#is that you get to make art for a grade) and. ceramics and sculpture and classics etcetera. <blinks> wow i really latched on to art aspects.

[angelboybreakdowns]

literally fucking hate art teachers “oh you have to have symbolism for 3 things in your fake tattoo design and you have to write a paragraph explaining them” ok goodbye gorgeous fucking tattoo representing the loneliness and suicidality of being a closeted trans guy hello ugly boring garbage about wanting to have a pet pigeon………. i can fucking do symbolism but we always have to “explain it” and tell her exactly what our drawings are about so of course i cant do drawings about half the things i ACTUALLY FUCKING CARE ABOUT

[s-4pphics]

click!: in frame. 2 (e.w.)

SYNOPSIS: you crave redemption more than love. [idk au]

WORD COUNT: 11.5k

WARNINGS: professionalphotographer!ellie, strugglingartist!oc who’s black, ANGST!!, daddy issues, SA/victim blaming :(, homophobia LOL, anger issues\violence, bad parenting, anxiety, joel standing on bidness, FLUFF!! :3, SMUT… MDNI, ellie bottoms YAAAS, virginity mentions, jealousy😂, dubcon (they’re high), more fingering, brief mentions of cunning lunning, squirting, mult. big Os, err dassit

A/N: YYYYAASSSSSSSS hi… bye 

APRIL, 2014

Happy birthday, babe, you whisper in your girlfriend’s ear, arms wrapped around her neck from behind. Ceniyah’s giggly thank yous fill your ears and heart as you press smacking kisses on her cheek. 

I made you something… You reach behind and grab the rolled-up poster paper sticking out of your backpack, making sure Ceniyah doesn’t turn around. She seems giddy and your heart soars. You hope that all-nighter was worth it. Please, you pray to yourself, please love it. 

Close your eyes and gimme your hand, you say and she listens, palm open in front of your face. You place the scroll in her hand and she gasps. She whips around to face you, shock written all over her, and you giggle. She unrolls the painting and her head instantly falls back, tears jerking behind her glasses. 

Are you seriously crying right now! You pull her tight to your chest and she sobs into your neck, C’mon, baby, stop cryin’! S’okay. You coo and her arms tighten around your waist. 

D-D’you like it? Your face burns when you whisper. 

Are you fucking serious! She squeaks into your neck, It’s beautiful, baby, I love it. T-Thank you—

I love you so much, you mumble, and she says it back. 

You haven’t slept at all. Your body’s going to collapse soon. You hope it’s not during this phone call. 

You ogle at the small card in your hand, pressing the digits into your device before hitting the call button. It rings twice before a bright voice answers. 

“Hello, this is Lisa Meyers speaking. How can I be of service?”

… Interesting intro. “Good morning, um, Professor Meyers?” 

“Yes, how can I help you?” 

“I… we spoke at the coffee shop yesterday. About the… assisting art professors alumni thing.” 

“Oh, of course! How are you, dear?”

“I’m good. Um… I was wondering if you’d have some time to speak with me about it... If that’s cool.”

You can hear her wide smile through the line, “More than cool! Would you be able to come into the office tomorrow?” 

An extra day in the city wouldn’t hurt (it would), “No problem. What time were you thinkin’?” 

“My mornings are always open! How does ten sound?” 

“Sounds like a plan. Uh, thank you,” you say with twitchy fingers. 

“Course, hun! I’ll put you in and I’ll see you tomorrow!” 

You never expected to end up back here. 

The campus art studio looks exactly the same, only now the old portraits, sculptures, ceramics that were lined up on shelves of the display case are all replaced with new, nameless ones. You’re not used to seeing projects that you couldn’t attach a name to in the classroom. Your university years never feel that long ago, but the randomly placed structures are proof of your long-term absence. 

Time is an illusion… Or you’re getting old as fuck and about to be lowered into the ground. Freshmen make you sick(affectionately). 

Professor Meyers explained the position well enough for you to manage on your own. The work you’re doing isn’t difficult: oversee, assist in grading, oversee some more, oversee, and guide. You’re practically getting a check for being the already observant individual that you are. It’s a steal! 

The position only lasts around a month, but Professor Meyers was convinced that it would only take someone as talented as you (her words… although you agree) a week to get on her toes. You vowed to bring your sketchbook every day from here on out, both to yourself and to her, in case you get the inkling of inspiration that you desperately need. 

The job’s a small win. That’s all you could ask for right now. 

Fuck all that shit you said at the start of the week. TAing fucking sucks. And you still haven’t had any inspiration despite all the efforts from the students! Whenever you pick up a utensil, you stab through your paper. You’ve officially lost your touch. You’re a regular bitch with no talent! What the fuck is going on! 

You’ve had numerous breakdowns in bathroom stalls since Monday, and you’re bound to have another one in the next fifteen seconds. Why the fuck did so many students leave their filled water cups on the fucking tables. Guess who has to clean all that shit up! You! Fuck freshman(unaffectionately). 

You’re so happy the halls are empty in between rotations. No one needs to watch you sobbingly wipe down tables splattered with paint. 

After Professor Ronson’s room is tidy, you start prepping the board for the next rotation of students. They’re learning about anatomy today; There’s bound to be at least three students that scribble tiny dicks in the corner of their starter pages. You hate it here. 

You open the drawer to retrieve all the sharpeners, only to find the container completely empty. You’re sick of the animators not putting shit back. You begrudgingly make your way back down the hall and into Professor Lacey’s room… You should’ve never left.

Your lungs constrict with your gasp and you almost drop your keys. 

A just as shocked Ellie gawks back at you, laminated name tag with YEARBOOK dangling from the camera strap around her neck. 

What the fuck.

Ellie’s either hallucinating or dead. Yeah… She has to be dead. The haunting of your email was too much and she died and now she’s seeing shit—

An angel disguised as you is staring back at her, fist clenched under the sleeves of your sweater, brown eyes just as stunned as hers. Ellie barely has time to gather words before the chains hooked onto the pockets of your jeans jingle as you step out of the room and scurry down the hallway. Ellie’s feet are flying before she can even register their movements, hot on your trail as her camera bounces on her chest. 

She manages to get close enough to grab your bicep, ignoring the stuttering in her heart when she sees the former light in your eyes replaced with something darker. The flourishing storm in your pupils is uncontrollable. 

Ellie drops your arm when she realizes you won’t run, “W-What are you doing here?” 

Your gaze is locked onto the tile squares on the ground. “I-I’m, uh… just enjoyin’ the weather— “

Ellie’s brows pull downward, eyes flicking towards the badge wrapped around your neck. Do you work here? “We’re indoors.” She mumbles dryly. 

“Nothin’ like… the spring rain hittin’ the windows, am I right?“ You huff with a nervous smile, eyes flitting around the hallway as you search for an escape. Ellie’s not having that. 

“We needa talk.” 

You sigh, “I can’t. I’m working.” 

“So am I. Take your break,” Ellie grabs your wrist and drags you back down the hallway, leading you to the bathroom and pushing you into a stall, locking the door behind her. 

Her voice is quiet when she presses, “The fuck are you doing here?” 

Ellie expects you to snap, to push the same questioning back onto her, but you don’t. Your mouth gapes like a fish as you stumble over words. Ellie’s eyes soften when she sees a shaky hand come up to pin a loc behind your ear. You’re shaken up and she instantly notices something off. Your demeanor has shifted immensely since she last seen you and it’s making Ellie’s stomach twist with discomfort. She's never seen you this stunted. 

“What.” Ellie asks when you mumble to the floor. 

“I’m sorry about the email,” You sound winded, “I thought… I dunno. I’m sorry about everythin’.” Your lip starts to quiver as you ramble, “I would’ve never come if I knew, I’m sorry— “ 

… What the hell are you talking about? And why are you crying? 

You sniffle and wipe your tears with your sleeves and Ellie’s fingers itch to comfort, to dry your face herself, but she doesn’t. She watches you weep into your palms for what feels like hours, the air of the restroom suffocatingly tight. 

“I didn’t mean to ruin anything you h — had going on, okay? I’m sorry… I’ll leave right now! You’ll never have to see me again— “

Your sobs are stressing her, “G-Gimme your phone.” Ellie blurts. 

You're already digging in your pocket for your device to unlock it, “W-Why— “

Ellie snatched it from your hand, heart pulling when she sees a photo of younger you being carried by a woman shoved in your case. The same face that was littered all over your apartment, “You wanted to talk so bad, right?” Ellie presses her new number into the pad and calls herself, “You have my number. My…” 

When she looks up, her words get swallowed up; Your eyes still manage to glow under the… horrific bathroom lighting, glittering like stars in the late night. She clears her throat to catch herself, “My shift ends at four. Call me any time after that.” 

Ellie hurries to unlock the stall before leaving you in the bathroom, heart in her throat as she heaves all the way down the hallway to the lounge, shaking her hands to get the jitters out. 

She knew she should’ve never accepted a call from the alumnus association. Fuck the yearbook. 

You clock out with a heavy, anxious heart. 

Three students came up to you and asked for advice on their starter shapes. They were a bit upset when their circles didn’t come out perfect, and you almost cried. It was too sweet. Your bag bounces off your back as you descend the staircase to exit the building. The droplets hit your hood with fever as you skip to your car. You jump into the driver’s seat to turn the heat on, teeth chattering from the evening breeze. 

You check the time on your dash and… it’s way past four. You hope Ellie’s willing to meet. You dial the most recent number and tremble as the phone rings. She answers after the second tone. 

“Hello?” 

She sounds so relaxed, and your shoulders unlock, “… Hi. It’s… me?” 

A lengthy pause, “… Me who?” 

You hide a snort, “Um… ex-roomie?” She chuckles lightly. “Hi.”

“… Hi.” You whisper, “Did you, um… still wanna talk to me?” You think you hear the click of a lighter. 

“Mhm. I’ll send you where I stay at.” 

“Okay… I’ll see you soon?” 

“Yup.” And with that, the line goes dead. Ellie’s location delivers not even a minute later. Her hotel isn’t far from here. . . and fuck, it looks like wealth. Your nerves are nowhere near settled after your last attempt at reconciliation, and paranoia is itching beneath your skin. 

You open your GPS and blast your screamo playlist, hollering your way down the street with your windows down, rain be damned. 

You’re burning holes through Ellie’s hotel room door. 

You haven’t knocked, you haven’t rang. . . you're not even sure if your text of arrival went through. You just stare at the peephole with a clenched jaw. This big bag of Cool Ranch Doritos is doing an excellent job as a stress ball. It’s bound to pop from your grip soon.

Your bladder almost lets loose when the door gets pulled open, nostrils instantly hit with wafts of that forbidden flower. You’re pulled through the small crack by a strong grip before the door is shut and locked behind you. 

Ellie faces you, bare arms on display, and leans back against the door… in those fucking grey sweats. After all this time, they still cause damage to your soul, “Sorry. I don’t wanna get kicked out.” 

“It’s… you’re good.” You point behind her, trying not to gawk at her tattoo, “How’d you know— “

“You breathe loud.” She says simply, tone hushed and raspy. She nods behind you, “Sit down.” 

She follows you to the lounge chairs that face each other. You sit, still tense, suddenly back in therapy, “I-I brought you somethin’.” You push the crumpled bag of chips towards her as she relights her joint. 

Her pink, doe-eyes flit between yours and the bag before she mumbles, “Thank you.” 

“No problem…” You awkwardly set them on the windowsill, swallowing your guilt and deciding to take initiative, “I… I know you have a lot of things going on and I don’t wanna take up too much of your time… I’m just…” 

The loud splattering of raindrops is nerve-wracking, “I wasn’t… I didn’t treat you well. College was a very hard time for me and I didn’t really know how to deal with it without being a bitch—” 

Carbon leaves her nose, “Is that your excuse?”

“N-No, no! I’m not… I’m not tryna avoid blame. I was terrible and you — no one deserved what I put them through… I-I’m really sorry, Ellie… From the bottom of my heart, I’m sorry.”

Ellie’s silent. You have no idea what she’s thinking; She could be plotting to get you kicked out of her room right now and you wouldn’t know. Her stare isn’t angry, it isn’t anything… she just watches you. Every squeeze of your hands, bounce of your knee, every tic photographed in her memory. Just like before. 

“Why're you back on campus?” 

You exhale the breath you’d been holding, “Um… I gotta, like, TA job, I guess. With the art profs.”  

“Still doing art, then, I guess.”

You stare down at your lap, “Yeah. Trying to.” You croak. 

“Trying?” She asks, brows furrowed. Your shoulders bounce in a shrug. “I, err, hadn’t made anything in a while so… yeah. I thought it’d get me back into it.” 

“Are you?” 

“Hm?”

“Are you back into it?” 

“I don’t know yet.” 

“Why were you so upset when I moved out?” Ellie’s tone shifts into something much more delicate, ready to crack and bleed open at any given moment. You can’t tell her, your brain bellows over the pleads from your heart. You can’t tell her how much you missed her!

Your jaw slacks dumbly as you search for a believable explanation, mind blanking under her scrutinizing stare. 

“I was drunk. I-I don’t remember…” 

“You were drunk and don’t remember.” You cringe at her tone. 

“Ellie… I don’t wanna— “

“Don’t wanna what? Actually be fucking honest?” Your babbles are silenced as she rants. “You reached out to me and you can’t even answer one question honestly. Why’d you even come?” She seems so disappointed in your response, but what can you do? Tell her how every part of your body yearns to be next to her? How you almost collapse when you saw her for the first time in what felt like an eternity? How manipulative would that be after everything you’ve done?

Ellie’s index finger jumps on the armrest as silence takes over once more. She’s deep in thought, it seems, teeth nipping at the skin of her lip. 

“Ellie— “

“When I moved out…” She repeats sternly, “you told me you didn’t want me to go. Why did you say that?” 

It’s on the tip of your tongue: because I’m weak and I like you! I’m sorry I didn’t fight! I’m sorry, I'm sorry, I’m sorry! 

“B-Because I didn’t want you to go…” You whisper between sniffles, wiping your nose with your sleeve. 

“Why's that?” 

“I… really liked having you around…” You chose your words very carefully, but they’re not a lie. “You’re… you’re really nice.” 

That seems to satisfy her a little, “I’m really nice?” Ellie’s brow quirks, a tiny smile blossoming on her face. 

“And funny.” You sob, “Like, I laughed a lot.” 

“You’re funny, too,” Ellie says awkwardly while scratching her ear. Your heart pulses. 

Her eyes search yours, “I didn’t know how I would react when you got here. The thought of seeing you really… fucking freaked me out.” She scoffs to herself, and your shoulders begin to droop. “But… um...” She pauses and your pulse pounds in your neck. Tears brim in your ducts. This is when she tells you to leave. To fuck off. To drop dead, for fucks sake—

“I’m glad you reached out.” 

You gawk in disbelief before your bottom lip trembles, “Really?” You ask meekly. She simply nods. 

“Me, too.” You’re really trying not to cry right now, but the softness in her gaze isn’t helping. She’s too sweet. You change the topic before you say something you’ll regret. You point to the bag of chips, “I really hope you like that flavor. I just grabbed it because I was overthinking.” 

“I don’t know why you bought those. I still owe you a bag from what I remember,” She grabs them, squeezing the end until the other side pops open. She grabs four ships and crunches them all at once before extending the bag to you. You follow her lead and munch to your heart's content. 

“I was never mad at you, y’know.” Ellie sets the bag down and reignites her roach. “I wasn’t, uh, innocent, either. We both fucked up,” She puffs and hands it to you. You've never smoked bud before, only stole a couple of Abby’s edibles a while back. She vowed never to smoke with you since you’re a tweaker. 

