some time, but forgive me for the delayed response. I had to dig myself out of the fandom grave to actually look around and notice what the hell was going on. I spent another moment pondering if I still care, and with the answer "barely," I came here to write this post.

1) For whatever reason DickNein (yes, I didn't miss the scandal, who is the nazi now?) still doesn't understand what made LIS 1 so successful. It wasn't the diversity; it wasn't the same copy-paste lines; it wasn't the murder; it wasn't the superheroes from small towns with different powers. It wasn't even the lesbians (I know, shocking!). There were merely a few elements that made LIS special: - Magical Arcadia Bay with its residents - The rewind time superpower, which was one of the best mechanics in narrative games since the genre was born - Max, Chloe, and Rachel (not necessarily in that order), and you need at least two to make it work, preferably with Chloe at least somewhere there. - the specific art style and saturated colors (butchered a bit in BTS but then going full SIMS 4 for the rest of the games) - and most importantly - the soul Sure, DontNod could get away with alteration, to no fanfare and sometimes to no success, but their experiments came from the right place. This shit ain't it.

2) For whatever reason, Chloe is now a dog. I know. I know. I understand. Listen, my fellow comrades, I know how it feels when the devs pull put shit like, "Oh, they were just friends and grew apart, but now she named her squirrel after the love of her high school life".

3) Max had plastic surgery. She also decided to be entirely anonymous so that she looked like everyone else. Every model looks the same, and I hope they will have their names spelled above them as they walk around. Otherwise, I have no idea who is who. Frankly, she looks a little bit like Steph had a lot of fun with the entire cast of Sims 4 and then had a baby.

4) On top of everything, the new Max, however, probably now goes as Maxine, is teaching her Polaroid skills at a university. Now we know we are in an alternative universe all along. I hope the tuition matches the useful photography skill set you obtain there.

5) For any other reason unknown, she can dress up as Chloe, who can be dead (see the Ultimate edition). I know Max has a long tradition of dressing up as dead people, but I hoped it would go away with her Botox and other plastic corrections. But hey, we survived Chloe dressing up as Rachel and cosplaying as her dad, too, so I guess I shouldn't even be surprised. Not that it's a low-budget movie, and they have a limited wardrobe. It's a video game, but the tradition of having a mental stroke is still strong.

6) Oh no, another murder I gotta solve! I shall use my powers. Why now? Is it another girlfriend who is into printing photos? Or is it her student? Or both? Max becoming Jefferson would be a nice twist, even if not loved among the community, but I don't think it would get anywhere that dark. It just will get stupid.

7) This is supposed to be a fanservice a little too late and on the wrong foot. I know y'all missed Max. I didn't, but I understand the hype on seeing her on the screen. Although following a teenager in Arcadia Bay was interesting, simply by the shot of nostalgia with every step, here we are following a middle-aged single art teacher (or someone who looks middle-aged to the point that they decided on fixing their face). NO ONE WANTS TO FOLLOW THEIR ART TEACHERS WHAT THE ACTUAL FUCK.

8) The Nazi problem (well, well, well, the turntables). I know DeckNein had to do some cleanup among their staff. I hope they did, but somehow, I doubt it was done for the right purpose. Therefore, I'm uncomfortable giving them any of my money, now or ever. I know, there are worse studios. I know it's stupid, but LIS was always special, filled with this little genuine spark. It just doesn't feel right.

9) The game has the worst UI in the history of modern gaming.

10) And to finish my rant on something even worse, LIS4 is coming just before DontNod's new game, most likely to compete with it on the market. A bit sus, don't you think?

Anyway, dick move, my friends. All of it. Actually, waving dicks around in the air all along. Despite our differences, this ain't right. And God knows how much worse it could be.

[learnfromwebtoons]

Lesson 11 - Clothes Make The Characters

Today’s Lesson: Clothes Make The Characters

Today’s Teacher: Swolemates by LummyPix

Hi, I'm back! And by back I mean I had an idea for a lesson and have returned to impart it to the masses before disappearing back into my cave.

I've been reading Swolemates by LummyPix and generally enjoying it- the jokes are generally pretty funny and the story, a college comedy about a gamer jock and the influencer next door, is genuinely unique for the platform. And of the three main gripes I have with it, two of them are minor nitpicks (the character names are all a few letters off from names an actual person might have, the desaturated color palette makes everyone's skin look slightly gray), but one is, I think, more broadly applicable to other comics as well.

Clothing.

Making a comic is hard because in addition to being a writer and a draftsperson, you have to also be a prop designer, actor, set designer, colorist, cameraman, and costumer all in one. That last role in particular is missing from Swolemates, where all of the characters are first year college students that wear plain T-shirts, tank tops, and sweatpants all the time.

I've been reading a lot of Derek "Menswear Guy' Guy's tweets lately, like many people, and one of the ideas he brings up a lot is that clothing is a language. Your outfit communicates things about you to the people who see you: information about your status, occupation, and personality. A comic that doesn't pay attention to the clothing the characters wear is missing out on an opportunity to tell the reader additional information about their characters, which I feel like is happening here.

The reader is told that Dani is a Popular Girl and Shaye is Alt/Nerdy, and while their hair and makeup reflects those characteristics, their clothing does not. Most of the time, every single character is wearing a plain, solid-color T-shirt. Nobody ever wears a pattern or a shirt with a graphic or text on it.

You don't! You look like a video game avatar someone stopped customizing after they finished the hair and face! Which is worse!

The makeover arc the above screenshot comes from is not used for the traditional makeover arc reason of showing the reader the protag in many cute outfits, but to allow Alex and Shaye to bond more and show how Alex is so fit and buff regular pants don't fit her. Which is a missed opportunity to find Alex clothes she looks good in that fit her personal style and aesthetic, and that would distinguish her from the rest of the cast.

The desaturated color palette doesn't help either.

After this sequence, Alex and Dani both go right back to wearing plain solid-color t-shirts, and occasionally tank tops. The makeover and Dani's interest in fashion are both fleeting and temporary.

A simple change that would increase the realism of everyone's outfits and add personality would be to put graphics on the shirts. Shaye could wear anime merch, Alex could wear video game shirts, Dani could wear college merch. If there's one thing I know about college student fashion, it's that everyone ends up wearing shirts they got for free from their school at random events, and nerdy kids wear shirts about the things they like (as a comics major at art school, I found myself in multiple classes where every single student was wearing a shirt from a comic/movie/game they like.)

A more involved change would be to assign everyone a general color palette they tend to wear and make sure they wear things with patterns, prints, and accessories, at least occasionally. Shaye could wear skinny jeans, Docs, band wristbands. Alex could wear streetwear that is both comfortable for her and reflects her video game interests.

The makeover sequence also serves to communicate to the reader that the creator is not personally interested in fashion or clothes and will not be considering them in this comic, which is a real shame because, like I said, clothing is an opportunity to show readers more about what kind of people these characters are, and is an important part of character design. The clothes people wear are often not even about what's currently fashionable (especially these days, with current trends cycling faster than a washing machine), but out of a desire to signal that you belong to a particular group. Like how finance bros all wear those fleece vests, and fans of musicians wear shirts from their concerts.

It's easy to feel intimidated by the amount of history and possibilities fashion opens up in regards to character design, so creators who aren't personally interested in fashion might try to avoid thinking about it because it's easier that way. But if you take the time to do a bit of research and think a bit about what your characters would actually wear, it will pay off.

Also, as a practical consideration, iconic clothes a character wears could become merchandise for your comic later on!

Exercise: Now it's your turn to give your characters a wardrobe overhaul! Draw your characters in their underwear as a base, copy paste that base several times, and draw a few outfits over it. Try to come up with at least 3 daily wear outfits, what the character wears to sleep, a formal look and a first date look. Think about what your characters value in clothing-- comfort, showing off, expressing their personality, belonging to a subculture? Where do your characters get their clothes- do they go shopping with friends, do their parents pick them out, are they wearing a school or work uniform whenever we see them and if so how do they customize that uniform, if they do customize it? Also consider color schemes and recurring motifs.

Webtoon Recs: I want to recommend Cursed Princess Club again because it's not a comic about fashion in any way, but it uses the characters' clothing to communicate information extremely effectively. Everyone's outfits communicate where they're from and what their position is. Everyone from the Pastel Kingdom wears pastels, everyone from the Plaid Kingdom wears plaid, everyone from the Geometric Kingdom wears shapes. Calpernia's crown has a net attached to it to allude to her spider-themed curse. The major characters are also clearly color coded, making it easy to keep track of them in a busy scene. Gwen is green (and her love interest Frederick is a darker green plaid), Lorena is lavender, Maria is powder blue, Jamie is pink. The way they dress reflects their personalities as well, and when special events like balls happen their outfits for those events also help communicate the characters' personalities.

It's not necessary to focus entirely on fashion and clothes to create outfits for your characters that help tell your story better! Also Cursed Princess Club is just extremely good all around.