You accept the charred-to-hell baby jay and stare at it. You shrug, “Wasn’t worse than me. How do I do this without burning my finger off?” 

“Err… just breathe in and hold it.” She instructs. “Have you never gotten high?” 

“I have. I don't— “

“Oh, yeaaah. Non-smoker. Sorry.” 

“It’s fine,” you mumble before bringing the remnants up to your lips and sucking in. Nothing happens. Ellie snickers, “Not like that. It’s not a fucking lollipop. Just, like, fill your cheeks up and hold it.” 

… Are you an idiot? “I don’t know what that means.” Ellie cackles like a witch at your lost expression, nearly falling over in her chair. Your cheeks burn and you try again, cheeks expanding to fill in the smoke. The second you inhale, you start choking, eyes bulging out of your skull from the burn in your chest. 

Ellie finds your near-death experience fucking hysterical as she hollers from her seat. Tears stream down your face and the veins in your neck are bulging as you gasp for air. You’re never doing this shit again. Your lungs finally decide to spare you when Ellie passes you water from her dresser. You gulp that shit down like no tomorrow as Ellie’s giggles dwindle. 

“What the,” cough, “fuck— “

“Fucking baby lungs,” Ellie mumbles with a grin. “You’ll be fine after a couple tries.” 

You chug more water, “Girl… fuck you.” You gasp. Ellie’s grin turns cocky when her head tilts. 

“Fuck me?” Her voice lowers and goosebumps rise on your skin. Your heart stops in your chest and your gaze falls to the floor as your tummy swirls in delight, cheeks fiery. You stand and Ellie sits up at your sudden alertness. 

“Um… Like I said, thank you for taking the time to talk to me today. I really appreciate it.” Ellie stands to grab your arm when your feet slowly start backing towards the door. 

Her smile drops, “I-I’m sorry. I was just kidding—” 

“No, it’s fine! It’s not you! I just, uh… y’know what I mean?” 

“… No.” She mumbles, “You don’t… have to go yet. You just got here.” She chuckles weakly. 

“I just… don’t wanna… pry.” You whisper like it’s shameful. Ellie’s head shakes in denial, “You’re not! I’m… inviting you.” 

Your eyes beg her to understand where you’re coming from. It’s not like you don’t want to, but the two of you just got back cool three seconds ago. The last thing you want to do is force yourself back into her life. Your relationship needs time to marinate and heal before anything else happens… if she allows it. 

“I… I still miss Pickle?” You suggest with bright eyes, and Ellie’s soften despite her confusion. “Would it be okay if I see her?” You ask quietly. 

Her mouth turns upwards, “How long are you in town?” 

“I don’t know… These hotel bills are runnin’ my credit in the fucking mud.” You sigh. 

“She’s with my dad right now. Come this weekend. I’m outta here on Friday, anyways.” She suggests, cheeks glowing in the dimming room. You hope Ellie doesn’t notice your dejection at the mention of her father… It still stings. Her eyes are so hopeful, meadows flurrying with excitement… and you can’t say no. 

“…Okay.” 

“Yeah?” She confirms, smile widening. You nod. “She misses you like crazy.” Ellie notes and tears get to cooking. You think about Pickle every day. Little munchkin. 

“I miss her, too.” You sniffle. The hand that rests on your bicep slowly slides down your sleeve, closing around your wrist. Not strong, but her hold is steady. Ellie whispers your name. 

“Hm?” 

“I’m glad we’re… okay.” Your heart soars with adoration. Her eyes explore your face in admiration, and your body glows. 

“Me, too. Thank you.” Ellie’s gentle gaze drops to your lips and you stiffen. Your hands clench when she moves an inch closer. It kills you to move away, and an inkling of hurt overcasts in her forest. She lets you go and backs away, “Sorry— “

Your head shakes desperately, “S’okay, I just think we should… move… slower?” You never fail to sound like an alien who just arrived on Earth, but Ellie seems to get it. 

“Yeah, I… yeah.” Ellie stares at her sock-covered feet, red dusting her cheeks. You try to hide a smile while she walks you towards her door. She opens it for you, propping up against it. 

“See you Friday?” You throw over your shoulder and Ellie grins. “See you Friday.” She parrots. You can’t stop cheesing even after she closes the door. You make your way back into your driver’s seat, heart bleeding with relief. 

MAY, 2014

Her record is clean! I would’ve never expected this from such a great kid, your professor says to your father, But violence, especially to this extreme, is completely unacceptable—

What about what he did to me! You shout, and your father glares at your tone, He put his hands on me first! H-He—

Your body shudders in disgust at the recall of your classmate touching you the way he did. You were on your way to class when hands enclosed around your chest in a tight squeeze, all oxygen leaving your body. It was abrasive and made your skin crawl, and you swung. Your arms moved on their own until you were on top of him, his nose gushing blood while his friends attempted to pry you off. 

There was laughter when he groped you. So many people — students that you see every day — all watched it, and no one came to your defense. 

Your principal sighs with his palms up, I’m just trying to get to the bottom of what happened—

No, you’re not! I already told you what happened and you’re tryna make it seem like I’m lying! You stand and grab your bag off the floor, stomping towards the door to the office, Y’all can choke—

Your dad calls out for you, and your fingers twitch at his tone, but you keep walking, pushing past the double-doors of the school and towards the bike rack. Tears flood your eyes when the double doors slam shut, your father berating you about making a scene in public. You unlock your ride, blocking out his rampage that draws the security guard’s attention. 

He put his hands on me, dad! You shriek as loud as you can between your cries, He put his hands on me! Why’re you yellin’ at me?

I’m not yelling at you! I’m yelling in general! You scoff and swing your leg over your bike, strapping your helmet on, I’m tryna understand what happened! You broke his goddamn nose! They’re boutta suspend you! 

Imma be at Maya’s, you say, monotone. I’ll see you later. 

Amaya isn’t even home. Your dad’s hollering his lungs out as you ride down the sidewalk, but you block it all out until the wind fills your ears like a monsoon. You’re not sure where you’re going, but it’s somewhere. 

Hopefully somewhere you can cry to yourself without disturbance. 

-

-

-

It’s your first day back at school since being suspended. Fuck everybody… except Amaya and Ceniyah. You probably would’ve switched schools if it wasn’t for them. You can’t wait to see them during lunch and tell them how fucked up it’s been staying at home. 

Today has been weird as fuck, to say the least. Friends that you’ve grown used to talking to in the hallways have either disappeared or ignored you. It’s quiet around you, now, and you’re on edge. What the fuck is going on?

Walking into the cafeteria is frightening. It’s always loud, rowdy, hectic, but the minute you step foot inside, everything seems to stop. You grip your tray so tight; you think it’s about to snap, frantically searching for your girlfriend. 

But your two favorite people are nowhere to be seen. You wander and come up empty-handed. Where the fuck are they—

Your thoughts are cut when a shoulder shoves right into yours. You throw your tray onto the nearest table. Laughter surrounds you before a snarky voice shriek in your ears.

Watch where the fuck you’re going, 

No, you watch where the fuck you’re going. Dumb ass bitch, You spit. You're about to get suspended for knocking this broad out. Who even is this? 

Coming from the slut who cheated on her girlfriend! Are you sure you’re a lesbian? Or are you going back to dick? 

The entire room seems to collapse from top to bottom, crushing you beneath clutter in attempts to suffocate. You freeze when everyone turns to stare at the scene, some standing to surround you, hoping to see a fight. You release a shuddering breath as your fist clench. 

… Cheated on your girlfriend? You love your girlfriend. You’re in love with your girlfriend, and she’s in love with you! What the fuck is this bitch talking about. 

I think she’s going back to dick! One of them laughs, and the rest follow, and the entire room glows red. 

Your knuckles are drenched in the color when your dad comes to pick you up. 

PRESENT

Maybe being a TA is helping. You’ve finally pulled your sketchbook out of your work bag. 

The point of your fine liner hovers over a blank page of your sketchbook. You can’t stop thinking about Ellie, and you don’t have many distractions. 

It’s been so long since you’ve created anything, and frankly, your ass is clenched with anxiety. Never in your life would you think that creating art would wrack your nerves in such a way, but your insecurities are working hard. Probably the hardest they ever have. Once upon a time, your sketchbook was your safe haven, and now the feeling of blank pages feels like needles. 

What if you’ve… lost your talent? You can see everything you want to make clearly in your head but your pen isn’t moving. The attempts at reigniting your passion would be pointless if you can no longer fucking draw. Your fingers are itching. 

Maybe you should try that corny shit from the movies where they close their eyes and move their utensils on pure muscle memory… Maybe you should do fucking shrooms! Visuals always peak on psyches, according to the experts. At this point, why the fuck not— 

“Son of a fucking — this is fucking stupid, bitch, jus’ fuckin’ draw,” you mutter to yourself in agitation. Just fucking draw! You do this! You do this, you do this!

Minutes pass and your paper is mussed with smudged, small ink marks from constantly moving your pen around, trying to find the right angle. Another piece of paper gone to waste. You fucking suck. You slam your pen down on the table. 

You stand and start to pace, “Positive affirmations only,” You remind yourself aloud, “You got this shit, like, what the fuck. Everything’s gonna come back to you. You’re in a funk and tha’sit. It’ll pass, it’ll pass— “

Whoever your hotel neighbor is… Praying for their sleep schedule. 

It’s going to be a long night. 

“Hello?”

“Hi, kiddo. Sorry I missed your call. Your pet knocked out on my hand.” 

Ellie giggles, “It’s cool. How ya been?”

“Fine… She’s a rascal, ain’t she? I found her head first in one of my flower pots. Her tiny legs were wiggling tryna get herself out,” His chuckles are like warm hugs, “How’s work?”

Ellie’s cackles calm, “Also fine… Err…Um… speaking of Pickle…” 

Her dad hums, and Ellie sighs, “Remember when I told you about how I found her?” 

“Yeah… You and that girl found the poor thing freezing to death outside… Why?”

“… Would you believe me if I said we somehow reunited by the grace of God and she’s coming back with me tomorrow?” Ellie squeaks, and her confidence drops when he exhales. It sounds heavy. 

“Um… for what?” 

“To see Pickle…”

“…Alright.”

“What’re you thinkin’,” She nips at her nails. 

“Nothin’…” 

“Dad…” 

“I dunno what you want me to say, darlin’… Everything you’ve told me about her so far wasn’t… great to hear.” 

Ellie rolls onto her back, “Yeah… I dunno. Something’s different about her now.” 

“How so?” 

She can’t tell him how badly your shielded eyes have taken a toll on her. How desperately she wants them to revert to the shining rivers they used to be. How badly her chest ached when you left her room last night, “I dunno. It just is…” She mutters weakly. Another heavy sigh. 

“I mean… You’re an adult. I can’t tell you what to do anymore.” 

“Don’t be like that, please.” 

“Not being like anything. I can only accept.” 

Ellie’s hand drags down her face in exasperation. The rants she relinquished onto her dad about you are making her nauseas. 

“Just… be nice to her, please.” He hums begrudgingly. 

“Dad, I’m serious. I feel like we… could be friends.” 

“Friends… Alright.” He sounds skeptical, but he isn’t combative. She hopes he’ll keep it together when he sees you, “How should I plan for this friend when she gets here?”

Ellie smiles sadly, “Make eggplant parmesan…”

Her dad snorts, “… Since when do you like eggplant?” 

Ellie grins, “I don’t.” 

Why can’t black roses be real? 

Ellie doesn’t seem like a flower girl, but she has a gigantic leaf imprinted on her arm for the rest of her life; She must appreciate the autotroph kingdom. Your mother always told you how fucked it is to enter people’s homes empty handed. Walmart usually pulls through with the awkward housewarming gifts, but they’re slacking in their garden selection today. Fuck your life. 

You’re forced to settle on peonies… They’re pretty and all, but you’d prefer alliums for her. Maybe even a carnation. Plus, Amaya always told you to never buy flowers that sound like penis. 

Amaya… Are you really about to break down in the frozen food section? Maybe. It’s time to go. You're shocked to find out you have more than ten dollars on your card. Fuck hotels, from the depths of your soul. 

You set your purchase in the passenger’s side and pull up Ellie’s pinged location. She left way earlier than you. You would’ve carpooled, but you couldn’t miss these hours for this paycheck. How are you a struggling student and not even in school? 

The drive is going to be long. 

At least you have time to scream out your frustrations. 

“Hey, Siri.” 

… UH HUH?

“Play This Cold Black by Slipknot.” 

PLAYING THIS COLD BLACK BY SLIPKNOT. 

Your head thrashes as you back out of your parking spot. 

“WELCOME HOOO— “

The ride wasn’t long enough, actually. Ellie’s dad’s house is right there. Like… right fucking there, and your voice is almost gone. Clouds are beginning to roll in over the neighborhood. The universe is fucking with you. Great. 

You dump the last bits of water into the thirty-dollar, peony-stuffed vase before exiting your car, backpack strapped over your shoulder. You climb the brick staircase with a pounding heart. 

“Okay,” You croak, “Hi. Nice to meet you, Mr. Miller. I heard my — our cat was with you—“ You rehearse and cringe. Why are you pressing him about a cat in his domain? 

“Fuck, okay, wait,” You try again, “Hi, Mr. Miller, I’m Ellie’s, uh, friend. We were roommates some time ago— “ 

Some time ago? Who the fuck are you? Shakespeare? Emily fucking Brontë? Get a fucking grip. 

You almost drop the fucking vase when the door opens. Your coughs are uncontrollable when you see Ellie, eyes flicking between you and the ring light camera. Why the fuck does she look so good? Cartier watch, black button up and slacks, hair… neat. She’s about to trigger your asthma! 

“Uh… you okay?” She questions flatly. You’re still choking on your own esophagus, but you send her two thumbs up anyway. You’re great! Terrific! Immediately scared shitless when a… big ass man holding a black furball creeps up behind her. He’s not as dolled-up as Ellie and it makes you less insecure. Why the fuck do you have this hoodie on? You should’ve at least worn some trousers! 

“Nice to meet you.” His voice sounds like grovel. Gravel? You can’t fucking think right now! He adjusts Pickle in his grasp so he can extend a polite hand out to you, “I’m Joel. I’m Ellie’s father,” He sounds courteous, but there’s something simmering beneath his pupils as he stares at you. 

His grip is strong when you accept it. You’re going to vomit, “I-I’m — I mean, hi, I’m, uh… Me’n Ellie used to live together—“ You sound like a frog who just learned how to speak. 

“I’ve been told.” He hums.

Meow!

You almost start bawling at your baby’s cry. She's so big now and her coat is so shiny! She’s eating well. Ellie accepts the flowers with dusted cheeks before stepping aside and allowing you entry. You’re instantly hit with the smell of garlic… Can the whole bloodline throw down in the kitchen? 

“Nice home!” You crack and cringe. You cringe so fucking hard. They both say thanks in unison, but her father’s is gruff while Ellie’s is delicate like petals. She can’t stop staring down at the flowers. Joel finally sets Pickle down so he can head back into the kitchen, and she follows him without hesitation. 

She doesn’t remember you. Your heart shatters. 

“Thank you for the flowers,” You hear Ellie say from beside you. You swallow the lump forming in your throat with a smile. “No problem… You look, um, great.” And you smell like heaven. Like clouds before the rain. 

Her face gets redder and she grins behind petals, “Thank you. I got called in today. For… editing and whatnot.”  

You snicker, “Whatnot?” 

“Shut up. C’mon.” You follow her into the kitchen where she sets the vase in the middle of the dining table before waddling towards her dad, who stands over the stove. You stand back and watch as she playfully punches his upper arm while he stirs the simmering pot, cracking jokes amongst themselves while Pickle paws at Ellie’s calf. Your doting smile vanishes at their laughter; What a little happy family. Are you breathing? 