A comic that is about fashion and using clothes to express yourself (but also about teen drama and gender/sexuality) that I enjoy is Acception. The main character is a fashion/sewing youtuber who befriends a goth girl in his class, but not everyone around him is as interested in fashion as he is. The goth girl's brother, for example, dresses much more casually and simply than she does, and the character designs for everyone slowly change over the course of the comic as people get different haircuts or teenage growth spurts, or decide to try something new with their style as they get older. I especially like how Iris's outfits frequently incorporate butterfly shapes as something she likes to wear.

It's cute and funny, and puts a lot of thought into its details despite having a simpler art style than many webtoons.

Clothes are an important part of character design, and too many people neglect to think as much about them as they should.

[fightabear]

okay i just got home from atlantic entertainment expo and i need to share the highlight of my con. also hi @amtrax i cannot believe you found me here

so! last year i started tabling at conventions. last year's Atlantic Entertainment Expo was my first one ever. i absolutely love doing this and getting to meet fellow creatives, and i try to make it a point to create something for creators & actors whose work really impacted me as a way of giving back. and like it feels like (to me, this is not reflective of reality but the imposter syndrome) giving a teacher a stick figure drawing they're just going to put on the fridge. but it's the smallest way to show appreciation for the work they've done that's made my life better.

the second i heard that austin lee matthews, motorcycle master of midgar himself, was coming to one of my local conventions up here in the ass end of canada, i was excited. immediately knew i had to make something special because roche was one of my very favorite things about remake and i'll quote his big bombastic speech patterns when i'm trying to psyche myself up to deal with difficult clients at the day job.

so i make my little roche charms, set one aside and keep it on me, and go about my con weekend - and end up being so busy i can't slip away. i check his table a few times when its slow but i keep missing him, so i just resolve to get it to him tomorrow or send one of my friends.

and an important part of this story is i am terrible with recognizing people from photographs. like... once i actually meet someone in person that information is locked and loaded but i don't remember faces from photo promos.

(i have a story where i didn't recognize adam croasdell who stopped by to talk to me during setup last year, which was my first year of doing cons & i was so busy trying to get everything set up and i didn't recognize him because i was so deep in 'oh god what am i doing' and that is going to haunt me)

near to the end of the day i'm working on a client's commission and someone comes up to my table and waits incredibly patiently as i'm trying to muddle through some EOD burnout. sometimes people just come up and watch me draw so it can be kind of hard to tell if someone's just vibing or waiting for my attention (and my helper had disappeared into the ether so i was Very Whelmed) so when i finally turn, incredibly apologetic and awkward because oh god they were so patient and were waiting way too long, this guy is still beaming. i'm just like! i'm so sorry, is there anything i can help you with? and he just grins and says,

"oh i just wanted to come by and say," and then immediately drops into the roche voice, "HELLO MY FRIEND!"

AND WHEN I TELL YOU I LOSE IT. i immediately apologize to the client because i just need to give this man the thing i made, so i grab the charm and offer it and just start gushing. we get to chat a little bit - i don't even remember i was just so excited - but i have a client waiting. so i assume he's going to disappear into the crowd because - this is taking so much time.

but austin just stands there as i finish the commission... which takes longer than planned! i don't even know how long he was there. he's super supportive the entire time, making comments about my art, and when the commission is done and the client leaves.

so! he buys a vincent charm and then shows me the adorable promptis print he bought from another table and is just like a goddamn ray of sunshine the entire time. he also tipped which he absolutely did not need to do. again - incredibly enthusiastic and excited just to be there and be around fellow fans. it made my entire weekend. we get to talk a little more before i text my next one to let them know i'm ready for them.

i didn't get nearly as much time as i wanted to because man if someone every radiated golden retriever best friend energy, it's austin. literally everyone i spoke to who interacted with him was so taken.

he stopped by again near the end of the day yesterday when i had a line again so i didn't get to talk, but then he dropped that he'd found my tumblr (i'm sure my face was a perfect mask of horror, i pretend to be a professional artist & adult on twitter and here is where i radiate my feral rat gremlin energy) and i am going to finish the extra surprise i was working on and add more to it because - sincerely - made my convention and turned what could have been a very stressful situation into a wonderful memory. my literal only regret is that i forgot my ultimanias at home (along with half of my setup, crying into my hands) because i wanted to get those signed.

Austin, i will bring my awkward ass to your dms once i've recovered from con crunch, but sincerely if you are ever on PEI or get the hankering to go during the summer season, please hit me up. my family has a little cottage by the beach (not to be confused with a cabin in the woods) that is welcome and free for friends to use (in the least parasocial way possible, welcome to the island. after like two good conversations with someone you're buddies). i love the island, i love sharing what i love about it, and i hope this weekend made it clear that the island loves you.

( also if you ever have any art needs that require... whatever in the hell my style is please know i am here )

my god. i cannot emphasize how much i love doing conventions. the vibes, the excitement, all of the connections. realizing people are getting to be regulars and i recognize them from con to con and i get to ask them about how their year was while i draw and get to celebrate the good and try to offer whatever i can to balance out the bad.

my heart is so full right now.

also!! if anyone is still reading this rambling post, please check out @palletteknife. this isn't final fantasy related i am just absolutely obsessed with their work and spent like all sunday showing people this fantastic carrie charm they made ITS SO CUTE AND HORRIFYING AND THE STYLE IS AMAZING

[comfort-writing]

Crayons and Cassettes

Chapter 7: Kindergarten Graduation

You are a kindergarten teacher. Eddie’s daughter, Sage, is in your class. Sage finally graduates from your class.

warnings: this fic will be 18+ in later chapters- minors DNI!! no use of y/n. (please let me know if I missed anything)

a/n: a short but important chapter! btw idk why the cover art has a weird filter on some of the pics- it wouldn’t let me remove it so please bear with me. I am a humble writer, not a graphic designer lol. canva is a bitch. anyways, enjoy! let me know in the comments or my asks if you want to be added to the tag list! requests are open!

word count: 2k

Chapter 1 || 2 || 3 || 4 || 5 || 6 || 7 || 8 || 9 || 10 || 11 || 12 || 13 || 14 (coming soon!)

After the party, you been trying to schedule time for yourself to relax or take a break. You originally didn’t think it would help with your anxiety because you thought that while you were ‘relaxing’, you’d be worried about work, but once you allowed yourself to shut your brain off, the breaks really helped your anxiety.

Throughout April, you helped your kids do everything they’d needed, and by May, you’d gotten news that every single one was going to pass your grade. You called Eddie that night, excitedly explaining that all your kids, including Sage, did an excellent job. You finished out the semester, relieved and proud of their accomplishments.

On the last day of school, Hawkins Elementary held a kindergarten graduation. All the parents and families were invited, and the kids had their very own tiny caps and gowns in emerald green and gold. You’d printed out certificates, writing small stories and well wishes on the back of each one so when they grew older, they could look back and read about what they were like at such a young age.

The morning of their graduation, you’d dressed in a kind of casual black dress and platform sandals. You wore rainbow clay earrings for a pop of color, and had your hair tied up in a clip. Today was supposed to be a little more dressy, as there would be lots of photos and parents, so you’d wanted to make a good, lasting impression.

You got to school early that morning, tidying up your classroom and finishing up the portfolios of all of your students work that they’d completed during the year. You’d kept all the projects, knowing that some parents would like to keep these things forever. You’d packed the portfolios into a rolling bin, and headed down to the cafeteria, ready to help set up for the day.

You, along with the other kindergarten teachers, the principal, and a janitor, cleaned up the cafeteria, set out snacks and coffee, and made sure the sound system was working. The principal had brought a Polaroid camera to take photos of the kindergarten class, so you helped him set it up and test it out. You’d made a silly face as he snapped a photo, and once it developed, the two of you laughed and were ready for everyone to come in.

You opened the doors to the cafeteria, propping them open, then opened the access doors near by so the parents could walk in. There were already a few waiting, so you welcomed them as they walked in. You then guided the kindergarteners to the ‘backstage’ area, or really, just behind a small space behind the curtains on the small stage, and helped them zip their gowns over their clothes and place the caps on their heads. Once they were ready, you instructed them to find their name on the tape on the risers and sit in their spots, to which they complied.

It felt bittersweet, helping all the kids you’d helped mould over the past year for the last time. You’d still see them, of course, in the hallways and in town, but this was your last time being their teacher.

Around 9am, all the kindergarteners were in place and the parents had settled into the cafeteria tables, so you, along with Mrs. Robinson, gathered your little diplomas and stood near the middle of the stage as the principal began his speech, kicking off graduation.

He discussed how much the kids had grown and learned during the year, and how proud he was of their hard work, as well as yours. He continued on and talked about how he looked forward to working with the kids next year, and how he hoped he’d never see them in his office, which got a laugh from the parents.

He then began to read off the names in alphabetical order, and each child walked across the stage, received a little diploma from you or Mrs. Robinson, and took a photo with their respective teacher. After the photo, you hugged every one of your students, and instructed them to go back to their seat on the riser.

When Sage’s name was called, you heard Eddie whoop loudly, and Sage ran to you, hugging you so tight it took your breath away. You laughed and hugged her back before taking your photo and sending her back to her seat.

Once all the names had been called, the kids all stood and took a class photo, then moved their tassels from one side to the other. The parents and staff clapped and cheered, then the students were dismissed to their parents. The principal made a small announcement to see the teachers for their portfolios and to distribute their individual photos.

You’d set everything up on a table, and began placing their photos on top of their portfolios. You greeted each parent, discussing how well each of their respective children did and that you’d hoped that you’d see them in the fall.

Eddie made his way over to your table, holding Sage in one of his arms and her little cap in the other. Her curly hair was a bit of a mess from the cap, and he set it on the table to mess over her hair to fix it. You smiled and greeted him, like you would any other parent, still trying to seem casual in public for now. He went along with it, knowing the drill by now.

Sage pouted, “I don’t wanna go to first grade.”

Eddie laughed, “Well, kiddo, I really want you to.” Only the two of you knew what that really meant. “You wanna grow up big and smart like your teacher?” He asked

Sage sighed and buried her head in Eddie’s neck, mumbling a small, “Yeah.” You and Eddie chuckled at that.

“Here’s her portfolio. It has all of the work she’s done this year. You can keep it or throw it away- but it might be nice to have when she’s older.”

Eddie nodded and took it from you gladly, along with the photo of you and Sage. He smiled fondly at the picture. Sage had a huge smile across her face, and you looked gorgeous. He wanted to frame it and keep it forever.

“Thanks.” He smiled. “Can I call you if I have any questions about registration for next semester?” He asked. The two of you spoke in code at this point.

“Of course.” You smiled.

He hugged Sage close and whispered at her to say goodbye to you, to which she looked up sadly and gave the tiniest, saddest wave in the world. You placed your hand over your heart, thinking the scene was so sad and cute, then said goodbye to Eddie. He turned and walked out of the cafeteria, Sage still pouting into his shoulder as he reassured her that she would see you soon.

You turned back and got the rest of the parents and kids sent off on their way, then cleaned up with the staff. You walked back to your classroom, feeling the emptiness of the hallways, and sighed once you entered. You erased the board completely, gathered the rest of your things, then turned out the lights and locked the door on the way out.

Once you arrived home, you walked in the door and heard the phone ringing. You quickly rushed over, picking it up.

“Hello?”

“Can I come over?” Eddie asked, sounding like a little kid on Christmas morning.

You laughed, “Right now? Aren’t you spending the day with Sage?”

“She’s with Wayne. He got the day off work to spend it with her. So, can I?”

“Are you sure? You don’t need some alone time to brood? Your kid just graduated kindergarten.” You teased.

He groaned, “You’re absolutely going to be the death of me. Please.”

You giggled. “Alright, Eddie. You can come ove-“

He hung up the phone as soon as he’d received your confirmation, and you held the receiver to your ear, listening to the dial tone for a minute before cackling. You knew what was about to happen. You couldn’t help but be excited, but geez, this guy was chomping at the bit. His excitement made you giddy too, though.

About ten minutes passed, and you were sitting on your couch, feeling a bit anxious, but not in a bad way. You tapped your foot on the floor, petting Pencil for reassurance. You heard his van screech into your driveway, and in under a minute he was knocking fervently on your front door.

You laughed and yelled, “It’s open!” Within seconds, he was walking into your house. He was beaming, and he kicked his shoes off quickly before practically jogging to where you were on the couch. Pencil scurried off, and Eddie plopped down next to you, facing your direction.

“Will you go out with me?” He asked quickly, smiling and out of breath, getting right to the point.

You laughed and pretended to contemplate it, “Hmm… I don’t know… I’m not so sure. I might have met this guy who wants to take me off into the sunset or something?” You joked.

He groaned and grabbed your shoulders, smiling like a mad man, “You are infuriating!” He laughed, shaking you lightly.

You laughed too, loudly and genuinely. After a moment, you looked into Eddie’s beautiful, brown eyes and smiled, “Yes, Eddie. I will totally go out with you.”

He melted in front of you and leaned forward, kissing you like a man starved. You couldn’t help but giggle against his lips as you attempted to kiss him back, wrapping your arms around his shoulders. The two of you shared a giddy kiss, not being able to hold yourselves together. After a while, the two of you separated and he sat back a little, calming down from all the excitement. “God, this school year was way too long.”

“I agree. Let’s make sure Sage is never in my class again.”

Eddie nodded, chuckling and wincing, holding his ribs, as they were sore from laughing too much.

You smiled and leaned onto his shoulder, “So, where are you taking me, Romeo?”

He laid his head on top of yours. “Anywhere. Everywhere.”

You smiled as he grabbed your hand and squeezed it gently. You noticed how small yours felt in comparison. “I mean for our first date.”

“You’ll see. Does tonight sound okay?” He asked.

“Wow, jumping right on into it, aren’t we?” You teased.

“We’ve wasted enough time being all secretive. I’m ready to show you off.” He smiled.

“What if the date doesn’t go well?” You asked, squeezing his hand.

“Well, we’ve got about a million more to go on, so the first one doesn’t have to be perfect.” He explained, squeezing yours back. “But it will be. Trust me.”

You nodded and hummed, enjoying his company for a while before asking, “What do I wear?”

“Something pretty nice, but comfortable.”

You nodded, not really knowing what to expect from him. The two of you stayed cuddled up on the couch for about half an hour before he sighed and made a move to get up. You released him, though you weren’t happy about it.

“Sorry, beautiful, but I’ve got to go. I have a hot date tonight.” He smiled, standing up.

“Oh yeah, with who?” You smirked.

He bent down and kissed you chastely, “Just the most amazing girl I’ve ever met. It’s tonight at 8.”

You couldn’t fight the blush that rose in your cheeks and you shoved him away gently, “You’re such a sap.”

“Yeah. You like me, though, so what does that make you?”

“Touché.” You glared.

He threw you a wink before slipping his shoes back on and leaving your house.

Finally. It was all starting to click into place.

Tag List: @mcueveryday @bebe0701 @emma77645 @edsforehead @manda-panda-monium @nina211544

[popcornforone]

The Speed of Silence

Mr Ben Fan Fic

I didn’t plan on going back to Mr Ben for a while. The SNL hype had dropped & I was in deep writing some other drafts I had on going. & then @alwaysdjarin tagged me in someone’s twitter post going write a scenario based on a certain idea a moot had. Here I am 12 days later publishing it.

I don’t like to big up my work but there’s a paragraph in here that I wrote & when I reread it I was like damn I wrote that. Also yes I know the book shelf picture is Rockford but it was part of the inspiration for this, so I wanted to include it.

Synopsis: Mr Ben is rumoured every year to be dating the popular girls at university, so why would he ever look at you. But then a few chance meeting & a late night study session in the library, make you both think about making those rumours true.

Word count: 5,700

Warnings: DO NOT READ IF YOU ARE UNDER 18!college professors student relationship (but you are not his student) protected PIV sex, public sex, swearing, pining, unrequited love, choking & muffling, rough, teasing flirting kissing. Eventual established relationship.

All feed back as always is welcome peoples… thanks for the read. It’s really appreciated

10pm the clocks slowly tocks past, headphones on, another coffee poured, in the university library trying to write you appendix for your art portfolio your handing in tomorrow. You knew when you looked all these artists & photographers up for inspiration you should have written down who inspired you. But no it’s now 10pm & you’re missing 8 references to submit along with your sight & sound presentation.

You know full well you don’t need the references though. Your photographs you have of traffic moving at night almost leaping out the page at you & your puddle reflection of what life should be like in the city instead for he chaos it is, speak for themselves. No matter who walks past your screen at the moment even if they don’t do the subject for your degree, just stops & does a double take. Your creation is the talk of the university be it pupils & staff or teaches.

But there’s one who’s taken a particular interest. He not your teacher. He teaches Philosophy about 5 class rooms away but he shares an office with your art & photography professor Jane. You are often popping in the office to book additional time or ask to use the larger printer. It was once when you were waiting for Jane to bring some resources back that he came in & started a conversation with you.

“So your little miss photoshop?” He says as he saw you waiting for her to return. “That I am professor, Jane has just gone to get something for me that I don’t have the funds to print off, I’ll be out of your office in 5minutes.” “Ooooh no…” he says with a slight smirk as he pops his bag on the back of the door “I’ve heard so much about this art, I want to see it what makes it so special, why is yours the talk of the campus”. He adjusts his large framed dark glasses. LIt’s nothing really I…” “you can’t say that without letting me judge it, please•”he waves a hand as he pours his coffee & casually leans against the back wall “I’m most intrigued”.

His eyes sparkle at you. You’re not sure there’s a brown rich enough to ever try & replicate those on any art software, they are unforgettable once you’ve made eye contact. Which you just have. It’s for all of a passing second but you’re lost, so so lost in them. You’re never getting out of this trance ever. He must see you blush as he very quickly moves away from leaning & fidgets. You go to your carry folder & produce 4 drafts of your work in progress, about The Speed of Silence & start to explain what it means & why you’ve done it. He stands there nodding hanging on every word you say agreeing & asking your different techniques. He really in engaged in your art & is mesmerised by it, like you with him.