You turn to face the living room and breathe in as deep as you can, eyes glued to their maroon couch. You crack your knuckles and release the wind in your lungs before repeating. 

“You’re okay, it’s okay. You knew what it was before you came,” you whisper to yourself. Ellie mentioned how close her and her dad were way before you got here, so why is the pain in your chest so sharp? 

A hand comes down on your shoulder and you jump, “Sor — fuck, sorry — “

“Are you okay?” Ellie asks, concerned. 

“Yeah! Yeah, I’m fine! Jus’ looking around,” You laugh shakily and note the large paper crane on the TV stand. You point at it, “That’s so cool! Did you make that? I love origami.” 

“No, my dad did— “

Fuck, “Oh— “

“Yeah, um— “

“D-Do you have a restroom?” 

She observes with worry, “… Yeah, right down that hall, to the left— “

“Thank you, BRB,” You’re practically running to the fucking bathroom. The door closes and locks and you pace. They have a nice shower curtain: black and white stripes. You count them all from top to bottom. 

“Your dad’s dead, fucking relax, it’s been like that, it’s been like that,” You exhale shakily, tremors building in your hands, “You’re fine, you’re fine, calm the fuck down.” You unzip your hoodie and ball it up before shoving your face in it. Your screams into it are muffled. 

You come up for air and stare into the mirror, “You’re fucking fine. The food smells good as fuck and you’re gonna eat and you’re fine.” You open the door and… kitty’s staring at you. She’s sitting pretty and inspecting your disheveled appearance. 

“Hi, baby. Remember me?” You squat and stick your hand out to her. She sniffs curiously before nipping at your pinky. “Ow,” you coo with a smile. 

“She remembers you.” 

Ellie’s leaning against the wall with her arms folded over her chest. You need her to stomp the fuck out of you with affection; She looks so fucking good, fuck—

“I hope,” you squeak and cough. It scares the shit out of Pickle and she runs. 

Ellie’s gaze lingers on your bare arms. “Can we talk for a sec?”

“Yup.” Sound casual, you think. You sprinkle a shrug in there. She nods before heading down the hall and entering the last door. You can’t hide your shocked expression at the scenery. 

Every inch of the room is covered in posters, most of them about galaxies and all their intricacies. There’s a red racecar bed covered in Regular Show sheets and pillowcases and a bunch of stuffed animals, dresser covered with discarded sticker papers and seemingly empty polaroid cameras. There are fairy lights dangling from the ceiling before coming down and around the bed frame, across the closet, and finally slung over her dresser. There’s little action figures and trinkets everywhere. 

The door closes behind you, “… Is this your room?” 

Ellie snorts, “It was. Not anymore.” 

You laugh, “I’m fuckin’ with it. That bed is crazy, though.” Ellie joins in, scratching at her ear. She takes a few steps until she’s in front of you, still at a distance. Thank God; Any closer and your celibacy goes down the drain. 

“Sorry I only brought flowers. I would’ve brought fucking… cake or something if I knew y’all were gonna cook.” Ellie waves you off. 

“The flowers were pretty. Thank you.” 

Your entire face is on fire, “Y’know what I mean…” You cough. 

“Um… I just wanted to talk to you about something. About my dad.” 

There’s a hole in your chest that’s expanding. She takes your silence as attentive, “He can be really overprotective… like, he’s kinda stubborn.”

“Oh… I see where you get it from,” You laugh weakly, clearing your throat when Ellie doesn’t. “Sorry.” You mumble. Ellie looks down at her feet, “Does he not… like me?” You ask quietly, embarrassed out of your fucking mind. 

“It’s not that, he’s just… I told him a little of what happened between us. Not everything, just some of it!” 

“The… bad part, I’m assuming?” Her silence is enough confirmation. 

Ellie looks like Pickle when she’s guilty. You remember when she hopped onto the counter and knocked over your water cup, eyes large and pleading for forgiveness over the mess she caused. 

“M’not mad,” You mumble, “I probably would’ve done the same thing.” Probably is used very strongly. 

“I’m sorr— “

“It’s okay— “

A knock comes from the other side of the door. 

“Come eat, you two!” 

“Coming!” Ellie yells back before rubbing her hands together. “I’m really— “ 

“Ellie, it’s fine,” You reassure her with a light slap on her bicep… It’s quite hard. “C’mon, uh… I’m hungry?” You brush past her and head towards the door, holding it open for her. “After you?”

Ellie reminds you of a strawberry milk squishmallow when she eases past you, trying to hide her smile and pink cheeks. Your cheeks puff as you release the air in your lungs, shutting her door behind you. 

This is the best eggplant parmesan you’ve ever tasted in your goddamn life. Too bad you can’t enjoy it due to Ellie’s hardcore mobster dad sending you deadly glares from across the table. He hasn’t said a word this entire meal, and you’re not anticipating the minute he does. He’s going to blow a gasket. 

“D’you like it?” Ellie says lowly from beside you. You nod your head with two thumbs up. You can’t hide your smile when you notice all the gooey cheese and noodles eaten off the pieces of eggplant. 

“It’s delicious. Thanks Mr. Miller.” 

“Don’t mention it.” He sounds like he means it. Your heart drops and Ellie scowls at him. Your fingers clench around your fork and you scarf down what you can. It’s so good and you’re so scared and you want this meal to be over. 

You're the last to clean your plate so you stand in a rush, gathering all of the plates and spoons off the table before scurrying to the sink. 

Ellie pads close behind you, “Oh, you don’t have to— “

You cut Ellie off with a nervous laugh, “The least I could do.” The dishes clatter and you grab a sudsy sponge. You waste no time, scrubbing the living hell out of these dishes. 

“Go sit down, Ellie.” 

The hairs on the back of your neck stand at his stern tone, “Wha— “

He slices through her refute, and still manages to sound calm, “Go.” 

You continue to scrub, sighing at Ellie's descending stomps. Joel creeps into the open space in front of the sink, grabbing a dish and another sponge. 

“Ellie told me you’re an artist.” He mutters over the running water.

“Yeah. Sorta.” You reply as calmly as you can. 

“What are your intentions with my daughter?” He gets right to it, it seems. You scrub harder. 

“Just… tryna make things right between us.” 

“Why's that?” 

Word vomit. You can’t help yourself. You’re so fucking nervous. “I-I fuc — sorry — I screwed over someone that was… really great. Your daughter’s a sweetheart and I feel awful with how things left off.” You stumble with a heated face. You catch the arch in his eyebrow and back pedal, “Not like we were — we weren’t dating or anything! Like, not like that! We just — “

“I was a student once upon a time. I know how these things go.” He snickers humorlessly. Your shoulders relax a smidge before he asks, “Why now?” 

“Hm?” 

“Why’d you wait so long to talk to her? The two of you graduated forever ago.” His tone is much calmer than it was seconds ago, but anxiety surges in your gut at his questioning. 

“I didn’t wanna reach out without being in the right headspace. I had… a lot going on and I had to handle it. Therapy’s hard as fu — heck,” You sigh, “I still don’t think I’m doin’ a good job, but… I dunno, it earned me a Michelin star eggplant parm. Must be doing something right.” 

You don’t expect Joel to laugh, but he does. It’s hearty and deep. Very dad-esque. Your heart crushes to dust all over again. 

“Look, kid,” Joel sets the clean plate in the rack before grabbing another, “I wasn’t gonna say much, but Ellie seems to like you… a lot. More than most people.” Your heart flurries back into shape at his observation. You want to ask what a lot means exactly, but he continues. 

“She’s… she gets very attached to people. I know it’s hard to believe but she’s very… sensitive,” His voice is low, but he’s not bullshitting in the slightest. The protective aura has returned and it’s radiating back onto you, pushing you back. Keeping you at a distance from him. From Ellie, “I’m never gonna shit on anyone’s journey, but frankly… if you’re not here to stay, I’d suggest leaving her alone now.”

This is definitely a threat. But you don’t feel threatened. You feel… sad. Joel is doing what any great dad would when faced with an outsider: armoring his cubs by any means. Something you’ve never experienced. If meeting Joel has shown you anything, it’s been what you’ve missed out on your entire life. Little does he know the last thing you want to do is separate from Ellie a second time. Another breakdown is bound to crash into you very soon. You forgot where the bathroom was. 

You’re not going anywhere. Your heart won’t allow it. “I’m— “

You’re interrupted by a loud rumble, instantly followed by the heavy droplets of pouring rain. It sounds like pebbles are being thrown at all windows of their home; Is it hailing? 

“Holy shit,” Ellie calls from the living room window, “Was it supposed to storm tonight?” 

“Yeah, it was on the news,” Joel confirms. Ellie rushes over and points her eyes to you. 

“You’re not driving in that.” She breathes out. Your heart fist pumps, but you maintain nonchalance. 

You shrug awkwardly, “I don’t wanna pry— “ 

“Nah, she’s right. We have a guest room.” Joel sighs, “Ellie, show her where it is. I’ll finish up in here.” 

Ellie’s hand closes around your wrist before guiding you down the hall. The bathroom’s right across from the guest room. On the left side, you note. 

“Fuck a guest room. You’re staying with me.” She mumbles and opens the cupboard. She grabs you some sleep shorts and presumably her father’s sweatshirts. You try to convince yourself that the strong pounds in your chest are from fear of the storm, and not at all from a lesbian slumber party. 

… Fuck. 

The storm is roaring outside. And Ellie’s chiefing in neon astronaut jammies. This feels like a fever dream. 

“They glow in the dark.” Ellie hums around a cloud of smoke from where she sits across from you on the bed. You pause your gawking, “Huh?”

“My pjs glow in the dark. Wanna see?” Her eyes sparkle and your heart sprouts legs and sprints around in your ribcage. 

“Fuck yeah.” You gasp. Ellie’s teeth shine before she puts her joint between her lips and leans across her bed to shut her lamp off. Every fiber of your being tries to not lock onto the smidge of skin that appears from under her sweatshirt when she stretches. The room goes dark around the neon pink and green outlines of the design. You choke out a laugh at the pigmentation; How the fuck are they so bright!

“Sorry if this is boring. I’ve never had a sleepover before.” 

“Shut up, that’s cool as fuck! You gotta battery pack in there or somethin’?” Ellie giggles out a no. A smile stretches wide across your face when you look up at her, hers just as bright. “Are you sleepy?” You ask. 

“Not at all,” she hums as she switches the lamp back on. 

“We could play a gaaame,” You suggest sing-songy. 

“Oh, fuck. Like what.” Ellie huffs a laugh. 

“Truth or dare is a sleepover classic— “

“I’m not licking a toilet seat.” Ellie states flatly. Laughter explodes from you at her face. “I’m not a crazy dare-er like that. The most you’ll have to do is prank call an ex or some shit.” 

“I don’t have an ex.” 

“Oh… Well, a family member.” Ellie nods in acceptance. “Can I ask first?” She asks. 

“Mhm. Lay it on me.” 

“Truth or dare?” 

“Dare.” 

“Show me what’s in your backpack.” 

“…Fuck.” You sigh, and Ellie cackles. “Were you planning this shit?” You ask and stand, walking over to the dresser where your bag sits. You grab it and hand it to her. She wastes no time, stubbing her joint out before rummaging through your shit, sifting through loose-leaf paper and markers used for coloring. You plop down onto her bed and she pulls out your sketchbook. 

“Is it okay if I look?” 

“I dunno,” You smirk, “Can I finally see your fucking portfolio?” 

“Come home with me tomorrow,” she says instantaneously, “It’s there. You can see it.” 

“… Then yes.” 

She flips through pages and pages of visuals you’ve created before your father’s passing. They range from sloppily scribbled orchids, to immaculately shaded depictions of eggplant farms. Ellie giggles when she finds a small comic of Pickle playing with her favorite mouse toy. 

“She still has it.”

“Good,” you whisper. You watch as she studies each page to her heart’s content, fingers dragging across lines that catch her attention. “You’re so good,” she says softly, awestruck and eyes sincere. Your gaze drops to your lap. 

“Thanks,” you match her volume. She hums and flips to the next page. You eye the ashtray on her bed before snagging it, snatching her lighter and igniting the joint. Ellie eyes you like a hawk. 

“I watched a tutorial on how to become a professional pothead… I think I got it down.” 

“Show me.” She whispers and your stomach jolts.

Smoke leaves the lit end of the J and you flick the lighter off. You bring it to your lips and puff your cheeks full of smoke, inhaling as deep as you can before your lungs squeeze. You cough and heave tearfully and Ellie leans in to rub your back. 

“That was better.” She says softly. “I was gonna dare you to hit it anyway.” Your coughing fits calm and you swallow. 

“Shit,” You say. Ellie takes the joint from you and hits it like a fucking pro. She's much closer than she was seconds ago. You examine how her lips curl around the roach, cheeks expanding around carbon before inhaling, allowing the remainder to leave in a bunch of circles. 

“You really blowing O’s right now?” You think you hit it right this time. The jitters you’ve had all day are beginning to dwindle. 

She smiles mischievously, “Mhm.” 

“Truth or dare?” You mumble.

“… Truth.” 

“Did you think about me… after you left?” If you were to lean forward an inch, Ellie’s nose would touch yours. Nose hug. Her face spots are so adorable. 

“Yeah. A lot.” She passes the J back to you and you accept it boldly. You’re releasing your stress with every exhale. Ellie was right; Smoking does feel good. 

“What’d you think about?” 

“Isn’t it my turn?” 

“No.” You smile. 

She shrugs, “I dunno. Just…” Her gaze falls onto her stuffed tabby cat. 

“I feel like you’re boutta say something nasty.” You snicker. 

“Wha — no! The fuck— “

You mock her, rubbing all over yourself, “I thought about your hands, ooo, aaa— “

Ellie smacks your arm a bunch of times before pushing you back onto the bed. You’re howling laughter over her whining, “Bitch, that’s you! Don’t think I forgot about that shit you pulled in the car!”

“You have nice hands! What can I say,” You slur with a dumb grin, “You have, like… classic lesbian hands. All you need is some Hot Topic rings and all the hoes gon’ flock to you.” You take one last toke before the lit end can reach your fingers, stubbing it on the ashtray. 

Ellie seemingly ponders with the theory, “… Is that why a milf ate me out at the club?” 

Your neck almost snaps when it cranes to look at her, “What the fuc— “

“Yeah. Craziest experience I ever had. Like, in my life.” 

“Fuck, Ellie…” Your head flops back onto her Lightning McQueen blankets. “Was it good?” 

“I… I guess. I came.” 

You stare at the star stickers on her ceiling. “You guess?” She only hums. 

“But…”

“Hm?” You urge her to continue. 

“She didn’t… kiss me.” She whispers like it’s dirty to say out loud. You slowly blink at the opaque walls. “I mean, she did, but it wasn’t a real one.” 

“Shame on her.” 

Ellie maneuvers so she’s lying on her back beside you. “Yeah…” 

“Ellie?” 

“Hm?”

“Were you a virgin before I touched you?” 

You expect her to slap the shit out of you again, but she doesn’t. She takes one deep breath before muttering, “Yes.” 

You stop yourself from melting into her bed, turning on your side and propping yourself up on an elbow, gazing down at her. Her eyes are wide as saucers as she looks up at you. You can see her fingers twitching around her pillow, squeezing the fabric of the case. Right on Rigby’s nose. 

“A-Are we still playing truth or dare?” She whispers, her breath hitting your face. She smells like oranges. You shake your head, tongue rolling over your lips. “No.” Your free hand lands on her hip and squeezes. Her jaw slacks around a gasp.