He lowers his hand to ask a question & your hand brushed over his sending chills down your spine, it’s just the slightest feather touch but it’s enough to make you want more. He then takes his hand & rests it on top of yours. You both freeze & gulp, both unsure what to do next. “Professor i…” “shhhh it’s okay I think we…” he’s edged in your personal space, his head slowly drawing close to you, when You both hear the door click & Jane humming to herself so you break the look & return to showing him your art. “Ahhh here you are my sweet, sorry the lift was broken that’s why it took a while. Oooh Ben you’re here. Help me sort these out for her so she can take what she needs” & I pause in a fluster. My breath caught in my throat, my palms sweating instantly. This isn’t just some professor, this is Mr Ben!

Mr Ben every year at university, there is a rumour he’s dating a popular blonde student. It’s kind of mythology, & he goes along with the joke & plays up to it. But no one has ever actually seen him with a partner inside or outside of campus. If he is dating the blonde from the football team as she claims he is, or the brunet from drama he’s hiding it well. He’s not dating Jane, you all met her wife on the field trip to the Andy Warhol museum. But here you are standing in Bens shared office having just had a genuine moment with the man most men & women on campus would give an arm to do… & you did it without even realising.

You’re snapped out of your trance by the voice of Jane eventually “just because your art works at so many rates per second, doesnt mean you can slow down & daydreaming to” “sorry miss I just had a random though & my mind wondered” “maybe if you’ve got a wandering mind, you should sit in on a philosophy class?” Ben asks with a smile on his face that makes you feel weak. He’s biting his pencil & looking at you suggestively “…I…I… I really should get going” you sigh once you’ve taken what you need from Jane & your portfolio is back into your art folder. “It was lovely to meet you professor…” “it’s Mr Ben but please just call me Ben” he extends his hand which you take & shake. Large & firm & also just the right feel to it. It’s only once you get back to your room that you realise in your art portfolio & resources, that Ben had slipped his business card in there, with his office number & email.

You didn’t email him for 2 weeks & you actively asked Jane in her classes for supplies or support. You wanted to avoid Ben for as long as you could, hoping you had dreamed up the meeting & the stolen moments you had shared. He had filled your dreams since that precious glance & you didn’t want to fall further under his charm. Avoiding him you thought would help but it’s just made it worse. However fate lead to your paths crossing, not at campus but at the Metropolitan Museum of Art. You were in the gift shop looking at post cards scanning for ideas for your silent part of your art, when he walked past & turned back almost doing a double take as he went to leave”miss photoshop what a pleasant surprise, what brings you to the met on this wet winter afternoon?” He leans next to the display as he engages in conversation with you. His coat looks warm & cozy even if a little damp due to the rain, but his hair is in pristine place & his glasses are either missing or replaced with contacts making those eyes even larger “I need something for the silence part of my project sir, but I’m having a hard time picking it, so I came to watch people look at art in silence to see if that gave me inspiration but it hasn’t”

“That’s a shame” he says “let me buy you a coffee & we can people watch together if you want” “I’m sorry what professor?” You say in shock “it’s just Ben,” he offers his hand “I encourage all my students at least once a month to go people watch & come up with pretend story’s for who people might be that walk past them, it’s like a window to their own soul as they try to guess others.” “Did you just quote Man Ray?” You ask “because then I’ll take you up on that coffee & we can talk art & photography while we people watch.” The smile on Bens face is infectious. Gone is that moody professor who people gossip about. The person in front of you now is a man & clearly at least a friend, you both have a connection with the other. “I’m happy to talk art & people watch, it would be an honour.”

You start off people watching in silence sipping coffee unsure what to say to each other or about the people. The tension is palpable. & then someone with a Star Wars bag walks past you & you ask Ben “rebel, sith or jedi?” & that’s all it takes. For the next hour you both sit there talking about where all these people are going & what’s happening with their lives, sipping coffee & laughing. It’s only when his phone rings & it’s on loud that people shhh you both & he answers it. “Sorry, I have to go” he says. “But this has been fun, much better to sit here & talk with someone else & people watch than do it on your own” he says as he stands & you notice how tall & long he is. “thank you for the coffee Ben, as much as this was fun, it didn’t provide the spark I need for the silence I need for my project.” “Maybe inspiration will hit you a different way.” He replied & grabs your hands to help you up, almost pulling you into his chest. You can feel as your hand is wrapped around his wrist that his pulse has spiked. You both stand in silence for a few minutes & then shuffle awkwardly unsure what to both do next. At the end of the day you might not be his student but he’s still a professor at your college. You, against everything your body & heart are screaming out for more, decide not to act on your own needs & wants.

You both head outside the museum & it’s still raining. “Do you want to share a cab?” Ben asks in a friendly way “thanks Ben but I’m off to a friends now, i’ll get the subway but I’m sure we will bump back into each other soon” you blush trying to hide his affect on you. “Have it your way I’ll see you soon, I hope you work out your project” he waves a friendly good bye & goes to get in the taxi but he’s still distracted by your big smile & doesn’t see where he puts his foot. “bollocks” Ben shouts. He stepped in a deep puddle before shrugging at you & then gets into the taxi which speeds off. But in that reflection you see in the puddle from the ripples, the grey sky & lights of the city reflect back to you. The madness of the city being so calm & reflective in one tiny puddle. Ben has given you the inspiration for the other half of your project without even trying.

You don’t go to your friends, you head straight for the high line, one of your favourite places in New York & you start taking picture of the rain falling, the puddles forming & slow silent reflections gleaming back at you. It’s almost to perfect the mixture of architecture, nature & photography. It’s too good to be true. You don’t care that you are drenched to the bone & will be sick for 3 days in the next week, this is the perfect calming yang to your traffics ying. It going to look phenomenal.

You have every week since then gone to a different museum to see if Ben is there to people watch with, & you’ve also been popping into the office to discus your art with Jane, talking to Ben a few times. You’ve not yet told him he’s part of your inspiration for this, you will do before the presentation at the end of term. But you & Ben now have a close friendly relationship. He says hi when he sees you walking about & you have slight giggles & little jokes with each other. All harmless fun, but there are still moments when your eyes meet that you can’t deny to yourself, that you would like to be who the rumours are about. He always asks about your art & has asked Jane who it’s all going for you too. You hope he puts in this much dedication with his actual students.

10 days ago however your world crumbled. There was a rumour Ben was dating a student in the first year. As someone in their final year, you’ve heard all these story’s before & know they aren’t true. But you heart just feels like it’s shattered. Everything you had hoped for that you might have one day with Ben has gone. You remember this is just everyone’s fantasy & it won’t be happening to you any time soon. The student is what he’s always rumoured to go for, athletic, bit ditsy, blonde & stick thin. Not someone with blue streaks through their black hair, a squishy nose who could probably eat that girl as she’s so skinny for diner. You are heart broken from the relationship you’d secretly wanted more from, even though you hadn’t been brave enough to act on it. You bury your head into your art & try to not think about it at all.

You’ve seen Ben since this day & been nice to him, but you just feel a little lost. It is just a fantasy, everyone wants for Mr Ben to be there’s. To have a few stolen moments but you were sure it might slightly happen to you but it hasn’t. So you’ve plowed on with & burrowed your head in your art portfolios & are now just hours away from your deadline in the library, referencing as much as you can ready to hand in your appendix in the morning. It’s only when your music pauses in your ears, that you realise someone is sat in the chair next to you, with their own cup of coffee. You can tell from the hand on your music player alone, exactly who it is.

“Ben” you say not having to whisper at 10pm, as you remove your headphones. There’s all of 8 students in here all with their own headphones in. “It’s late what are you doing here?” You ask. You’re startled but also instantly calm that he is here & he is looking so handsome. The tie he is often seen wearing isn’t on, the glasses dark frame matching his dark black shirt & his selves are rolled up. He looks at you with genuine concern & affection in hope to help you with whatever it is you are doing. “Late night study group with my second years, 6 of them just haven’t understood the last 3 essays I’ve asked them to write or read, so we did a coffee & cake night. I think 4 of them have finally got it though, I always think it helps to share the problem, no matter what it is.” Ben takes your hand, that large thumb trailing over your knuckles, what you wish you could do with that thumb. “So I was walking past & thought I’d pop in to see who was in the library this late, & who do I see…you, little miss photoshop, with your head in a pile of books & websites, not actually creating. Is everything okay?” He ask, your eyes meeting & you do everything you can to look back at your work from this handsome distraction, but he lifts his hand to the side of your face to turn you back to face him as he softly whispers “seriously, your amazing, your perfect, I’ll do anything”.

That’s all it takes. You lean in touching his face in return & tentatively take his lips with your own. He’s a-gasp, shocked at your advanced. He can feel all the butterfly’s you have felt for the last few months since you met him. You’re electrified & then you very quickly break away from your embrace & look back at your laptop & not at Ben, but you can still feel him on your lips & how he made you feel like you were going at a million miles an hour but also completely still much like your photographs. “Shit” you mumbled “Ben I…” you don’t get a chance to apologise, Ben has turned your face back towards him & is engaging in the next kiss. He’s hungry like he’s waited for this for ages, like he’s willing to break all the rules to have a few stolen moments with you but he wishes he could have more. Your of age & an adult & not his actual student, he’s not that much older than you. He wants this but he has so many conflicting things going on in his mind right now, as do you. But you are both desperate for each others touch. This kiss is the best you have ever had. No man or woman has ever made you feel this good from just one kiss.

“Sorry” he says “I just had to be sure I wasn’t dreaming”. His words come out breathy as he pants. “I should go…””No!” You shout & realise it was quite loud for a library even when there is no one really here. “Please stay, your presence calmed me when I realised it was you” Bens half way out of his chair unsure if he should sit back down or go home. He wants to stay & distract you from your appendix, In so many ways. It’s all he thought about since he met you. Those few stolen moments in his office, your little smirk at the museum, the way your hands are so expressive when you talk. He noticed every single detail & he is desperate to make a go of this. He looks in your eyes & he can see the same desire & longing being directed back to him. He has to make the choice for the both of you.

“Grab your laptop & books & come with me” he states,”there’s better wifi else where in the library, it will make attaching your appendix faster & then we can talk”. Ben goes to pick up his mug & yours & raises an eyebrow at you. You know deep down that this isn’t going to be studying, you know you’re actually going to be the girl the university gossips about & if it’s true or not. “Okay Ben, I’m almost there though I’ve got 8more…” But Bens hand doesn’t go for your mug & you are interrupted. His large hand strokes across your chin before his thumb that you have often wondered what it would feel like, traces over your lips. You gasp & instantly become aroused. It’s so flat & soft & it make you want to suck it & beg for some of his other fingers else where. “Ben” you moan as his hand moves away. You hit save & collect you items putting them in your 2 bags & grab his hand, while making sure no one is watching you sneak off with a professor.

Ben doesn’t even check, he wants you & he needs you. The second your hand entwines with his, he is off at a speed your art is. He take you to the back of the library which is dimly lit & is where all the media & art books are. “Oooh you actually wanted to help Ben, I didn’t realise.” You feel a little flat thinking Ben has no intention of doing anything other than be a professor at this moment. But the second both your bags are on the table between the two rows of bookshelves, Ben is hoovering over you. Eyes filled with desire, his breathing is short, & you can feel his wanting of you radiating from every inch of his body. He doesn’t need to say a word. You cup his face & kiss him deeply as he pushes you against a chair at the table. Those large hands of his, twisting your hair, before one moves down your back to rest just on your waist, so you can be pushed further into him. You never want to break this kiss. The way your body is responding to his, is magnetic. The way you moan & groan just from a simple deep kiss, one filled with all the lustful dreams you have ever had about Ben, just taking over your mouth & making you want more. You know you’re aroused, your pleasure is screaming for him to touch you even more. Ben is also trying so hard not to just cum in his trouser right now, he needs you to relieve his own pressure as he grows harder.

“I don’t know what happening” you eventually mumble as he starts to kiss your neck “but I’m happy it is” you both say at the same time & then both have a little giggle before his eyes meet yours again. “If you’re not comfortable with this…” Ben starts but you squeeze his arse through jeans which makes him yelp. “So we did have a moment when we first met then?” You ask him “oooh yes & I’ve been trying to work out since that moment if I would be in trouble for asking you on a date, your not my student, I’ve never asked any student out before or even kissed them, even if they have since left” this makes your heart flutter. All the myths about Ben are false, he’s squeaky clean & is a moral teacher to be looked up to. No affairs with any students at all, & then you remember why he’s saying this all to you. You’re about to become his exception to the rule & you really don’t care. You’re going to be the hearsay.

“Well technically we have been on a date at the museum…” “that doesn’t count” Ben replies “& for half of it we sat there in silence & it was a chance meeting” he lowers his head to whisper in your ear seductively “however if you’d have got in my taxi, it might have been another story” he peppers kisses down your neck “no it was destiny for your to leave without me. Where did you think I got my reflection art idea from Ben?” He pauses his kisses for 2 seconds as he goes “really?” Your shy nod through your blushes are as hot as the next kiss he gives you. It’s so powerful that he pushes you into the book case, which creaks. “Ben” you moan at his sudden movement from the table. “This is so intense, I…I” “shhh baby shhhh” his lips are still searching for yours & your chin, as his hands move to your hips, which are desperate for friction.

“I…I…I need you Ben, I need you & im not sure my body will allow me to wait to get back to my room or your place, maybe your office or…” but you her the clink of his belt being undone as he moves a hand so it’s leaning over you holding the book case “baby, I don’t think I can make it to my office. I wish wed had this moment sooner, so I could have taken you out on a date first. I wish I had known, I wish I had” “the signs were all there Ben” you moan back at him as you undo his fly, the zip sound wrong but so erotic “are you happy you want to do this?” You ask & your hands move to your leggins & knickers to roll them down in a second “im the man, I should be asking you?” He responds in a soft tone. “Are you sure?” He asks & his face for a nano second has turned serious asking for your consent. “Yes Ben I want this, I want you” is your clear response Consenting to his pleasure as you step out of both your leggins & knickers & he reaches into his back pocket to produce a condom. “Yes baby, I promise we will do this properly another time” he rolls his jeans & briefs down to just below his knees & you see him cover his impressive length with the protection.

Ben edges closer to you & starts to raise your dress ready for a clear & swift entrance inside you. “You… you are okay with this… this isn’t your first time?” Ben asks suddenly very much aware he’s about to have sex with a student in the university’s library & not everyone has had sex before “Ben I’d have been even more hesitant if it was, & I’m on the pill” is your response. A small smirk creeps across his face before his lips lock with yours & he pushes hard against you & the shelving. He teases you slightly before he pushing inside you. You moan loudly, he’s girthy & much larger than you have had before. It pinches & pushes all the air out of your lungs. “Beeeennnnn” you growl, feeling so full & satisfied already, desperate for more movement.

Ben doesn’t say a word. He just sighs & thrusts again & you whimper. Your mouth & jaw go slack at the most relaxed but also most sexy feeling you have ever experienced in the world. He lifts your right leg to wrap it around him for a better & more enjoyable for the both of you, his hand gripping your thigh firmly. This hand then moves up your body & towards your mound with the next couple of thrusts, before his thumb, that large thumb that was trailing across your lips, flicks at your bud, you instantly clamp around his cock & moan loudly “yessss Ben” & his other hand covers your mouth “shhhh baby we don’t want to get in trouble now do we, be quiet girl & we can have some fun” & his hips really start to move.

Who’d have thought Ben was so adventurous in not only wanting to have sex with a student, but to do it at 11pm at night, not just in public but in the library where he works & you study. He has thought about you & how your body would feel for months now, when you had sex. But here he is, his length pulsing inside your core making you want to make the most erotic noises in the world, as he drills into you, with his hand over your mouth “shhhhh baby we don’t want to get in trouble do we, save the moaning for another night” he says as he movements become larger & the book case starts to creak that he’s pushed you against harder.

Crash! the first book falls from the shelf with an almighty thump from how fast he is pushing you into the unit. It’s not even a small book. It’s Hockneys complete appendix of British culture. It’s a coffee table book. So if he is thrusting that hard at this early stage, how much faster is he going to go? Your eye glances down at it but then return back to those large dark Carmel’s that are dilating with every second , every pulse & every want he has to make you feel even more of a woman than you already are. He’s so large, he’s making you gasp for every breath. He is giving this all he’s got. “I know you want to moan my love, but keep it down okay” he removed his hand from your mouth, but not before he allows you to suck his thumb. “Ben oh Ben oh baby yes” I whisper trying to not sound so needy & desperate.

He moves with an impressive rhythm. The book case creaking & the occasional book hitting the floor is louder than your collective moans & panting. You feel every thrust inside you making you want so much more. Bens lips move from your face to your neck, sucking & pecking away at it. His hand is now towering over you for balance as he goes & he breathes heavier. Such a large hand capable you now know of many naughty things you can both explore. Your own hands are digging into his hips & shoulders as you try not to scream from pleasure. “Yes Ben” are the hushed tones coming from your mouth “baby oh baby,you’re so good” he replies back. Every time he thinks you are moaning too much, he slows down slightly & he kisses you back on the lips, to remind you to stay silent. The moan he makes as he pulls away & speeds up again is louder than the noise you were previously making.

“Fuck ooh yes, so close, you feel so good…” you’ve reached the point of no return, as these breathy high pitched words leave your mouth. His hips blistering into you, he’s almost there too. He grabs you around the throat which makes you gasp & also shuts you up. It’s not firm but you did not have Ben down for doing that. “Shhh baby, we’ll get in trouble”. He mumbles as 2 more large books fall out of the shelving “don’t…care…” you just about manage to get out before your rendered speechless by the next 3 thrusts that hit the spot & you let go. Your orgasm spiralling through your body. Ben lips shhh you as you go to scream yes. You bite into his bottom lip to try & keep your cry of pleasure down. He’s sent you over the edge. Bens rhythm falls out of sink & the deep shallow growl his voice makes into your mouth, happens as he fills the condom with him own cum. Slowly he stops his movements, & eventually the books stop falling & the shelving once again becomes silent.