“… Oh.”

“Oh?” You want — need to kiss her so badly. Steal all the oxygen from her lungs so that she has no other choice but to breathe from you. Only you. Your vision is hazy with each travel over her face. She looks so soft, so pliant, so ready and prepared for you to take from her. Just like you hoped. 

Your hand travels, pushing her sweatshirt up just above the waistline of her pants, fiddling with the knot right under her bellybutton. 

You pull at the string until it loosens, “She gave you head?” 

“T-The milf?” 

“Yeah. The milf.” Aggravation seeps through your tone. Ellie’s hips twitch. 

“… Yeah?” She coughs. You hum and hook your thumb under the band and inch them down. They aren’t even off all the way and you can tell she’s naked underneath. 

“How good was it?” 

“I don’t… know?” 

“Yeah you do. How good was it?” You snip, and Ellie winces. “I-I squirted.” She trips over her words and your clit jumps. You don’t say anything, and she seems sad. 

“… Are you mad at me?” 

“No.” Your tone says otherwise. You’re not mad. You don’t know what you are. You don’t like what she’s telling you, though. Fuck milfs… You love them with your entire heart, but fuck them. 

… Yeah. You’re high as shit. 

You sit up and she moves to follow you, but you push her down and she goes limp under your touch. 

“Don’t move. Just lay there.” 

She pouts and you almost kiss it, “Don’t be mad.” 

“I told you I’m not.” You swing a leg over her waist and she sighs dreamily. “How many times did you come.” You’re not asking; She’s going to tell you. You raise her sweatshirt up over her breasts. 

“T-Two — Two.” She moves to throw her sweatshirt over her head but you snatch her wrists, pinning them right on the cushiony mattress. She doesn’t fight you. 

“I want you quiet. Your dad’ll kill me if he hears you.”

Her eyes go glossy and twinkle, “Okay— “ 

“I mean it. Don’t say shit.” 

“M’not gonna,” She whines before her mouth clamps shut. You give her overlapped wrists one last threatening squeeze, watching her fingers go lax before releasing her. You cup her tits and her eyes flutter shut, teeth sinking into her lower lip. You mouth at the valley between her tits and her back arches to follow each swipe of your tongue. 

You kiss all over her ribcage, almost feeling each erratic thump of her heart under your tongue. She keens when your tongue flicks over the rising bud of her nipple, thighs squeezing around your hips. Your mouth latches onto the skin right above her areola, teeth sinking into it before sucking. Her hips raise and she’s breathing like she’s about to faint, and you grin like a fox. 

You don’t let up until a wet maroon mark is left on her tit before swiftly switching to the next one, leaving a much harsher spot on the raised skin. An eager hand scratches down her torso until it brushes the patch of hair that peeks out from under her pants. 

You shove your hand beneath the light cloth and your fingers are drenched in seconds. Your walls squeeze around nothing when you feel her clit jump in excitement. Her squishy lips spread around your middle and index fingers, her throbbing bundle of nerves cinched between them. She keeps making fucking noise and the walls seem to shake. 

“What’d I say.”

“I — m’sorry, can’t h-help i— “

“Be quiet, Ellie.” Your fingers slip over her messy clit in slow, teasing circles. You release her skin until it’s blistering and bruised, quickening the pace of your fingers and she pulses in your hand. Your tongue swirls around her nipple once more, cheeks hollowing when you suckle. 

Your eyes search for hers but her head is thrown back, neck strained and veins popping from beneath her skin. Your lips release the skin and your drippy hand leaves her pants. Your nipples harden under your tee when she reaches for your retreating form, fingers digging into your sweats. 

Her pants are yanked down and tossed across the room, her toes curling in her rainbow-striped socks when your hands hook under her knees to push them up to her chest. Her arms entangle under her bent legs to hold them out of your way. 

“I could fuck you right now with no problems.” You exhale in a daze, “S’fucking drippin’.” You envision how good her pussy will swallow whatever pops in, how easy it’ll stretch around something thick—

Ellie’s eyes shine like you offered her candy and her hole clamps down hard. You chuckle. “You want that?” 

Her head bounces off the pillow in rushed nods. If your mouth wasn’t so fucking dry, you’d be slobbering all over her pussy. “Remember what I said?” You remind her, and she plants a heavy hand over her mouth. You kiss her ankle in appreciation. 

Your fingers move on autopilot, massaging her clit a few more times before inching down, your index pushing past the tight, gripping muscles. Your finger’s swallowed whole in an instant and Ellie’s trying her hardest to mask her squeaks. “Fuck me,” you sigh when she takes another finger with no hassle, walls engulfing your digits in wetness. Her scent is surrounding you and it’s intoxicating. 

“Missed you s’bad— “

“Missed you more, baby. Missed this pussy,” You’re pussydrunk and you’re slipping. That spot in her cunt becomes plumper with each press of your fingertips, “She fucked you better than me?” 

Ellie’s denial is convincing, but that sick part of your brain doesn’t believe her. She loved being touched by someone, wanted by someone. Someone who wasn’t you, and you’re livid, “Nooo— “

You slice through her whine, “No?” Your smile is sadistic and your fingers are relentless, “You said her name like you said mine?” You grit and her eyes cycle into her skull, her hair sticking to her forehead. She’s trying to keep her voice down when she whispers how she only thought about you when she made a mess. She wanted you there, she says, she needed you there to take care of her. 

“Y’fuck me s’good, fuck— “

Your eyes are dead, “I’ll hurt you. Be quiet.” 

Fear flashes beneath her desire and she listens, keeping her sobs to a minimum. The sloppy, wet sounds of her pussy overtake the entire room the harder you fuck in, her nails tearing into her Pikachu stuffie on the corner of her bed. A string of drool dribbles from her bottom lip to her sweatshirt, her eyes glowing under the dimly lit lamp. 

Her walls shake and throb on you, “Gonna cum, baby?” You grin manically at her dumbed-out expression, cheeks wet and eyes droopy. You coo at her and force in as deep as you can, curling your fingers up, fighting against the tight contractions of her walls. 

“Make a mess on me, baby, I gotchu, c’mon— “

A long, drawn-out moan escapes Ellie’s lips, and you’re so hypnotized by the heavy spray of juices that lands on your thigh that you don’t even bother to shut her up. She’s drenching her sheets and blankets and you and it’s the hottest thing you’ve ever seen. You’re fucking wave after wave out of her and she’s practically riding your hand, groaned curses and dazed squeaks of your name bouncing off the walls. 

It feels like minutes pass when her orgasm slows, inner thighs drenched and dripping with slickness. Ellie’s entire body shakes and her thighs squeeze around your hand as she attempts to catch her breath, but you’re not done. You’re not satisfied. She didn’t give you enough. 

You climb onto her and your lips connect in a simmering kiss, her wet mouth smacking against yours. Her cold hands land on either of your cheeks and your hips roll downward on hers. She whines into your mouth and tries to meet your hips but you force them back onto the mattress. She yanks at your shirt in attempts to rip it off but you don’t let up, lips slipping down to connect with her neck. 

Your wrist twists downward until you're met with her sticky bush once more, spreading her lips apart and shoving your fingers back inside her. She chokes a wet gasp when they hit right where she needs, her arms wrapping around the back of your neck to hold you close. You’re babbling nonsense in her ear as you work her, telling her how she’s stuck with you, how you’re never leaving her side again, demanding that she says you're the best she’s ever had. And she does, and either you’re fucked out of your mind, or she means it. 

You barely catch how your hips move like you're fucking her, driving into her as hard as you can and she takes it, stretches her legs wider so you can reach the spots she’s never been able to on her own. She’s saying your name like a prayer, like it’s all she’s ever known, and it’s breaking you down, only to build you back up so you can crash back into her. You missed her so fucking bad and you’re unleashing all of your feelings on her body and she eats all of it. How could you leave her when she fucking needs you this badly? You’ll never forgive yourself. 

She’s warning you, crying about how you’re going to make her squirt again, begging you to slow down because she can’t take what you’re giving her, but you feel so good and you know she does, too. You can’t stop even if you want to. You want to drain her, live inside her for the rest of your days on Earth. You’re forcing space for you inside her.

Her nails dig into your shoulders as she cums. She’s unapologetically loud and it flows directly in your ear, and your own noises leave your mouth and land onto the clammy skin of her throat. The jets of fluid that leave her are stronger than the last, and you laugh. Laugh in ecstasy and joy and pleasure that you can’t even feel, but it’s there. Right in your chest. 

You’re not done. You’ll never be done with her. 

The night evaporates with you in between her legs, slurping every bit of cum and stress that you may have caused since knowing her from the source until the sun shines through her blinds, drinking from her like you’ll die without her taste on your tongue. She lets you do whatever you need to feel satiated, but it’ll never be enough now. 

You’ll never be done with her. 

Ellie’s naked form jolts awake when ticklish breaths hit her shoulder. 

You’re beneath her, slumped, pantsless legs entangling hers and arms twisted every which way as you slobber and snore. A smile grows on Ellie’s face at your peaceful expression; She’s never slept that good in her own bed. She doesn’t want to wake you, but she has to pee so fucking badly. 

She shifts in her position and instantly cringes at the soreness in her legs. Warmth coats the crests of her cheeks when she sees the discarded sheets and pillowcases that were changed only hours ago on the floor, head plopping onto your shoulder to hide in your neck. Your snoring gets cut by a guttural cough and Ellie laughs to herself when your snores pick up again. 

She’s not a morning person in the slightest, so why the fuck is she so happy? Is this the post-sex glow that her friends always tell her about? Is she still considered a virgin if you only used your fingers and tongue? She doesn't feel like one… Sex rules are fucking dumb. She stops stressing before she ruins her morning. 

The pangs in her bladder are getting on her nerves; She wants to cuddle. She sighs and shifts on top of you, trying her hardest not to disrupt your deep slumber. She manages to separate and clothe herself before waddling down the hall and into the bathroom, trying to ignore the aches in her thighs. You wrecked her shit… What the hell. 

The second she leaves the bathroom, she smells coffee. Her dad’s up. She might vomit. 

The two of you weren’t that loud. Definitely not. He couldn’t have heard. He didn’t hear! Ellie’s stealthy as she tiptoes through the hall… until the fucking floorboards croak from beneath her and she nearly faints. 

“Come out, dipshit. I know it’s you.” 

Her eyes squeeze shut and she curses to herself. She reluctantly appears from behind the wall, her dad sitting comfortably on the couch with a filled mug and newspaper, Pickle napping on his lap. He peeks from above his reading glasses. 

“Think we needa talk.” 

“… Fuck me.” She whispers before shamefully limping into the living room. She flops onto the couch and glues her eyes onto the decorative rugs under the coffee table. 

“She seems nice.” Her dad sips his mug. Ellie’s face burns. 

“She is.” She mumbles. You took such good care of her after last night. You got her in the shower, brushed her teeth for her when she was damn near sleepwalking, watched her down two bottles of water. Her heart flutters at how soft your eyes turned when you kissed her to sleep. 

“Is she your girlfriend?” 

“… I dunno.” He hums and sips. 

She doesn’t know. You’re not dating, but Ellie thinks you like her… She thinks. She likes you… a lot. She bites at her nails. 

“You like her?” He asks lowly; She knows he knows. 

“Yeah…” Ellie whispers, cheeks rising on their own. She covers her face when he smiles. 

“Just… take your time.” Joel advises gently, “Did she tell you she’s in therapy?” 

Ellie’s ears perk and her brows furrow, “No.” She sits up. Her dad’s gaze softens, “Wait til she brings it up, then. Y’all should talk before things get serious. It’s only been a couple days.” 

Ellie knows her dad is right, but it’s hard to control herself when she’s around you. She naturally gravitates towards your aura; It’s comforting and she doesn’t want to lose it again. 

A gentle clatter comes from her bedroom and she stands. You’re awake. 

“I love you, kiddo,” Joel says, and she smiles softly. “Love you, too.” 

She scurries down the hallway and enters her bedroom, seeing you sprawled out on the floor, all wrapped in sheets. 

Your eyes are droopy when you croak, “Hello.” Ellie snickers. 

“Hi. What happened.” 

“I was reaching for, like… an orb in my dream and I guess I did it in real life,” Your voice gets so raspy in the morning, and it tickles her ears. Ellie can’t stop laughing. She helps you stand before kissing your cheek. 

“Good morning,” she wraps her arms around your neck. 

“M-Mornin’,” You squeak, eyes flitting around, “Uh… How'd you sleep?” 

“Good.” She’s lost in your brown eyes. They’re warm like the sun. Why won’t you look at her? 

She follows your line of vision down to your fiddling hands before whispering, “You okay?” You simply nod. Ellie’s heart stutters nervously. 

“Do you still wanna come over later?” 

“… Yeah.” Your attempts to disguise your stiffness fail. Ellie feels a lump forming in her throat when she detaches from you, and you search for the new pair of pants she gave you before you went to bed. Ellie watches silently, crestfallen. Something she did triggered your aloofness, so she turns to leave the room.

Her voice cracks, “I’m gonna… shower again— “

“Ellie.” 

She turns, “Yes?” 

Her fists clench when you walk until you’re standing in front of her, warm hand coming up to hold her cheek before kissing her. It’s soft and makes Ellie’s fingers thrum with excitement. It only lasts seconds before you pull away, and Ellie chases your mouth.  

“I’d love to come over. I think we… should talk about some things.” You say quietly, and Ellie silently agrees. You let her go and she wants nothing but for you to pull her in once more, shrouded in your warmth. 

You’re making her bed when Ellie leaves for the bathroom, body falling against the door to calm herself down. You’re not upset with her, and you want to come over… to talk, whatever that means.

The hot water burns her skin; She spends her entire shower thinking about how she can make you as happy as she feels. 

taggiessssss :3 @dyk3ang3l @ellieloml @inf3ct3dd @fromminaa @womenofarcane @sawaagyapong @mina-281 @aouiaa @bbglmfao @i00rii @sakiigami @starologist @southelroys @diddiqueen @trackinglessons @ellieswhorcrux @villainousbear @p4ison1vy @tohoko @yuckyfucky @dollyfleurs @elsbunny222 @sevsbimbo @amiorca @alittlextrahoney @gato-chino @topiatwin @r3wbeef @elliesatchel @muthafuckingstargirl @callmewhenyoukan @macaroni676 @draculurasblog @ellieaesp @@gravygranules @elsblunt

[charmcoin]

can i also say i miss doing ceramics. i wish it wasn't so absurd to do as a home hobby because i would love to make cool shit. the problem with taking Art Classes is that you don't really get to make whatever you want, and like i understand the idea that you're supposed to be learning principles while doing these assignments, but i really just want to make the shit that i like + am passionate about + have drive to work on (because i am a pleasure chaser and will be until the day i die, probably due to chasing short term pleasure somehow).

but even so, taking ceramics was a super fun and unique experience and i got a lot out of it not just in learning to built pots and vases and sculptures but also in learning to improvise and be flexible when things go wrong because they did. a lot. and that makes sense! i'd never done ceramics before and in starting any new craft you are naturally going to encounter a lot of hurdles that you have to work around. i think i tend to just get frustrated when things don't go my way but being Required to pick myself back up and start again when it happens because i'm turning my pieces in for a grade was good for me i think i wish i could get that urgency without having to take some sort of class or course

[lovenona]

I just haad to say thank you for the free serotonin that you have provided me with through the last artist sukuna post

it's just... ✨beautifull✨ we are slowly building up this au

BUT CAN YOU IMAGINE HIM GETTING MORE AND MORE FRUSTRATED WITH THE LACK OF ATTENTION WERE HE'S KIND OF POUTING

and then there need to be a project done in which you have the option to work in groups and NO MATTER WHAT this proud cherry haired idiot WILL work alone but geto won't he came to y/n and they really need to work in a group if they want to get this done so of course y/n is happily gonna agree to the offer of geto to work together they do be viben after all which ultimately leads to the fact that y/n is gonna give sukuna even less attention (it probably doesn't even get on his nerves that much that y/n works with geto its just the lack of attention and ultimately time spending with you that result from it)

ah i am sorry I was rambling again😂

anyways hope you have a nice day and don't stress yourself too much with answering always happy to see you post❤️

babe let me just say ur brain is massive and i thank u from the bottom of my heart – anyway here’s the original post for everyone about to embark on this godforsaken journey with art student sukuna and our new friend pretentious fuck geto suguru 

if you thought you were pitiful at drawing, your sculptural skills are on another level of true and utter shit. you cannot, for the life of you, create things out of clay. you despise carving anything into wood. your pottery faithfully collapses on you whenever you try. you hate working with glass. you would have dropped the class, honest, if you didn’t desperately need it in order to fulfill your major requirements and graduate on time. 

all in all, it’s an awful class created solely to tank your gpa – you don’t understand what you’re doing, you don’t understand what anything is supposed to look like, and you sure as fuck don’t understand how anyone else seems to have their shit together all the time. when you glance around the room, no one, not even the famous ryomen sukuna, has trouble making their materials turn into something recognizable.

(and, in true sukuna fashion, he loves to make sure you know how fucking untalented you are.) 

so when anthropology-and-ceramics king geto suguru asks if you want to be partners for the next big art project, you agree without a second thought. you’ve been talking to him recently, small talk before class, and for all his pretentious faults, you think he’s delightfully hot as fuck with a smooth voice to match. he wears those crisp, expensive button-downs that he bought at overpriced local craft markets. he always smells like cedar and eucalyptus; he brings a different tote bag to every class, his favorite being one he got as a gift for subscribing to the new yorker. he shops organic only and throws around the words “fair trade” and “bourgeoisie” and “means of production” with the ease that sukuna throws around the words “fuck” and “shit.” 

you think geto is fascinating. and maybe he talks down to you when explaining his anthropology knowledge, he absolutely does, but when he gazes at you with those warm eyes and offers to help you learn how to sculpt and raise your grades, you can’t help but agree with a pair of big pathetic doe eyes. 

why wouldn’t you? you’re just here for a good time, after all.

so when you giggle as geto places his sinfully smooth, manicured hands over yours while teaching you how to use the pottery wheel, you don’t think much of it. you think he’s cute and warm. you’d be a fool to notice the dark annoyance radiating from the other corner of the room.

ryomen sukuna always works alone. but what he didn’t count on was that you wouldn’t be working alone with him. 

it’s not that you’re working with geto, he swears. it’s that you’re not working with him. his ears feel strangely empty without your argumentative quips, without the way you tell him he’s infuriating and annoying every time he tells you something lewd just to fluster you. it’s strangely empty without you both arguing about the difference between great artists and sell-outs – were you here, in his corner of the room, maybe sukuna would have tried to tell you michelangelo was a loser just to see what you would say. 

but you’re not with him. you’re listening to geto tell you about the time he went to study abroad in germany and how he took a trip to morocco where he tried some amazing food you’ve never heard of. he’s telling you about the time he helped make tampons in botswana after his senior year of high school and all of the other deliciously precocious things he has done for the sake of human rights and anti-capitalism. 

(you’re killing the environment, you know, geto often admonishes you when you stumble into class with your cup of coffee. that cup is going to end up in a landfill. he always taks a sip from his hydroflask for emphasis. it’s sleek and black with an oxfam sticker on it.

and sure, you know that your cup is going to become trash. geto doesn’t have to be an annoying fuck and tell you when it’s only eleven in the morning and he drove a literal moped to campus. but still, with that silky man-bun, everything he does is okay.) 

but understand that sukuna doesn’t hate geto. sukuna craves attention, and he absolutely cannot stand being ignored. he’ll pout without realizing it, pursing his lips and wondering what kind of circus act he needs to perform to win back your presence. should he get another tattoo? cuss out the professor? offer to fuck you senseless in the third-floor bathroom? he’s not sure – he’s never not been seen before. ryomen sukuna doesn’t know what it’s like to come in second. 

so he intercepts you after class; in a manner that is both sukuna-and-not-sukuna, he’ll casually throw one of his heavy arms over your shoulders, subtly pulling you away from geto’s aura, wrapping you in his scent of earth and leather and sex appeal. “come on, puppy,” he says, sultry and annoying and condescending all wrapped in one, tapping his ring-clad fingers against your arm. “you’re supposed to help me write my paper, aren’t you?” it’s not a question, it’s a demand, one you know deep down that you would rather die than shy away from. 

you might not like sukuna, you tell yourself, but there’s something about him, the way he talks and moves and exists in the world, that makes you unable to shy away. there’s something about him that always makes you want more without you quite knowing why. 

(he kissed you, once. sometimes you wonder if you would like it to happen again.) 

and you’re still nestled under sukuna’s arm, trapped in his orbit and following him to his favorite empty classrooms, when geto calls back to you, wondering if you’re still interested in going to the avant-garde poetry reading with him tomorrow night. 

he’s going to present a poem he wrote on the terrors inflicted on south america by the united states, geto had explained earlier when his hands were on yours. it was going to be some real, hard-hitting poetry, none of that “rupi kaur bullshit.” he thought it might enlighten you to join him, perhaps in more ways than one.

you pretend you don’t notice the way sukuna’s arm tightens around your shoulders when you tell geto with a flirtatious smile that you can’t wait. 

[artleaguemdcnorth]

ALL Classes - Museum Project week. (11/23-25)

This is a short week due to the Holidays and I know most of you will be distracted with that. So, with that in mind, I will be assigning the following project for this week:

Museum Project.

Due to the Pandemic, I do not want students to attend museums in person. Luckily , many museums have opened the opportunity for virtual attendance.

I will post several links for students to attend. 

Find the museum that corresponds to your assignment and follow the prompts. 

All classes will attend either Monday or Tuesday depending on the day you attend class. 

I explored the different venues and it was very nice to be able to enter museums like the Van Gogh Museum in Amsterdan  and get to see his work up close. 

I think you will enjoy it as well. Think of traveling around the world in one class time.

I would like students to use the class time to visit two different museums. Use a computer or laptop to get a better experience.

Make quick sketches of works that you enjoy.

Make notes regarding the composition, colors being used, subject matter. 

Once you have done this each class will complete an assignment for a grade according to specifications below.

2D

This class will create three abstract compositions on Bristol paper 8 x 10 based on work from the MMCA Korean Museum or from the Guggenheim Museum.

Ceramic Class 

This class will look at work from The British Museum   Africa link to see sculptures or vessels and the other link I have provided for your class that takes you directly to a ceramic link.

During the research sketch ideas of art that appeals to you. You will then use one of the three techniques learned in class, to create a ceramic work inspired by your museum research.  

Drawing Class 

Students will visit The Van Gogh and the Getty Museum.

You will draw sketches of two artworks that you enjoy. 

Then inspired by those sketches, you will create a painting inspired by your museum visit. You can work on Bristol paper cut it to 16 x 20 size.

For example, if you enjoyed Van Gogh’s painting of the corner of his room, you will do your own version of that painting but you will use your space at home to create your version. The same goes if you enjoy his paintings of flowers or landscapes, you will create your version using flowers or places related to your neighborhood. 

NIGHT DRAWING CLASS - 

Continue with Midterm assignment. 

Painting Class

This class can choose between The Uffizi , The Getty or The Rijksmuseum. 

Create a painting inspired by your visit no bigger than 

16 x 20. This painting will be in lieu of the self portrait.

All Classes will receive a class grade for this assignment that will be added to your overall score at the end of the semester. Post your completed assignments by 5 pm next Sunday, 11/29/2020.

2D  and Painting Class 

You can use time on Weds to continue this assignment.

I want to remind everyone that when we return from the break I will post the Final Assignment and you will have one week from Monday 11/30/2020 to complete it. 

The end of the semester is here already so please stay focused we are almost finished.

Enjoy your museum visit! 

And have a happy and safe Thanksgiving weekend.

[littlemisssquiggles]

Whelp, another term of Animschool has ended for this young squiggle meister and the final term grades are officially in!

Since this was technically the very last modelling class that I’d be taking during the 3D Character Programme, I definitely wanted to go out with a bang---putting my best work forward while diligently working towards a model that would render me a great final grade.

This was my first time doing Environment modelling too. So basically in a nutshell, I placed quite a bit of pressure on myself for this semester since I wanted to do really well and keep up my A game. Not to mention that this semester was also a little tougher than usual cause one or two things came up in between the months that I had to juggle along with it. A lot of spare time and weekends were lost to homework and work-work. A lot of projects I had started or had planned to start had to be postponed or canned.

Even got to the point where my RL friends had to practically ‘force me to take a break’ since I basically succumbed to that work-work-work frame of mind. So pretty much, this was a looooong term guys and by the end of it I was basically singing how much I couldn’t wait for it to be finished so that I can a bit of relaxation time again. But before that, I wanted to know how I did. I needed to see how I did because along with the work-work-work mentality also came the anxiety and worry that I wasn’t going to perform as well as I’d hoped.

At once point I was panicking I had failed in spite of producing my assignment professionally laid out (to the best of my ability) and right on the money.  

That being said…you could imagine how pleasantly surprised I was when my instructor for this term told me that I scored an A on my final. Not an A- this time like previous terms. An A for ACTUALLY AN A with a capital A. It was the first thing he told me with a bright smile and not gonna lie I was surprised. Not in the sense that I was doing poorly whole semester and I managed to squeeze this out by a miracle. I actually was doing pretty good whole term…despite my juggling and…I usually got good critiques. But in spite that, I was still surprised. I was so surprised in fact that I had to ask my instructor twice if he absolutely was sure my grade was an A during our one on one student and teacher conference call. And in spite of confirming twice that yes indeed I did get an A, I STILL was in disbelief. Told myself this still feels like a dream so I waited until the grades were up and yeah…it wasn’t a trick.

I did get an A on my final for this term. Well…holy freaking shit!

But wait…there’s more! It doesn’t stop there. Not only was my work good enough to score a high passing grade but it was also featured on the Animschool Instagram page. Every once in a while, Animschool likes to share students’ work on their Instagram page as a means of encouraging folks to join the course by showcasing some of their best students’ work.

So…again, you can imagine how much my heart nearly imploded on itself when I was casually scrolling through my Instagram feed only to see a familiar environment model headlining the Animschool Instagram yesterday night.

Again…holy freaking shit. So yeah guys, I passed. I worked hard this term, probably harder than most terms. I learned a hella lot too because my instructor---Joshua ‘Koji’ Tsukimoto was a fantastic teacher. Again, as someone who pretty much had to relearn 3D from scratch, I’m proud of how much I was able to take away from this semester and I feel proud of the work I was able to put out. It makes it feel satisfying when you get to reap the fruit of your hard work, y’know what I mean?

Now I get to share my final work with you all on my blog. For Environmental modelling, I chose an environment design by Mateuz Mizark titled ‘The Barracks’. When I first found this concept art on Pinterest, it definitely intrigued me enough to want to take a shot at modelling it. Not going to lie, I was concerned I wouldn’t be able to pull it off or worst finish it on time. But I did. Admittedly a little off model in one or two areas but I don’t think you can actually tell since all the elements of the scene are in there. I made sure and modelled in everything.

In the end I rendered a ‘clay pass’ version of my model. Josh had demonstrated this during class and I thought it looked cool since it made your design appear almost like a sculpture moulded from clay or some kind of ceramic material. The dark brown clay material I used for my scene kind of makes my model look like it’s made of chocolate now that I think of it XD That’s fine. Chocolate is nice.

But yeah overall, that’s it for me and Environmental Modelling class. Next term is my final semester of Animschool and for my final term, I’ll be doing Intro to 3D Lighting and I’m looking forward to it. I’ve dabbling in lighting and rendering here and there throughout the programme, especially for this newly finished term. There is a lot more to lighting that I’m afraid I don’t know about or fully understand yet. So it’d be cool to see what I walk away learning from it this time. I guess I’ll know next month.

In the meantime, time for this squiggle meister to get a much needed break. Not sure how much I’d be able to relax over the next two weeks (since already…the busy bee reigns are starting to pull me back into another potential project that’s work-related. *Sarcastic yippie*) but I guess we’ll see. In the meantime, that’s all folks.

~LittleMissSquiggles (2019)

[lighthouseroleplay]

JUDE  CARTER

                          ( 23 ,  cis man , he/him )

♪♫ currently listening  ⧸⧸  10 am, gare du nord by keaton henson

paint under fingernails, big mugs filled with green tea, hair tied up and out of the way, impatient, tapping feet. bunches of lavender tied up with string, denim jackets covered with patches, binging netflix with subtitles on, ivy crawling up stone. waking up every morning just to see the sun rise in all its red-gold glory, a favorite color that changes every day. margins covered in sprawling sketches, hummingbirds at a window, a furrowed, concerned brow.

    •  lind-carter was an addition to your family that you’d never expected. you and your father were fine on your own, you always had been, and this sudden youngest sister was never something you'd wanted. it was odd, to be suddenly thrown into a family like that, and while she'd seemed fine, you had little interest in the role of an older sibling. it was andrea who talked you into befriending her, in the end, and the rest is history: a sister you'd die for, and a pretty great one at that. she's more driven than you are, though, and sometimes you think she'll do far better than you ever could. most days, you're excited at the prospect of it.

    •  ramirez had a passion for music that rivaled your own passion for art. it was an inspiration to you, and it drew you two closer together over the years. with them, there was no sneers or laughter, no comments about wasting your life on art. there was only constant support from them. one of your doodles were inked permanently on their body, and you listened to every new song that was quickly scribbled on a napkin or in the middle of notes for class. you were glad that someone understood your need to create, and you were happy that they had fallen into your life.

taken by katie  ⧸⧸  nick robinson .

cw: death, car accident

one. 

Nowadays, his childhood bedroom is practically a shrine to every dream he’d ever had. There’s doodles across post-it-notes and the margins of old, wide ruled notebooks he can’t bring himself to discard. There’s the clay pot he made in second grade ceramics, decorated with gold paint and glitter. From middle school, there’s imitations of paintings by all of the well-knowns; his use of color has improved, though his lines are still shaky. Up on the bookshelf, there are graphic novels he illustrated for his friends; he was actually popular among them for making their superhero and goblin and troll fantasies come to life. Beside them, there are Ramirez’s albums, album art done up by him, and the few others by artists associated with Ramirez who wanted covers done by him too. The portraits he did in his senior year, some black and white, most painted, are tucked away in a corner (though Andy Clare’s remains hidden under his bed). There are figurines from when he tried his hand at sculpturing, a box or two from when he considered woodworking. The mailbox outside is painted by him, and there’s a few of the neighbors too, who requested a Jude Carter original on their front lawn when they saw his handiwork. Up on his wall are designs for murals sketched onto copy paper, plans that seemed all too important at one point; half of them haven’t moved an inch in years. 

It is all of him, and yet, it is none of him too.

two. 

His mother died on her way home from work when Jude was five years old. He remembers the waiting in the living room for her to come home, hours later than he ever had before, his father pacing in the room behind him on the phone with every relative and friend they knew. When the news finally came, he cried, a mix of anger and grief and confusion. His parents had gotten into a fight over how safe their cars were. How could she have died in one? 