You wrap your arms around Bens neck as you both open your eyes which you’d both closed while cuming. His eyes less filled with passion now but still so handsome & so dark & mesmerising. Panting & sighing happening between you both. His hand cups you cheek “you have the most beautiful eyes” you eventually manage to say to Ben & a small grin covers your face in your afterglow. “No I don’t” Ben replies “yours eclipse anyone’s with beauty, they really are the window to the soul” You bring his face into yours for another deep kiss, one full of hope & wanting more than this. Your hand goes up into his hair to caress his head as you make out continues.

“We need to clean this up” Ben say when you eventually break from your embrace & he shimmy’s his briefs & trousers back on after tying off his condom. “We don’t want to piss of the library team do we” you quickly put the books back between you & make sure everything is in as a correct place as possible. “Am I really the puddle inspiration?” Ben asks inquisitively as he adjusts his glasses. The glance from your eyes of pure love tells Ben the truth without you saying a word & he walks up to you & kisses you. “So I’m guessing tonight we created our own version of The Speed of Silence?” You muster once the kiss is over, never wanting to be far apart from those lips again. “You could say that” Ben smiles.

For the next month campus is full of gossip. There are rumours that there was sex in the library & that people heard books crashing & that no one been able to find that Hockney book since, but no one’s taken it out. As someone who doesn’t usually contribute & look like they pay attention to the rumours you find all this funny & really what you want to do, is tell people how right & wrong they are. No one has worked out the it was Ben or you or the both of you. You’ve had sneaky sex since, once in his lecture room when you did sit in on a class & twice in the art supply cupboard, but he’s yet to take you on that date he promised. Maybe all the rumours about Ben being a one off passionate lover were true.

However on the night of art & photography show case, things moved. You stand there explaining to your fellow student’s, alumni & teachers about your project when you hear a voice from behind you. “Why puddles?” Ben says & you turn around & you both beam at each other “whatever caused you to think of that must have had a really deep & meaningful impact on you” “yes it did professor…” you wink at him & Ben turns red & try’s to concentrate on the rest of your talk. Moving uneasily desperate for more.

Once the group you were talking to leaves, Ben slides in behind you “congratulations little miss photoshop, you are the talk of the campus, in more ways than one” His hand slips into yours, that large thumb tracing across your knuckles. “So are you Ben” I glance up towards his face. “I wish this was something more thorough, if I’m honest” you sound a little bit down despite this being your night to shine.

“& it will be” is Bens quick response & his eyes gesture to his bag, which he opens & you gasp. He has the missing Hockey book inside it. “Should we go return this, have a repeat performance & then I can take you out for dinner?” Ben ask. Eyes wide & seductive looking into your soul, once again making everything fly past so fast in your mind but also freezes you in time. You hand trails across his chin. “Took you long enough to ask Ben” He waits for someone to walk past before he kisses your forehead, & then takes your hand. “Your art speaks for itself, let’s go now & give the campus some real gossip to talk about” & Ben leads you out of the exhibition & back to the library, for your own private viewing.

[thatrickmcginnis]

JAMES TENNEY, Toronto 1989 + 1991

I hadn't heard of James Tenney when I was assigned to photograph him for Musicworks, a local art music journal, by Nancy, my old editor from Nerve magazine. (It's still around today.) Tenney was born in New Mexico and studied music with Carl Ruggles, John Cage, Harry Partch and Edgard Varese, and was a peer of Steve Reich and Philip Glass, performing in their ensembles. His work would be grouped in with movements like minimalism, process music, electronic music and plunderphonics, but in the '80s he was teaching composition at York University here in Toronto, which is where I photographed him, during and after one of his classes. I knew as soon as I took out my camera that I had a lot to work with - Tenney had a striking, rugged look, and my eyes were immediately drawn to the blackboard with its musical staff and the metal chairs stamped with "Music Dept". Tenney must have liked the results, because I have a record of him buying two of my prints a couple of months later.

My first portrait shoot with composer James Tenney was made during an uncertain time in my career, when my apprenticeship had ended and I was trying to make a living and establish a photographic style. By the time I had my second shoot with Tenney, precisely two years later, I was more confident and technically capable, and booked the session at my Parkdale loft, where I hoped I could achieve something more ambitious than our first shoot. I already knew that Tenney had a great image - a kind of Marlboro Man look that I wanted to accentuate even more with harder lighting and starker compositions. Of course my earlier pictures were an inspiration, and side by side they give some sense of how much my work had moved forward in two years.

My client for my second shoot with composer James Tenney was EAR magazine, another journal devoted to left-field and avant-garde music that had been publishing since 1973. If you don't remember the late '80s it was an exciting time if you were into weird, difficult music; there was a whole new audience for this sort of thing, from jazz to noise to oddball classical and art music, and EAR had become a glossy monthly with offices in New York's West Village above the Ear Inn. When I got my assignment to photograph James Tenney it had a sponsorship deal with Absolut Vodka, which helped pay for a series of CDs that would come with the magazine. Since I knew I was shooting the cover - my first ever glossy magazine cover - I decided to go all out, shooting with cross-processed slide film: it produced a look that seems very "period" to me now - high contrast and bright primary and secondary colours, and I had put a great deal of effort into mastering it.

I was very proud of the results, and of that cover, but unfortunately the magazine was going through ultimately fatal financial problems that would see it go out of business by the end of the year. It was the end of what I remember as an exciting time, culturally, and if I'm honest I still miss the excitement I felt during that period, which provided inspiration when I needed it badly. James Tenney's work is still studied and performed, and as a teacher he was a mentor to a whole generation of younger composers. He died of lung cancer in California in 2006.

[undeadorion-archive]

I can't believe that in just a month, I finally graduate with an AA (2 year) degree. It only took 5 attempts at 3 separate schools across the span of 20 years.

Problems started even before I enrolled. I wanted to study animation but no schools near me had it. But I also had no idea how to find exactly what each school offered (this was back in 2001/2002 when not everyone had a comprehensive website). One of the schools I applied to even sent me a letter because they were confused why I'd apply for a program they don't have.

I finally settled on Evergreen State College in Olympia to study art. Being my first experience, I didn't realize how craptacular the school itself was. You didn't sign up for a specific program like "fine art" or "graphic design." You instead picked from pre-packaged sets of classes called stuff like "Labyrinths" that had an English class, a drawing class, and a print making class all bundled together.

My mom had promised that if I got accepted to a school she'd help me pay for books (I'd taken a year off after high school and just stayed home). When I finally knew what I'd need, I took the list to her with the final amount and she looked me square in the eye and asked how I was going to pay for it.

That school lasted only a year. After multiple bedbug scares and dealing with the crunchiest hippie types you can imagine, I was done. I switched instead to a local community college. And that was fraught with issues. Evergreen didn't do normal grades. They instead gave you a lengthy review at the end of the term with no concise way to say how well you did. So the community college just told me my credits didn't transfer.

Come spring term, I was so frustrated, I ended up having a breakdown in the advising office because nothing was working out. She made one call and got my grades transferred, it had been a glitch all along. But now I had double credits for art and english, which was...frustrating. So I'd made zero progress with an additional year of debt because of 1 person's mistake at the beginning of the year.

Determined to make it through, I enrolled for fall classes. Then everything went to shit. I injured my knee and missed a bunch of classes. I was living with a grossly abusive older sister at my dad's house who I had to get away from. I was the only one with a car, so she thought it was a good idea for me to get up at 6am, drive her to work, come home, go back to bed, then get up for my classes. She also threw me to the floor when I was injured and laughed at the fact that I couldn't get up.

I ultimately dropped out of school and had to get a full time job. Which led to a very long break from school.

In 2016, I was finally able to return to school. I was going to study set design at a local university. They actually had a program for it! At least, they did when I'd started looking in 2014. But by the time I actually was able to enroll, they'd changed the structure so you could take classes in it but it was now a big vague soup of a theater degree where you made your own path.

Unfortunately, I got hit with a double whammy in the spring of 2017. First, the department was doing away with almost every class having to do with set design. Everyone was pissed, including the teachers. Then the supposed friend I was renting a room from decided he wanted a barely legal twink from California with a vomit fetish to move in so he was kicking me out. By chance, my mom was moving back into town so we found an apartment together and I continued going to school. This was a bad decision.

With set design now out the window and yet another year of school wasted, I shifted my attention to architecture. Because I could still apply it to set design. And I did surprisingly well for a while.

The just before Christmas of 2017 (so about 10 months later), I came home from staying with a friend to find my mom had packed up and moved out. Took everything that wasn't in my bedroom, so took all my dishes and cookware. And an apron I'd sewn for myself. Just left me a note saying there was no other option and left the keys.

You see, I'd begun my gender transition in 2015. She must have assumed it was just a phase, because she burst into tears when my paperwork from the courthouse showed up just before Thanksgiving, finalizing my name change. She kept crying and saying she was "mourning the loss of her baby."

Yet again, I had to drop out of school and find a real job. That lasted about a year and I was MISERABLE. I moved back in with my dad, finally. Older sister had moved across the state years before, so I was safe. I enrolled back in the community college from my first go-round, but that barely lasted a term. I tried graphic design and I was bored out of my skull. I ended up getting a job, instead. That was the spring of 2019.

Then 2020 happened.

With so much time at home now, I rediscovered a passion for web design. Something I'd been doing off and on since the 90s. I did some poking around and found that same community college had a program for it. So when my unemployment was running dry, I applied. I started in the fall of 2021.

There were a couple points where I almost dropped out. Some classes and teachers that were so terrible I wondered if it was all worth it. But thanks to one very specific teacher, I kept going. I found I had an aptitude for the actual programming aspects as well as the design parts. He encouraged me to take Harvard's online classes for computer science and web design. And I did surprisingly well in those.

And now, finally. I'm in my last term of classes and excelling. I'm getting paid to tutor students in the classes I've already taken, even. I'm graduating with honors. Something I wouldn't have been able to do when I first started. I've joined 2 honors societies and been on the president's and the dean's lists.

No matter what bullshit life throws at you, the trick is to keep trying. Even if it takes you 10 times as long as it's supposed to, it will always be worth it when you get there.

[iced-coffeebean]

VENT

They had open house at my old high school and I graduated in 2023 so it hasn’t been that long but…

Seeing that my old teachers kept my works/talk about me to new students, it makes me so fucking emotional. Keeping drawings or photos I printed out and gave to them. My photo teacher kept a sticky note we made him on the last day of school and has it on his monitor. He also included my photos in presentations of student works and also has some of my old photos hung on the wall as example pieces. My anatomy teacher still has this little guy that he got from my chemistry teacher because she was moving to Cali cause of her husband getting a job offer there.

I drew him as a joke but… He became more than that.

His name is supposed to be Antimony since he was bsed in chemistry (and after a YGO character I like that I drew on my periodic table in 10th grade when I first took and failed chemistry. His name being Antinomy)

But one of my kiddos that had chemistry with me when I retook it mispronounced his name and said Anti-Money so being the loving parent I am, I let him be named that.

And I drew him on a whiteboard but I thought he'd he erased but the teacher saw it and kept him and kept him on the main whiteboard until the end of the year cause she was leaving to teach in Cali

So my anatomy teacher kept him and now has him in his room but he began to fade so I traced him up again a little and tadaaaaa

Ready to be displayed 🫡

I had bought an actual stupid looking plushie that was supposed to be him and when I was graduating, I gave him away to one of my kiddos…

God, my kiddos…

Seeing my kiddos all grown up and as senior fucking breaks my heart is a bittersweet way

Covid hit me when I was in the middle of my freshman year.

I didn’t have the full time to be a freshman or a sophomore. I came back as an upperclassman and I had to be an example but I was just as clueless and scared as them. I hadn’t taken my PE 1 class in freshman year so I was barely taking PE 2 as a junior and that’s where I met my main group. I was nice and sweet with them when I approached them and then we clicked. I took care of them and helped them with things and they eventually showed me their big friend group.

And I just adopted them all. I wanted them to be happy or as happy and cared for as they could be while entering a new school with little to no friends prior.

And they are all grown up, it’s just-

They are my babies, what do you mean they are gonna go off to college after this?

What do you mean they aren’t the little freshman I adopted in 2021/22?

Some art they’ve made on my tablet or made me

I just love and miss them sm, it hurts but that’s how life goes.

Kids are gonna go up and go their way.

And you just gotta let ‘em figure their life out

[johnbazley]

Summer came on way too strong and the radio played all new songs

Ten years of 'Suburbia I've Given You All And Now I'm Nothing'

The saga of The Wonder Years, as it stands, starts in earnest not with the band’s jokey, nearly-satirical debut full-length, Get Stoked On It!, but rather with Paper Boats, or Some Poems I Wrote. Vocalist Dan Campbell’s chapbook of poetry written and released between that first album and the band’s revelatory, career-altering The Upsides, Paper Boats is out of print now and hard to find online, even if you know where to look. But one scan, widely-circulated on AbsolutePunk early in the 2010s, is signed—“I got a lot off my chest in this book. I hope it makes you feel something,” writes Campbell, his initials and three Xs below the inscription.

In the first poem, “Paper Boats (Or An Introduction to Some Poems I Wrote),” Campbell starts with a pseudo-invocation in block-text: 

My life stopped lending itself to poetry a few years ago and so I’ve manufactured my sadness in these factories that rose up all over my skin and had little neighborhoods form around them only to watch the industry fail and the buildings collapse and the neighborhood give way to violence and drug addicts. Alleyways you don’t walk down even in the broadest light of day. Yes, it must have been this way because I was absolutely sadder this past year than I ever have been before and the poetry never came.

Everything that The Wonder Years would eventually realize in their music starts here: the manufacturing of sadness into art, the alignment of the self with the suburb, the urban decay of that suburb leading to self-reflection. The casual classism of a writer whose most important identity is “suburbanite” aside, it’s here in the opening words of Paper Boats that Campbell sets out on the journey eventually evolved into The Wonder Years’ third album, Suburbia I’ve Given You All And Now I’m Nothing, which turns ten years old today.

I was sixteen years old when Suburbia released on this day in 2011, but more importantly, I was sixteen years old when Suburbia leaked a few weeks earlier, in the final throes of a brutal sophomore year of high school. I was more depressed than I ever had been, starting to realize that my bad winters and weeks spent sleepless were maybe actually a problem worth investigating. I was skipping class, failing history, asking my teachers for a bathroom break and retreating to the library or a bathroom stall to have a brief, or sometimes long, panic attack, sometimes cry for a while, then move into the next act of my school day, walk to Geometry/Trigonometry, and convince myself that none of it had ever happened. On one of those days, I made it home and downloaded the leaked Suburbia, breaking a few promises to some friends that we’d all listen to it together for the first time on the way home from the music shop in my only drivers’-license-having friend’s car, and look, I don’t want to say that things got any better once that leak made its way onto my playlist, because they didn’t. 

Suburbia didn’t save me. It made my junior year of high school a hell of a lot easier, and The Greatest Generation sure made the summer between high school and my first tragic year of college much easier to miss when it was over. But the bad times always came back. The magic of Suburbia was, for a summer, convincing me that they wouldn’t, that everything was going to be okay, that no pit was too deep to climb out of with a little dedication, that if Dan Campbell could look the listener straight in the eyes and close “Came Out Swinging” with “I spent the winter writing songs about getting better / and if I’m being honest / I’m getting there,” then I could survive any number of library panic attacks.

The brilliance of the opening one-two of Suburbia is that things don’t immediately start to improve for the speaker after “Came Out Swinging” offers some little spark of hope and honesty—instead, things get worse first, as they often do. “Woke Up Older” details the night of, and more crucially, the morning after a landmark breakup. Campbell describes the image of “a Bukowski novel on a Blacklisted LP,” a callback to The Upsides’ “Everything I Own Fits In This Backpack,” which itself contains an allusion to Charles Bukowski’s “You Get So Alone At Times That It Just Makes Sense” and Philadelphia hardcore band Blacklisted’s 2008 album “Heavier Than Heaven, Lonelier Than God.” Instead of shirking the image of “how this must look,” as he does in The Upsides, Campbell acquiesces: “This time / what it looked like / was just what it proved to be.”

It’s that reluctant acceptance where Suburbia really starts. Things need to get worse before they get better. You need to accept that things need to change before they ever will. I think that’s the kernel of Suburbia that resonated hard enough with audiences to launch The Wonder Years into relative punk superstardom. Simply put, as it is in “Local Man Ruins Everything,” “it’s not about forcing happiness / it’s about not letting sadness win.” Suburbia is not an album about rebuilding, but rather what happens before rebuilding, refocusing the myopia of a depressed, angry winter into something more outward, more grateful.

That gratitude is never more apparent than in the album’s interludes and finale, odes to hometown’s specific scars and folklore, which when combined restate the title of the album back to the listener. “Suburbia” calls back to the image in “Paper Boats” of an industrial small town in decay, opening with the all-timer of a first lyric: “The bowling alley burned down / They said it was a cigarette / almost believed it / there were burns in the carpet / everyone knows that / it was for the insurance, and / this is where you pick up the bus.” “I’ve Given You All” takes the tour to Memorial Park, where Campbell tells the story of a local homeless man’s unsolved murder before pivoting to the townies drinking by train tracks, “wearing starter jackets / for teams that haven’t / existed since the ‘90s,” ending in a hardly-sung “man, I’m sorry.” 

It’s local folklore like that defines the life in the suburbs. Here in New Jersey, I could take you on a similar tour. Here’s the best coffee in town. Here’s the other coffee shop that has WiFi and will let you sit around all day and write. Here’s the street where Bruce Springsteen grew up. Here’s where I went to high school. Here’s the good Dunkin Donuts. Here’s where I saw one of the Real Housewives of New Jersey once. Here’s the bad Dunkin Donuts. Here’s where I got into a car accident when I was eighteen. I’m still afraid to drive in the rain.

Maybe knowing where the worst coffee in town is doesn’t seem like a particularly useful bit of information, but I still know it. That’s what sets me apart from the tourists who descend upon my little beach town in the summer, tripling its population between Memorial Day and Labor Day. That’s what grounds me when everything else goes wrong, through break-ups, anxiety attacks, pandemics, bouts of unemployment. I know the coffee shop to avoid. To quote “All My Friends Are In Bar Bands,” "I don’t know where I am / but I know where I came from.”