His mother was an artist too, or so he deduced in the years before his father was ready to tell him about it. There were sketches all over the house, handmade quilts on all the beds, and in a box that never quite got unpacked after they move, there’s  handmade jewelry, all dainty metal and twisting wires. He was thirteen years old and decided she must have had a dream; she must have given it up to settle for a boring life in Olympia, Washington. She must have died with regrets.

When his father found him in the attic, crying over a box of wire jewelry, he rang a different tune. She was happy. She chose to move to a small house in a cul-de-sac and have Jude. She didn’t sacrifice anything she didn’t want to. 

He wore his favorite piece out of the box around his neck for the years that followed, and gave his second favorite to Andrea for Valentine’s Day. Hadley had a few too, and it made his heart swell every time he saw her wearing one. If she died with any regrets, Jude decided, he wouldn’t let her rest with them. Her art should be as loved as she was. 

three.

George Carter grew up in Tenebrin, and he was certain that it was the place to raise his son and heal. They moved at the end of Jude’s first grade year into an old house just up the road from where his father lived for twenty years. It didn’t feel like home at first, just a rickety wooden house with furniture and pictures in smiling faces he hardly recognized. But, slowly they dusted off the surfaces and old wounds, and it grew into something. His father bought the movie theater he worked at in high school from the owner with his mother’s life insurance money, and Jude spent entire summers running around and pestering customers in the years before he was old enough for his father to put him to work. By the time he was in middle school, though pieces still feel missing, Tenebrin finally might’ve been the comfortable spot home was supposed to be.

four. 

In the most confusing parts of his life, art is the only thing that makes sense in his world. It became clear early on that any bit of creativity brought him more joy than any accomplishment through traditional means. Studying books bores him; he’d rather spend hours creating something, even if it turns out terrible and unfinished. Art becomes his sole passion before he can help it, and before long, it defines every bit of the way he is. His style and tastes may change over time and he may not know what he loves most, but most days he figures it doesn’t matter. 

He wants to be an artist, but why does that mean he has to pick just one kind of artist to be?

five. 

He’d never been the kind that fit in easily. In elementary school, it was easy to just call him shy, but by high school it was clear that there was just not a clique with whom he really belonged. 

He was no athlete or jock. Popular kids didn’t give him a second glance in the hall, and he couldn’t blame them. A B-student on a good day, he wasn’t smart enough for the nerds; he appreciated the creativity of the artists, but he’ was not nearly wild enough a spirit to keep up with them. 

But, eventually, he found a peace in not belonging. 

The geeks appreciated his creative mind and invited him to D&D games, and when they saw his doodles, they managed to get him to illustrate graphic novels they pen. They helped Jude with his homework without complaint in the meantime, and those among them in the AV club spent hours picking Jude’s brain with all his knowledge of ancient movie equipment. 

In the artists, he found those who appreciate and rival his creative spirit, and though they all weren’t so compatible, there were some who appreciate his nature. With them, he had opportunities to spread and pursue art, and places to go after dark  if he ever so chose. 

six. 

The first time Jude’s father brought up the woman who owned the bakery, Jude laughed. His father’s stern disappointment and rare anger that day told him that a day he thought would never come was upon them: his dad was moving on from his mother. 

And he hated it. 

But, before he could blink, it seemed like Gen and her daughter, Hadley, were moving into their house. Pictures of his mother were taken down to put up pictures of them; his mother’s decorations removed to make place for the decorating style of a woman he was to call step-mother. The anger at her, the resentment at his father for doing this to him when they were fine and happy and didn’t need them, was difficult to ignore or hide. 

But, it wasn’t his father’s attempts to warm him up to the idea of their new family with gifts and father-son fishing trips that finally convinced him of wonderful they could be as a family, but rather Gen herself. 

She’d invited him to the bakery one morning, forcing him in a room full of baking cookies and flour-dusted surfaces to have the conversation that he’d managed to dodge until now. Jude must have said awful things to her then, accusing of her trying to replace his mother, of destroying the family he’d been perfectly content with. But, she didn’t get angry in return, and when he started to cry, she held him until he stopped.

The next morning, she made him chocolate chips waffles with a smile, and somehow, they were family.

The very concept of a sister, though, was more difficult for him to grasp. He’d gone from the only person in a house to having to share his space and a bathroom with a teenage girl. Maybe she was fine, but for most of those first few years, he wasn’t interested in getting to know her. That was until Andrea Clare entered (and reentered) their lives at the same time, and somehow in her ever charming ways, made him fall in love with the idea of having a sister.  

By the time Jude had graduated high school, he called Gen “mom” regularly, and it felt like Hadley was a sister that had been around his entire life. They were family, just as much as his father and just as important too.

seven.  

After graduation, the community college in Olympia seemed like the best and only option. Unlike so many of his peers, he didn’t have a grand plan figured out. All he knew was what he liked and didn’t like; beyond that he’d decided he needed time to decipher what the universe was telling him. Or something. 

With every passing class though, Jude got no closer to the answers he sought. The world seemed just as, no, more complicated than before. All he wanted to do was draw and watch movies and bask in the art of the world he surrounded himself with. 

Art it was. He wanted to be an artist. For real.

There were small chances here and there to consider it a realistic pursuit. Still, he didn’t know how to define the art that he wanted to do, and he had no idea how to make that a reality. 

So, he kept going through the motions, and he kept making that hour drive three days a week to school. 

eight.  

The September after Andy disappeared, he returned to school as if nothing ever happened. He made it a month pretending like that might be world he actually lived in before he found himself back at home full-time, officially a community college dropout with no real life plan. His parents did their best, he supposed, assuring him that that didn’t need to be the path he took. 

(There were a few shouting matches in the early days. He insisted that they just wanted labor for their businesses, a diligent, dutiful son to wake up early and frost cookies and stay late to kick bums out of the theater. They insisted that they wanted him to be happy; they even pushed him to pursue art. It always ended with them asking what he wanted It always ended with him crying about Andy.)

Eventually a rhythm was found, sound and comfortable: opening the bakery with Gen, working the theater through the afternoon, going out to draw and live at night. At some point, his father helped him move into the attic above the movie theater as a makeshift studio, and the place grew from dusty to clean to littered with paper and paints. For, eventually, only when he was  at peace, did he dare to dream again. He painted murals across the city, decorated banners for town holidays, commissioned portraits for extra cash, made a drive occasionally to sell art at markets and festivals. 

Still, the scariest question lingers, one he can’t push himself to answer. It is the same one his parents pushed on him time and time again after he moved back home. What do you want, Jude? He’s been saving up for years to leave Tenbrin and be a real artist, but truth be told, he still hardly knows what means. He doesn’t really know what he’d do if he moved away; he doesn’t know who he’d be as an artist out in the real world. 

Something keeps him in place, and often it feels as if the town itself isn’t allowing him to move away and move on. Part of him seems to belong to the city now, to the waves that crash upon its shores. Sometimes, if he puts his ears to the water and listens, it sounds too much like the way Andy Clare used to say his name. 

[craftedincarhartt]

Happy Small Business Saturday

To celebrate Small Business Saturday, we’ll be introducing you to several small businesses and the women who make them run.

Seattle Urban Farm Co.

Meet the women of Seattle Urban Farm Company. Their knowledgeable team can plan, build, and maintain the urban farm you always wanted but never thought you could personally manage—perfect for those of us who may not have a green thumb, but love the idea of homegrown tomatoes.

Hilary Dahl is co-owner and host of the Encyclopedia Botanica podcast. The podcasts are quick lessons in farming. Follow @seattleurbanfarmco to check out her tips and advice. The all female maintenance team includes Sarah Bolton and Emily Barry. Together, they care for over 60 urban vegetable gardens across the city. Daily tasks include planting the crops, keeping an eye on the soil, fertility, irrigation, pest management, pruning, weeding, and harvesting.

“Engaging with local businesses often takes more effort from the consumer, but I think it’s worth it. Buying local provides an opportunity for genuine human interaction, better quality products, and more interesting stories. The success of a small business often depends on word-of-mouth. Anytime you vouch for a local company, you are doing somebody a huge favor and I thank you on behalf of small business owners everywhere. Just get out there and rep the businesses you love.” -Hilary Dahl

Kubich Lumber Yard

Meet Bobbie Rowe. She’s been a nurse for two years, but she’s always played a big role at her family’s lumber mill. Her main gig is driving the water truck, and when it gets busy, it’s all hands on deck. Then you can find her throwing strips or controlling the multi-head resaw she built with her dad as a child. The mill has been in operation for over 70 years. It sits deep in the woods of Grass Valley, a small Californian town that was the epicenter of the Gold Rush in the 1800s. With a population of just under 13,000, the city is closely knit together by a strong sense of community and tradition. If you’re in the area and in need of some fresh milled timber, give Bobbie a call. They have a wide variety of products, ranging from sugar pine flooring to cedar siding. You can also visit their website: www.kubichlumber.com.

“People are especially shocked to find out I’m a nurse when I jump out of the water truck. I remember dad laughing really hard one day after I drove the truck when I first became a nurse. He told me a couple customers had just commented on how cool it was that he hired a woman truck driver and he replied ‘That’s actually my daughter, and can you believe she is giving up truck driving to be a nurse at Stanford? She must be crazy.’ The truth is I really would be crazy to completely walk away from the mill.” -Bobbie Rowe

Glass Artist Ona Magaro

One Magaro has been working with glass for 30 years. The shear heat and intensity of the craft most attracted her during summer camp. Years down the road, she earned her BFA from Alfred University and MFA from Bowling Green. Blowing glass requires immense physical strength, particularly when fabricating on the scale of some of Ona’s larger pieces. However, Ona considers her willingness and eagerness to evolve her approach to her work her greatest capability.

Though Thanksgiving has come and gone, hopefully the spirit of gratitude remains. Ona met her mentor in school, but he continues making an impact in her life to this day.

“My sculpture professor in undergrad at Alfred University, Glenn Zwygert, showed me that I needed to be fully committed and devoted to my passion. Glenn and I use to butt heads on a lot of topics, but through the years I realized that those interactions made me open up to being able to SEE. He is still mentoring me everyday, by his own pursuits and ambition to constantly be creating.” -@onamagaro

To see more of Ona’s work, visit her website: www.onamagaro.com.

Amaltheia Dairy Farm

Amaltheia Dairy Farm in Montana is a family run operation. Sue and Melvyn Brown broke ground on their very own Grade A goat farm Thanksgiving Day in 2000. After building their own cheese facility, they developed exceptional products with the highest standards for purity and flavor. Amaltheia offers 17 different products and the Browns are able to produce 2,000 pounds of goat cheese a week. Sue and Melvyn’s children are a big part of the business as well. Their son Nate and his girlfriend Karen play a big role in caring for the vegetables and animals along with property maintenance. Their daughter Sarah oversees operations at the cheese plant, though you can often find her fixing fences and feeding animals.

“To be raised in a barn is the most fulfilling childhood I could possibly imagine. Yes, it’s a lot of hard work; but you develop a close-knit relationship with animals and nature. And my parents’ ideals of organic, home grown food for their children has definitely been instilled in my brother and myself. We are blessed to be able to continue to develop and hone-in our farming and cheese making skills into the future. My brother and I hope to take the reigns and continue to provide our community with farm-fresh, organic products.” -Sarah Brown of @amaltheiadairy

You can order a fresh batch of Amaltheia cheese for yourself at www.amaltheiadairy.com.

Ceramic Artist Alayna Wiley

Alayna Wiley is a ceramicist, an art educator, and a craft curator. She teaches at The Art Shack in Brooklyn. This women-owned non-profit ceramic studio offers classes to both offer classes to children and adults. If you’re interested in learning more about hand building, wheel throwing, glazing, plaster mold making or slipcasting—head on over to @artshackbrooklyn for more info. When Alayna’s not working at The Art Shack, she’s a studio assistant at The Metropolitan Museum of Art. Her education is impressive and extensive. She’s studied at Oberlin College, Germantown Academy, Penland School of Crafts, and Harvard University to name only a few. Follow her instagram, @alaynawiley.nyc to take a closer look at her work.

[brokenmusicboxwolfe]

On a photo of a not exactly human face I sculpted....

labratbren said:                                                                                                                            What do you do with them when they are done? Do you ever post pictures of the finished product? 

Ah, well, um....short answer? Nothing.

Here’s the longer answer (VERY long)....

While I was always drawn to sculpting, I really didn’t sculpt growing up. 

I mean, I tried to use clay I dug out of the ground, drying it in the sun, when I was tiny. Naturally it crumbled except for this lump of a head I still have. In Kindergarden the art teacher had his own kiln and let us use the scraps left over from the pots he had us make. I still have a loop armed alien and creature head I made, but he left with his kiln the next year. The dough art they had us make in second grade was gone by the next year, ‘cause this buggy and humid climate doesn’t agree with it. My parents gave me modling clay, but I hated it. I wanted something that would “stay”. 

But everyone acted like sculpting was hard, so maybe I wasn’t missing out. 

Then one day, when I was 19 or so, my hands got bored. Anyone would have laughed if I’d said I was bored right then. I had a book open to one side of me, a magazine on the other, as I went back and forth reading both. I was also  listening to music AND watching the movie The Brothers Karamazov at the same time. I have this problem where I always feel like I should be doing more, and when I am doing something I get itchy to be doing something else. Like my brain isn’t fully occupied even if I’m really enjoying whatever. That day my hands needed something to do, and there was this block of clay left over from a project one of Pop’s projects (a river system display, I think) It was just sittin’ there on the porch so....

And it turned out sculpting was easy! I mean, maybe not art bit doodling around having fun making faces. Do NOT be intimidated by sculpting! It comes so much more easiy than trying to convert our 3D world into some 2D drawing. Seriously, try drawing a nose head on! But toss on any wedge on a sculpted face and you have a nose...

Ok, maybe I just am bad at drawing! But I really do wish more people would try sculpting.

Anyway, the clay was another dead end, but it did inspire me to hunt for something I could “make stay”. And that something was sculpey. 

Whenever I was certain I would have the place completely to myself for a full hour I’d go stand out on the ramp behind the house and sculpt. It wasn’t too often, what with the house also being the office of the family business and my family being the sort of close one that did everything together. I couldn’t sculpt and be watched. All I needed was an our because I sculpted quickly. In an hour I’d have a little bust, rough as heck but with some detail I liked.

But then I ran out of places to put my busts in my already overstuffed bedroom. I solved this by just slicing the faces off and just baking them. I could glue magnets to them and line all the edges of my metal bookcases.

I did dabble in other things. I tried a full figure and made a few little stick figures. I sculpted something from Babylon 5 for my brother, mixed my box painting (I used to paint boxes when I had a table) with sculpting for a Discworld box for Mom, Easter bunnies for my parents, magnets for everyone, Christmas ornaments...

When she saw the Christmas tree ornaments my cousin Katharine, dollhouse collector, roped my into making her a doll. She had specific requirements for a 6″ tall Beast in what I gathered were Regency era clothes from her decription. In my ignorance I assumed the doll would have to have a jointed body, fabric clothes and furry fur, which kinda drove me nuts! But somehow I pulled it off! I sculpted a few more of those little dolls (no sewing on these!) as gifts for my parents and brother, as well as a bit of goofing around for myself (I liked my little  Sleestack a couple decades late for little me). But that was that.

Then the weirdest darn thing happened: I was suddenly stricken with a full imaginative block!

I stopped sculpting. I stopped painting boxes. I stopped writing stories. Worst of all I stopped dreaming! I still remember how upsetting that was, this sense of loss. It was like having a part of me paralyzed.  

It lasted years. Terrible years.

When my father became sick right after my irreparable rift with my brother, as I was facing the most terrible external loss of my life, something woke back up in me. Constant, vivid dreams, elaborate epics spiraling through night after night, images and stories that writing didn’t full  satisfy the need to express. I started painting miniature boxes again. Box after box after box....

But no sculpting.

I dunno why I still didn’t sculpt. I just didn’t.

Then my father died.

Pop’s death was a devistating moment. My father. My best friend. When Pop was sick I told him he couldn’t die because I wouldn’t have anyone to talk to. There is a lot of truth in that.  I love Mom dearly, but our brains work very differently. Pop might have been smarter, and his depth of knowledge was certainly mind blowing, but our mental wiring followed a similar eccentric pattern. That said, somewhere along the line my parents and I had become a sort of unit, functioning as one. Think one of those anime giant robots made of smaller ships, Voltron or something. Then imagine it functioning with the head section missing. Five years later we still feel that void.

So anyway, Pop was dead, the family business gone with him, and I was unemployed with no qualifications in a rural area with few job opportunities anyway. This was, and frankly still is, not a good situation. And my cousin Katharine thought she had a solution.

Katharine sent me a letter suggesting I make dolls. She’d shown the doll I’d made her to a dealer who said I had talent, and she sent me a copy of Art Doll Quarterly to show me that my “weird” stuff might have a market...

Honestly I felt inspired by this. I immediately seriously considered it. I’d work a bit bigger than 6″ scale, sculpt the clothes instead of the stress and tedium of sewing, and figure out a way to do ball joints. Because each thing would be unique (until I could teach myself mold making) and letting go of something I make is soooo hard for me, I decided to use the story of one of my painted boxes as inspiration. I’d make wolf people, which I figured would create enough sameness to help me let go, but enough variety to keep me from being bored. I quickly sketched out a reasonable design and got to work.

Obviously things didn’t turn out to be so simple. Sculpting ball joints by hand is fiddly to manage. It would need a bit of experimenting. I could do a head on day, casually. I could do the upper body, arms and waist joint  with a lot of effort another day. A third day would be waist and legs. Fourth day was the hellish threading. I wasn’t set up for safely storing unbaked work in progress, so I had to do these marathon one sitting sculptings on the bodies. Then I’d rest up a few days and just sculpt a few heads.

The ball jointing drove me nuts. So I gave myself permission to not worry about wolfheads, but just sculpt whatever head happened. From the backlog of heads I’d just pick one to experiment with body making. In just a couple months I was making progress.

The first discouragement came with an art show. The county has a sort of art society and they were having a sculpture show. I was scared silly to show my work to anyone, since at that point it was 2014 and I wasn’t even on Tumblr. No one had seen them. Still, when I went to see about entering the lady there was encouraging. I was soooo nervous and tentatively hopeful when I went to the grand opening with Mom amd my cousin Shirley. I was soon deflated. No one seemed to notice my figures. My work was the odd one out anyway in a sea of found object sculptures, colored paper masks and ceramics abstractly suggesting the figural. Also, everyone there knew each other and so no one was talking to me. At one point I did this really sad thing of hovering near my figures in case anyone came near so I could sorta maybe get them to notice them....

When the show ended a few weeks later the lady very nicely said at least a couple school children had liked weird figures, ‘cause, you know, kids like that fantasy stuff.  I definitely should sculpt a lot bigger and maybe use terra cotta instead....

Yeah. I felt my stuff was crap. I was crap. Why had I ever thought anyone would like my crap? Heck, I’d thought I’d at least find a club I could join, belonging, friends....

But, I kept at the doll making experimenting, crap or not. That winter it was too cold for much sculpting in my unheated house, but I could work on trying to figure out how to paint them....

Then life happened don’t ya know. At first I thought it was a temporary break while I dealt with crisis after another. I kept sculpting heads, strictly sculpting a head a day (still just an hour each)....until the spreading collapsed floor situation forced me to move the box I’d made for storing the bodiless heads out. And that was that for doll making.

Still, I kept sculpting. I went back to just the faces....

And that’s where I am now. I gave up sculpting every day, because I no longer have time. I watch a movie and sculpt. I bake the face and take pics I post on here. I wrap ‘em in tissue and put them in a storage container....

And that’s it.

I don’t do anything with them. I’m not entirely convinced there is any point anymore. My life isn’t going to include free time. Or tables to work on. It has been years after all, and it gets less and less likely I’ll make anything more than a few boxes full of chipped up sculpey faces for the nephews to find when I die. Well, unless they follow my brother’s advice and throw them out unopened! LOL

I sculpt just ‘cause I sculpt. I post pics of them on Tumblr, ‘cause Mom isn’t really all that interested in looking at them. They aren’t ever going to be anything, but I guess if I enjoy making them and someone out there likes looking at them that’s okay. They may be nothing, but that’s something.

[angelboybreakdowns]

im just. im really fucking mad. ok i get it ceramics was full. had sculpture as my second choice that was full too. but instead of giving me like a study hall or sth you put me in studio art for the second goddamn time after i took it in 9th grade (and i got a credit for it that time so it means im not getting a credit this year) and not only that but you put me in the class with a teacher who is a known ableist like to the point where other teachers gossip about how she never follows ieps or 504s WHEN I HAVE A FUCKING 504 like i just. and shes racist and shit too but thats not relevant to how bad a decision it was on the schools part bc im white (does make me angry tho but like. shes not targeting me so irrelevant). but like. now i have to spend half the year in a class i hate doing assignments i hate and im not even getting a credit for it but i still have to get good grades because junior year gpa is the most important and i just.

and again unrelated but she (teacher) is such a mean pushy fucking bitch. she has literally ruined one of my art projects (pulled off paper bits i was using to make silhouettes before the paint was dry, they ripped and stuck because they were SOAKED IN WET PAINT and WET PAPER RIPS DUMBASS and tbc she did this after i actively told her 4 times i was deliberately leaving them and I knew what i was doing she reached forward and pulled them off herself) she has pushed me into adding to an art project because it “wasnt balanced” (i deliberately put the whole thing in one half and left the rest of the page blank because i wanted to symbolize the feeling of having to make yourself small to be likeable as an autihd person) and im bad at sticking up for myself and she kept coming to me after class and “chatting” about it for a week until finally i said fine and filled the rest of the page and then a week later she said after hanging it up without my permission and i am quoting this verbatim “you know yours got a lot of compliments from other classes, i feel like i should take some of the credit because i convinced you to fix it and make it more balanced” she has said “oh i like your hand” (i draw + write song lyrics on my hand and arm to help me focus) and when i said thanks she REACHED OUT AND LITERALLY RUBBED MY HAND even when i tried to pull it away (my 504 literally has a thing about no unannounced physical touch) she has given me a low grade on a project because she “felt like it was depressing” like she is not even a good teacher i just. ugh.

[flapperfromthefuture]

I have a lot of anxiety about going to the doctor. I was particularly anxious about my most recent check-up as I had to get my blood drawn, and I haven’t had my blood drawn since second grade. Why? It’s not important.

So Stella and I planned to hit up the Ann Arbor Art Fair right after my appointment, which was a great idea since the shuttle stop was right across the street from my doctor and nothing soothes my frantic brain like “Only a few minutes until you get to browse some artisanal ceramics!”

Of course, the very last thing I had to do at my appointment was get my blood drawn. I was so close to the door.

I could’ve just bolted. But no, I had to be an adult. I nervously babbled the whole time—”Just so you know, I’m not going to look or anything because I’m really nervous around needles and the last time I got my blood drawn was when I was seven and some lady held me on her lap and fed me those Valentine’s hearts with the words on them while I cried and I still can’t eat those without feeling sick and oh you’re done already?”

Who knew phlebotomy had advanced so much?

I floated out of there on wings of endorphins and met Stella at the shuttle—along with everyone else in the county.

The Ann Arbor Art Fair is no ordinary art fair. It’s actually four decent-sized art fairs combined into one mega-art fair that consumes over 30 city blocks. Thousands of people descend upon downtown and if you’re not prepared for the sweltering heat, wall-to-wall crowds, and the gladiator battle for parking, you’re going to get chewed up and spat out somewhere near the mixed-media installations.

Stella and I always pre-game by analyzing the official artist line-up and charting a course ahead of time. We knew we wanted to see certain artists that we’d bought from before, a few new ones that caught our interest, and I always try to see every wildlife or plant photographer because that’s just who I am as a person. Stella goes for anyone doing any kind of classic rock-inspired art or industrial chic. So we had our work cut out for us.

It started raining while we were on the shuttle bus. Most art fairs would suffer a lower turnout because of bad weather, but rain only makes the Ann Arbor Art Fair stronger.

Stella and I had umbrellas, hats, sunscreen, semi-decent shoes, and water. This was not our first rodeo. The bus driver dropped us off with a cheery farewell—”Stay dry, stay hydrated, and don’t spend more than you can carry!”

We popped our umbrellas and headed into the fray. Almost immediately I saw something I never knew I desperately needed but could not justify buying even if the world was ending—stone sculptures made of real fossilized leaves. It’s everything I love! Giant plants and rainbow color schemes! There was a little sign that said “Please touch—they like the attention.” I also like attention! I wanted all of them. But I would have had to pawn a pet to buy just one, plus I could never get this giant leaf back on the bus.

The best part of the art fair is the people/dogwatching. I saw several dogs in raincoats and at least four in strollers—one dog was sharing a stroller with a baby, and this delighted us (the baby did not look quite as delighted).

The worst part might be trying to get some food before the heatstroke takes over. Stella and I decided against sampling the food truck that claimed to sell fresh seafood (you know what Michigan is nowhere near? The ocean) and thanks to the art fair, our usual sleepy and well-stocked breakfast joint had run out of both Diet Coke and ketchup, which together make up a good thirty-five percent of what I eat.

Hmm, maybe my doctor should draw my blood more often.

So we ended up walking a good five blocks to the safety of the vegan restaurant. No crowds, no exhaustion of critical supplies, just cashews in everything. And I mean everything.

When we returned to the fray, we investigated a booth where a woman claimed to be able to tell your future by reading bones (legit) and another where all the art was made of humanely collected butterfly leaves, from necklaces and earrings to windcatchers and drawings.

“Wings are really speaking to me right now,” said Stella.

Meanwhile, I was tempted by steampunk goggles, which always speak to me, and say something like, “You don’t need us, but also maybe you do?”

There are always these gigantic sculptures of cacti and hummingbirds and flowers and fountains the size of my car and whirligigs that look like they’d take out your mailbox and the old lady next door in a storm. I don’t know who buys them, but somebody must, because they come back every year.

  I also saw this character, whose motivations and background I don’t know at all, but she did flash me a peace sign, so her intentions must be pure.

While I was distracted by following the basket lady, I lost Stella in the crowd. Now, losing your assigned adult during the art fair is the recurring nightmare of every Ann Arbor child: “I’m lost forever, so I’ll have to make my way selling water bottles or handing out pamphlets at one of the non-profit booths. Should I go to the Mars Society or the Ban Infant Circumcision people first?”

I wandered around for a few minutes, dodging the Jews for Jesus with ninja-like precision, until Stella found me. “Sorry, I was talking to the leaf people,” she said, pointing to a booth selling jewelry made of succulents.

“It’s the art fair,” I shrugged. “You’re going to get stuck talking to some leaf people.”

Here’s the other thing I had to do at my doctor’s appointment—get my yearly TB test, which isn’t a big deal, except the very evening before I had a class where I learned a ton about TB, like that it’s ridiculously contagious and super difficult to treat and kills millions of people every year and best case scenario you’re on debilitating antibiotics for a couple of years but oh man, if you get a drug-resistant strain, you are effed.

And it’s endemic pretty much everywhere on Earth, even good ol’ Ann Arbor.

So picture me wandering through a giant crowd of people, many of whom are coughing and sneezing and touching everything they possibly can, clutching my umbrella like a shield and glancing at my TB test to see if it starts glowing or something, all while Stella babbles about bud vases. It was quite the banner Ann Arbor day.

  I didn’t end up buying anything—Stella got a really cool print of a sea turtle whose shell is a VW bus, because that’s who she is as a person—but the whole experience was worth it because I got to see a dog being pulled in a wagon that was lined with comfy blankets, packed with a private water supply, and equipped with a personal fan. This dog had his own breeze and was clearly living his best life, smiling at everyone and grooving to the acoustic guitars that seem to play themselves when downtown hits max capacity .

I’ve never seen a happier creature at an art fair. Maybe this is the heat talking or the fact that I walked 7.3 miles in sandals with only cashews as fuel, but I either want to be reincarnated as this dog or start a religion around this dog. Haven’t decided yet.

    I Bleed for the Ann Arbor Art Fair I have a lot of anxiety about going to the doctor. I was particularly anxious about my most recent check-up as I had to get my blood drawn, and I haven't had my blood drawn since second grade.

[creativinn]

Tottenham host amazing modern art exhibition featuring 'The Longest Ball in the World'

8:00 AM ET

Chris WrightToe Poke writer

With multiple restaurants, Europe's longest bar and even a brewery on-site, many visiting fans have already sampled the top-notch hospitality on offer at Tottenham Hotspur's new stadium since the Premier League club opened it two years ago.

However, the North London side have stepped things up this summer by hosting their first in-house art exhibition. Spurs have allowed OOF, the art and football magazine, to host a soccer-themed exhibition within Warmington House, a Grade II-listed building beside the stadium which is connected to the club megastore and owned by Spurs.

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The space has been transformed into a contemporary art gallery that is accommodating its inaugural exhibition, "BALLS," a showcase of sculptures both inspired and consisting of footballs in various forms. "BALLS" features works by a number of established artists such as Sarah Lucas, Marcus Harvey and Abigail Lane, as well as pieces commissioned from local rising talents like Rosie Gibbens, Lindsey Mendick and Jazz Grant.

According to OOF co-curator Justin Hammond, the brief was to "sabotage" the conventional function of a football -- a concept that is no doubt familiar to Spurs fans -- and transform it into something spectacular, unrecognisable and completely unrelated to the game.

"These sculptures span the past twenty years and are monuments to political histories, childhood dreams and overwhelming desires," said Hammond, a lifelong Tottenham supporter.

With many pieces described by Hammond as "visual punchlines", BALLS brings the worlds of football and modern art together to create a light-hearted blend of introspection, nostalgia and fun.

- ESPN+ viewers' guide: LaLiga, Bundesliga, MLS, FA Cup, more (U.S.) - Stream ESPN FC Daily on ESPN+ (U.S. only) - Don't have ESPN? Get instant access

'The Longest Ball in the World' (Laurent Perbos, 2017)

Actually made from stitched leather, the longest ball in the world is exactly that. It would certainly be a challenge to send a free kick into the top corner using it, though Perbos' elongated ball is probably still more aerodynamically stable than the Adidas Jabulani. Former Tottenham captain Ledley King couldn't resist a cheeky little kick of it when he viewed the exhibition.

'Kipple #2: Mitre Delta, Nike Cortez' (Dominic Watson, 2021)

Two items of sporting gear that will induce pangs of nostalgia for many a child of the 1990s are recreated here, although we're don't recall here ever being a fashion for microwaving them.

'Self-Portrait as a Pheasant' (Abigail Lane, 2012)

Using real feathers, Lane has reimagined herself as a deflated, dilapidated leather football with beige plumage.

'You Make it So Hard to Love You (Tainted Love)' (Lindsey Mendick, 2021)

A turquoise ceramic football stitched together and decorated with jagged pieces of flora and fauna. Like a long-lost playground ball retrieved from a ditch after many years.

'Endless Column III' (Hank Willis Thomas, 2017)

Endless Column consists of a stack of fibreglass footballs piled high in a vertical column that, despite the name, does actually come to a fairly abrupt end after the 10th metallic sphere.