It’s clear that Campbell couldn’t see the journey back to gratitude when he sat down with a pen and jotted down the opening words of Paper Boats. That much is apparent from the closing words of “Paper Boats (Or An Introduction to Some Poems I Wrote)”:

If I could go back in time to when I wrote sad little poems, I’d punch myself right in the fucking face because it gets worse man. It gets much, much worse and the sooner we realize that, the sooner we can just start dying, and I know. I know—blahblahblah nobody gives a fuck about your broken heart, but you know something? Most days, I’m not even sure what I’m upset about.

And to be fair, just over ten years ago, when Suburbia leaked, I was misled too. I would have told you that everything changed the first time I heard that album, that Ginsburg spoken-word opening to “Came Out Swinging,” those massive drum hits that open “Woke Up Older,” that I would never be sad again because I knew now that it was simply just about not letting sadness win. But I’ve let sadness win a lot since then. I’ve let it win again and again over the past year, the worst of my life. I’ve let sadness wash over me, and I’ve spent days, weeks, months inside. But last summer, when I was more broke than I’ve ever been, more broken-down than I ever hope to be again, I kept sane by driving around town. Over the bridges between towns, along each highway, past my old high school, always stopping at the good Dunkin Donuts, past the roller-rink that burned down years ago, the old Asbury Lanes that I swore off the last time it changed hands, and here’s where you pick up the bus.

[curiouselleth]

For the ask game: 11, 36, 42, & 48?

Hello! Thanks for the ask anon!

11. favorite extracurricular activity?

Ooh that’s a good one, I’m not in it anymore (because I graduated!) but VAC, Visual Arts Classic. (Apologies in advance for the long explanation it’s just so fun!) it’s a Art competition, and it’s like this; every year there’s a different theme, last year it was texture, and you choose a category like drawing, painting, personal adornment, etc (there’s more then a dozen categories!) and you get a long term print that you have like 3 months to “answer”. This last year I did personal adornment, and my prompt was to make clothing for a original character from my favorite book, movie, or play, and there are certain materials that you can or can’t use. I made a elven warrior costume from the Silmarillion, basically the character was Elronds cousin and I worked in sindar and noldor colors and motifs and such. Then in January, I think it was? you have the regional competition where you bring your long term to be judged, and you receive a on site prompt in the same category that you have 2 1/2 hours to complete, like making jewelry for your character. Then you compete as a team in a quiz bowl about some artists or art styles, and then they recently brought back critical thinking, we had a hour to make a finger painting (minimum size of like 4ft by 4ft) of our coach - our art teacher. Then teams are scored as a group and there’s individual awards, if you team got first in anything you all go to state for that, and if you individually got first with your long term or on site you go to state for that (I got first for my long term and on site so I did!)

Then a few months later you bring your same long term to state to be judged again, and you get a new on site prompt, this time it was making something your character could hold, I tried making a dagger for the first time with a technique I’d saw 2 months ago, it went kinda okay? But I got first in my on site (small miracle 😂) and a perfect score on my long term! It’s just so much fun and you miss a day of school so.

36. how many times have you changed your url?

I haven’t actually, I either change my username in things a million times or never. I still like this one so it’ll probably be staying for a while.

42. an app you frequently use besides this godforsaken site?

Discord, for my d&d groups and the Last Homely server (if any of you are seeing this I love you guys! 💖), which is a Tolkien server, mostly for various Tolkien rock operas. Besides discord I don’t have many fun apps that I use a lot, but I do have WTForecast, which is a fun weather app that likes to swear about how it is outside.

48. when did you first try an alcohol beverage?

I actually haven’t, I’ve been offered some a plenty of times, and I’m just not interested in drinking. Although my mom makes a good tiramisu that has alcohol in it, and I sometimes have the non alcoholic versions of things lol. Honestly I’m glad I don’t go to many big parties where they drink a lot, because I don’t want to deal with the questions, and underage drinking, really drinking in general, is very big in my state.

Thanks again for the asks!!!

[urban-orc]

No answers, just anguish

I don't know exactly where in the way I got from been a 19 years old freak, with zero respect to the status quo and showing my conceptual art in vernissages or the street

to become so mentally fucked to stop making art almost at all because I think everything I do horrible.

But it happened. And I have some insights about different things that brought me to this.

First is, the last time I was called to participate in the local art circuit was during my pregnancy - because they didn't knew about it. At that time, I still presented myself as a woman, and mothers are automatically considered things that don't create.

I remember that last vernissage, and how people treated me differently when I was with my son, 50 days old, or without him.

Quite contrary, the literature gang embraced me, my kid, and whatever I did (and when I got out of the trans closet, they again was the first to embrace and rejoice, and accept me as the man I I always was). Sounded pretty logical to focus on the writing part of myself. I still did fanzines with graphic stuff, mixing drawings, collage and writing, for a while.

Other thing was the internet. No one is guilt of it, but this is a place where, for most of its history, only illustration or figurative painting got friction. Rarely sculpture, because only classic sculpture was not treated as "craft" in a pejorative way. People in the internet are still having the stupid arguments about what is art or not that the dadaism discussed more than a century ago.

And I'm awful at traditional art. I mean, I did a lot of traditional art, but woodprint and woodcut was "minor art forms", made by common people. Embroidery too. Collage is frowned upon too much, even more when shit got digital. I'm not a traditional painter, and I'm not a drawing master or illustrator.

Social class is a important thing here: after college, I had to choose, because money and time: improving drawing skills, or improving writing skills - and the second was mostly inexpensive for several factors. I missed the drawing classes, I still miss don't having them, because there is so much I can do alone, and I was at a point where someone pointing me ways was the only way to go.

But my college teachers always said that I had what is needed to make art. I knew sufficient technics to send my message, a solid research, I knew how to provoke and to touch. Art is this, much more than been just technically sound, it needs to bring comfort and discomfort, and provoke reaction.

I know all of it in a rational way (Geez, I was an art teacher for 13 years). But I don't feel like anything I can do will be relevant, because it's not illustration.

And in the webs, that is the social accepted art form. Things are getting better today, but remember I'm in this place since 96. I follow brutalist sculptors on Instagram, something that was unthinkable 20 years ago. And even today, most of the things that are not painting or illustration, are framed by the internet as craft DIY, not art pieces. Art dolls, sculpting, embroidery, printing.

Printing on t shirts to sell is great, but I want to cover a wall with dramatic shit made in 5x5 cm tacos about the experience of been othered by society. (in this case, taco is a kind of wood piece of hardwood floor, reclaimed to make woodprint)

What brings the third reason I stopped making art. Art projects are expensive. If you don't have where to show it, you don't have money to make it. But if don't have exhibitions, you cannot get a sponsorship to make other exhibitions.

I did a lot of street art because it was a way to handle this vicious circle. Not ideal, but I could make lambe-lambe, and been seen.

(lambe lambe its called wheatpaste poster in english, but I dont think its an exact translation of the cultural meaning)

But then... Chronic pain and fatigue, and there is not a single chance I will spent the dead hours of the night walking and pasting posters, with the eventual "run like hell" moment from security or cops. I just cant do it anymore, my body just collapse if I try.

I must say that as an anarchist devoted to direct action, nothing is worst than knowing I cant do it anymore. My street art was heavily political after all. Well, to me, all art is political, in a way or another. There is no neutrality, even a still-life have a political background.

I digress. But how I said. No answers, just too much anguish.

[kaijukidco]

New artist bio ✨️

☆You can call me "Lake" it's been my nickname for almost ten years. :)

☆I am a very passionate sociologist and I nerd out about philosophy and anthropology as well. Even though very serious concepts and discussions interest me/are important to me, I am still a little kid at heart lol.

☆I was diagnosed during my last semester of college in 2021 with ADD inattentive type. It was the missing puzzle piece to my life, and has fueled me to advocate for no one feeling the way I did for as long as I did. I always want to share my story if it helps others, and I want to end stigmas/biases that doctors, social workers, teachers, parents, and just normal people have towards disorders. No diagnosis has a universal experience, it is individualized.

☆Shortly after my diagnosis and graduating, I started Kaijukid Co. During the summer of 2021. It has been a wonderful and humbling ride so far.

☆My art is inspired by my childhood nostalgia, combined with my current aesthetics. I grew up playing with plastic toy bugs, rats and dinosaurs. I am still, and always have been, drawn to these little plastic toys. I never planned on making earrings. One day a polymer clay flower I was working on was next to a grasshopper bug toy I bought. Then it hit me, I wanted to create dangle earrings with the flower and the grasshopper. It has given me a reason to repurpose the nostalgic toys I love so much, and have my work resonate with others as well.

☆My other mediums of interest include pottery, air dry clay, digital art, acrylic painting, and digital photography. I also like to print out my photography prints and paint on them :)

☆My art was pretty inconsistent last year, I moved into a new apartment, had car troubles basically the entire year, and adjusting to my new job. All was well and I did many art shows, but I just felt unmotivated. I'm looking forward to this year, and I am going to work very hard to tackle the days where my ADD can be hard to push through. I've come a long way and I'm looking forward to the future.

☆I could go on, I have a lot of interests and a lot to say! I plan on starting a podcast as well.

Thank you ^_^