'Obverse and Reverse XXXI' (Dario Escobar, 2017)

Footballs arranged in clumps to give the impression of two moody clouds suspended in mid-air, with only the thinnest of tethers preventing them all from floating away entirely.

'The First Ball' (Kieran Leach, 2020)

Ouch. Now that's a career-ending injury if we ever saw one.

'Pre-Match Ritual' and 'Team Building Exercise' (Rosie Gibbens, 2021)

An abstract work that utilises footballs, baby bottles and fabric to create a colourful "energy drink dispenser" for players to sup from midgame while kneeling on the surrounding pads.

'Canary in a Coal Mine' (Jazz Grant, 2021)

A sprawling wall piece that uses the hexagons from an unpicked football to create a bustling collage of 1970s English footballing scenes, including the widespread hooliganism of the period.

'A Playground of Bubbleheads' (Paul Deller, 2020-21)

Looking like an entire school year's worth of ruined leather footballs cleared from the gym roof, Deller has turned 21 balls inside out and individually daubed them to create an intriguingly ragged wall mural.

'Celery FC' (Lana Locke, 2012)

This piece features a bronze cast of a celery stalk wilted over the top of an old blue football, in reference to a rather rude chant sung by Chelsea supporters.

'World Cup Again' (Sarah Lucas, 2002)

A concrete football. Hopefully King didn't try to give this one a kick.

'Victoria' (Marcus Harvey, 2008)

Harvey's bronze cast depicts an old-fashioned 1960s football slowly deflating in the middle of the room. It is said to be an allegory for the decline of the British Empire, though some viewers have also mistaken it for a large chair.

This content was originally published here.

[duckybeth99]

Familiarity (Past!Fic)

sup bishes I’m not off the backstory fic train also I figured out I can maybe post this via browser on my iPad cuz everything looks like desktop on it so!!!!! Cross ur fingers

———

He met her a couple times. Just a young girl from further in the town, went to the local high school, the same as he was expecting his child to go to later.

He met her at the gallery held every school year. Everything the students felt had been their best work was on display, not only from the fine art program. A few music students auditioned to play music, culinary students made treats and snacks to serve during the event. Film students showed off movies they made. The most exciting part would be when local professionals would come, see the work, talk to the creators, offer tips. People would get their names known. Some from colleges would visit.

That’s how they met.

Neva took a deep breath, playing with a curl at the side of her face. Merhib stepped closer beside her and squeezed her free hand. She almost jumped at the sudden touch.

“Easy,” he smiled down at her. “It’s gonna be fine.”

“Nobody’s come up to say anything to me,” Neva looked around anxiously. “I think I picked stuff too weird.”

“You’re an abstract kind of artist,” Merhib shrugged. “It can freak people out. They’re more into those fancy-pants classical stuff.” When Neva didn’t perk up, Merhib looked at her more comforting, wrapping an arm around her shoulder. He pressed a kiss to her temple with a smile.

“Just give everyone a minute,” he calmed her. Neva took another breath.

“I have to go get ready for my song,” she murmured. “I think people will say something after that. Can you watch over my stuff?”

“Sure,” Merhib pressed a kiss to his new girlfriend’s soft lips. She gave a smile up to him, much more relaxed. As she headed off to the side of the room where the performers were to play, Merhib leaned up against the wall, scratching the back of his hair as he watched the people come and go. He adjusted his jacket and waited for her to start, crossing his arms.

As he watched the people come and go, he reflected on actually acting his age for once. He died at seventeen. Permanently stuck on the border of being an adult and being too young. Yet, he was the king of a Realm, held it all in the palm of his hand, expected to be a ruler. Mabuz commented every once in a while how immature he could be, how his choices weren’t always the best and tried to steer him the right way.

But for once, he was his age again, and the only downside was having to act normal.

Merhib looked to another oat of the gallery, seeing a man wander and admiring the artwork. Some photography, some sculptures, ceramics and such, but primarily fine art. Paintings, dry media. Some students seemed excited when he talked to them.

He was an older man, with ginger hair and flecks of grey in it. A mustache rested under his nose, hair with curls. It gave him a weird sense of deja vu at seeing both his hair, and his face in general. He looked too familiar. Brown eyes instead of blue ones like the ghost he saw. Alive, unlike the ghost he met years ago when he was alive.

His heart jumped for a moment and his hand curled tighter against his arm.

No. Couldn’t be.

Neva starting to sing and play on her guitar pulled him from his thoughts. He listened to her sing with a smile, playing a rock song acoustically to prevent the school administration from yelling at her again. She performed just as well either way—almost everyone seemed distracted from what they were don’t to just watch her.

Merhib couldn’t help but feel his dark eyes glance sideways as the other man clapped politely when the song ended. He seemed pleased himself as well. Merhib turned his gaze back to Neva and clapped, giving a whistle to her. Neva laughed as soon as she heard it, stepping aside to let the next person play.

Merhib glanced over his shoulder one more time as Neva set her guitar down and made her way over, and he noticed the other man briefly staring back at him, too.

Could he have really—

“Hey!”

Merhib turned back to Neva and grinned, pulling her close, pale hands on her back and pressing her against him. She stood on the tips of her feet and kissed him excitedly.

“Were you spacing out or something?” Neva smirked, wrapping her arms on his shoulders, one of her hands sliding through the back of his ginger, curled hair. He shook his head.

“Nah,” he pressed his forehead to Neva. She snickered.

“You’re a bad liar,” Neva teased. Merhib slid his hands to Neva’s hips and smirked back with a quiet chuckle. “Just like always.”

“Stop,” he teased. Neva laughed again and moved to give him another kiss.

A clearing of someone’s throat stopped the two. On instinct, Merhib quickly pulled himself off of his girlfriend. Neva brushed a curl behind her ear and shuffled on her feet, eyes down despite the soft smile on her face.

“Sorry,” said Neva quickly. It was the man Merhib had been watching. The moment his girlfriend lifted her eyes, she became excited once again. “Professor Bosteau! Oh, I’m so sorry, hello!”

“Hello to you too, li’l lady,” he smiled back. Merhib felt one of his hands curl and uncurl. He shoved his fist into his pocket, other hand holding Neva’s. “Sorry for interrupting. I was just wondering if this was your artwork here.” A worn finger gestured to the paintings and sketches behind her. Neva nodded excitedly.

“Y-yes, these are mine,” she felt her cheeks flush as she stepped aside to show her artwork, pulling Merhib with her. “All stuff I’ve done this year.”

“What grade and age are you, my dear?” Professor Bosteau bent closer to the paintings to examine them, squinting past a small pair of glasses over his eyes.

Neva’s smile was at risk of falling off her face. “I-I’m sixteen,” she looked up at her boyfriend with hope in her brown sparkling eyes. “Just turned sixteen, actually. I’m a junior.”

“Your work holds a lot of expression,” the Professor nodded. “Pretty hard to see in artists your age. They’re having too much or a hard time in technique to express it. You need a little more technicality in your brushstrokes and blending,” and he moved his fingers in the air, close to the paintings, and Neva hung on his every word, “but I’m sure with practice in the next art class up, you’ll be in a fantastic place. Have you considered attending Riverview Community College?”

“Yes, actually,” Neva twirled a lock of her hair excitedly, “I-I actually really like the campus and I’m keeping my fingers crossed I get you as my art professor, sir.”

“Aw, shucks,” Professor Bosteau chuckled. “You hold me with too high an honor. But thank you. I’m flattered either way. I’ve got to visit some of the other artists, but—“ and he took both of Neva’s hands in his and shook them, “—I do hope I see you again, and I wish you luck. What was your name?”

“Neva Arazel,” the young girl beamed. Professor Bosteau nodded. As he made his way, Neva danced in her spot. Merhib stared at John in disbelief.

“Merhib, did you hear?” she asked excitedly, wrapping her arms around his shoulders and kissing him eagerly. “He liked my stuff!”

“Yeah,” Merhib pushed out the best smile he could. Neva looked at him unsure.

“You okay?” Her words brought him back for a moment. Merhib blinked and gave a smile, more sincere and full.

“Yeah,” he said. “I just wanna get some air.” Neva gave him a kind smile and linked his fingers with hers.

“We can head out,” she said. “Thank you so much for being here with me.” Merhib smiles and kissed her forehead.

“Anything for you.”

——

At sixteen years old, he made the way to the old wailing house.

Legends told of a ghost living there, a soul who was lost and punished to face total damnation, roaming the earth and to never escape into a peaceful afterlife. They said he was a man tortured by his past, by atrocities he committed in the past. Young people went there often on dares, see who was brave, see who was too afraid. People who previously didn’t believe in ghost were terrified by the reality they saw.

But he wasn’t here on a dare. He was here based on his grandfather’s notes and the information he gathered on the legend.

Merhib couldn’t ask his driver to take him without his father finding out. So, instead he hailed for a taxi to take him as far as he could, then walked the rest of the way though the infamous woods of Riverview. He followed the river the town was named after to find his way into the woods, keeping his flashlight and both his and Zachary’s notebooks close to himself.

He was going to face it. The demon that resided there. No, the ghost. He would speak with him. Make contact. It would be an incredible advancement.

Merhib walked up to the creaking steps of the porch and held tight to his journals. Tucking his flashlight under his other arm, he gently opened the door.

The smell of death flooded his nose.

Merhib held back a gag, grabbed his flashlight and switched it on. He slowly wandered from the front hallway to the living room, both frightened and fascinated. His grandfather said people he worked with years ago lived there. Both went missing, at different times. With his grandfather now passed, his research was all he had left to go off of for his guidance.

Merhib felt the whole house sway for a moment, but not like an earthquake. For a moment, he thought the wind was beating against the old place. But the namesake of the home...

Merhib took only another step further before the ghost revealed itself.

“Intruder,” the house seemed to whisper, as though thousands of voices were intertwined with the wood and walls, the floorboards and every creek. Slowly, a faint blue glow made itself known. Merhib stared wide-eyed at it. The ghost. He was real.

“You shouldn’t be here,” the ghost whispered. “No one should be here. Not in this damned place.”

“I-I’m sorry for intruding,” Merhib spoke up, and he realized his pale, long and thin hands were shaking. “I-I came here to—“

“Stare at the monster, didn’t you,” the ghost interrupted. “Came on a dare. I know how you youths are.”

“That’s not it at all!” Merhib gave a weak, nervous smile and soft laugh. “I-I came because... because I want to know who you are.” The ghost seemed confused. He slowly floated down from above the young man and faced him. Merhib could see just how tired, how worn the spirit was.

“No one should know who I am,” the ghost sighed. “I am... I am a pathetic excuse of a man, I’m a monster.”

“I don’t think of you like that at all.”

“You hardly know me, young man.”

Merhib held out his hand, startling the ghost. He gave another small smile, “My name is Merhib.”

“People... call me Ghost now,” Ghost said, but didn’t touch Merhib’s hand. He slowly set his hand back down. “What... what do you have there?”

“Oh, uh,” Merhib blinked and looked at the books in his hands. “Research. From my grandfather. It’s how I began to learn that people like you are out there.”

“Monsters?”

“I wouldn’t put it that way, Mr. Ghost.” He fumbled with all the objects in his hands momentarily, “Uh, a-and I have my own notebook, too. I wanted to get to know you. Learn about you. You’re incredible.”

The words didn’t sit right with Ghost, “You should not say those sorts of things, Merhib. It can lead you on a dark path.”

“H... how so?”

“You could make the same mistakes as me.”

“What... mistakes did you make?”

Ghost hesitated, and the whole house seemed to creek. He sighed, and confessed, “For the sake of my warning to you... I’ll tell you. I once worked at a laboratory. We... we researched people like me. Ghosts. Witches. Psychics, mermaids, all sorts of creatures. We studied them until they were in pain. Until they were dead. I... I hurt these creatures, a-and some were children—“ The house started to violently vibrate again. Merhib dropped his books and light, feeling the ground shake. As the ghost cried and wailed, Merhib found it harder and harder to stay on his feet. The boards creaked and broke; the ghost cried and cried, no words coming from his mouth anymore. Drowned out by his regret. Merhib looked around for something to hold on to. As he tried to move, he slipped on his light and books and fell to the floor.

Merhib saw something from higher above shake. The roof was caving in. He tucked his arms over his head as one of the windows vibrated and shattered near him. Unveiling himself, he looked up as the roof was ready to fall.

“Stop!!”

He instinctively held his arm up, up at the caving roof, as the wood already began to fall, and it stopped. Eyes shut tight, Merhib was still prepared to get hurt. The house still shook for a moment, until Ghost noticed what the young man was doing. He watched the parts suspended in air for a brief moment before it all fell back down. Merhib rolled out of the way, but nothing else fell. The house stopped shaking.

“How did you—?”

“I’m sorry,” Merhib got up and dusted off his vest, “I-I didn’t mean to bring up something that was going to destroy the house.” Ghost went quiet and looked sheepish.

“I shouldn’t... have reacted in such a way,” he murmured. “But don’t you see? It’s dangerous here, it’s dangerous to talk about what’s happened.”

“I... see,” Merhib slowly nodded. He picked his flashlight back up and looked around for his notebooks. Ghost floated towards one. He recognized the handwriting, and his wounds oozed from the back of his head, the house turned cold. Merhib went to grab the other notebook, when he saw Ghost staring down at it.

“Um—“ Merhib reached for the notebook, but Ghost’s cold gaze stopped him. “My—m-my book—?”

“This is not yours,” Ghost whispered. “This was his.”

“His?”

“Zachary Collins.” The dead man’s words held venom as he spat out the name in disgust. Merhib slowly picked up his notebook.

“H-he was my grandfather,” he said. “He died a while back. Left all this stuff for me.” The house vibrated again, but it was a different kind. Not of wailing. Not of mourning. Of hate. Of rage.

“That—that monster—!!”

“Huh?!”

Merhib ducked his head again and avoided more rotted, broken wood falling. Ghost seemed to turn monstrous, violent. His glow was intense, matching the rage and pain in his eyes. Merhib stared at him in fear.

“He—he did this to me—“ Ghost gripped his head. “He convinced me to work there! Told me what I was doing was right, he threatened me, Adam, he was cruel, he encouraged us—he told us to kill them, they were just children—!!”

Merhib managed to reach a table and duck under it. Everything was falling, everything was shaking, and it felt like it followed him wherever he turned. The rage was directed at him.

“I-I’m not him!” Merhib shouted about the noise, the sheer calamity, but the ghost’s rage continued. He pointed out, out the front door.

“Leave!!” Ghost’s voice turned monstrous. “Leave and never come back!!” Merhib grabbed his light and books and ran out of the house as fast as he could. He feared that if he didn’t, the entire place would collapse onto him. He tumbled into the dirt and stared at the place in shock.

Merhib slowly stood up and turned back to follow the river, back to town. He wiped away the blood from his tumble and the dirt the best he could before he hailed for another taxi. Climbing in once one finally showed up, he told the driver to go back to Shoreline Manor, and the entire drive, Merhib continued to flip through the pages and think about the ghost.

His grandfather’s ramblings were true. All he wrote about were true. Despite everything, he was still a brilliant scientist, a man who wouldn’t let anyone stand in the way of his progress. That wasn’t inherently bad. But if what Ghost has said were true...

He would get answers. He wouldn’t do it how Zachary did, though. Ghost gave him plenty warning against it. But the answers would come to him. All would know.

[wallpaperpainter]

Is Cartoon Watercolor Painting Still Relevant? | Cartoon Watercolor Painting

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Flynn will be presenting 19 works, including bristles alloyed media sculptures and 14 acrylic paintings. Flynn’s appearance is featuring four 36-inch-by-36-inch canvasses, all of which were created during the coronavirus communicable calm order.

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