#drawn a few months back for a project i got permission to post from

[arceoptryx]

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[nepenthendline]

Study Date - Kuroo

!N*FW! (1.9k)

This is a commission​ with permission to post! Find about my commission details in my description!

Also Kuroo 100% uses nerdy pick up lines I don’t accept criticism

This was originally done in headcanons but copy and pasting it didn’t work so it’s just paragraphs now, just in case bits don’t make sense lol

You and Kuroo ended up becoming close since you were the only two that seemed to put in any effort in your classes, particular science classes that you both enjoyed greatly. He was drawn to how, whenever you finished up your own work, you would turn to those around you in case they needed help with theirs as often your friends would ask for your assistance. You were like the power-couple in a lot of your classes since you two would always get amazing grades on your projects together, and how both of you would be the first to answer a question right for the teacher. 

What people didn’t see though, was the hours of hard work and focus you both put in outside of school, knuckling down and studying until it was late so you could maintain your good grades. It was lucky you both enjoyed just spending time together without doing much since you were always so busy studying. But even just being in the same room without talking and all of your attention on the books laid out in front of you filled you with content.

You had an exam coming up in the next few weeks, and Kuroo had been so busy with volleyball matches that you planned a study date. Partly so you could both do some work, but also as an excuse to see him. He greeted you at the door with some snacks, a ton of textbooks and a tight hug. He kissed your forehead, telling you how much he had missed you since he had been so busy that made your cheeks burn as you ducked away so he didn’t notice. He did though, and he teased you for being ‘so cute’ and how it make him want to ‘cuddle and squeeze you even more’. You headed to your room where you had your books set up across your bed, and Kuroo arranged his on the floor so you had enough space.

For a couple hours you both spent your time flicking through your books, asking each other questions occasionally and watching the odd yotube video to explain some parts. However, just because Kuroo was so studious and responsible, didn’t mean he was completely free of foolery.

“Hey, Y/N,” he whispered, catching your attention. You lifted your book to look at him, expecting him to ask you a question about the work. “Do you have 11 protons? Because you’re sodium fine,” he said with a smirk. You were speechless for a moment, before burying you face in your hands and letting out a whine.

“What the hell? You can’t just do that,” you pout at him as he chuckled. After a few minutes you were able to recover and carry on with your work, but it wasn’t long until Kuroo spoke up again.

“Hmm, baby?”  

“Yeah?”

“I could really see myself periodically doing you on a table” Your mouth hung open, and you leaned over from you bed to swat at him.

“Stop it! That was so bad!” you were both laughing, you from embarrassment and him as he watched you try and reach him from you bed. Once you got close enough, he pulled on your arm, sending you tumbling from you bed and into his lap. Luckily, he caught you but the force had sent him falling back too, resulting in you hovering over him.

“I guess my pickup line worked then,” he teased with a wink. You groaned as you went to lift yourself away from him, but he pulled you back down. “We’ve been studying for hours, we can take a little break and cuddle,” he mentioned, pulling you into his chest and he closed his eyes. You were stiff for the first few moments, but eventually settled in to his warm touch.

You both laid there for a while, relaxing and listening to each other’s breaths - it had been some time since you were able to have a calming moment like this with him. You nuzzled into his neck, pressing a few tentative, gentle kisses on his skin as he ran his fingers over your back. He tucked his head lower to meet yours, giving you a warm smile before pressing a kiss on your forehead and then your lips. You kissed him back, lingering for a few seconds between each. He placed one hand on your cheek, keeping you close by and feeling the heat on his palm. You kissed for a few minutes, each one getting more heated and desperate. 

Soon, he rolled you over so you laid beneath him and he hovered above. He kissed your lips again, then moved to your forehead and cheeks. Giving you a smile, he delved back in for you lips as his tongue found yours. One hand still on your cheek brushed over the skin and the other found its way up the bottom of your shirt to your hip. He kneaded the flesh in his grip making you melt further in his touch.

His hand raised upwards towards your chest; his rough fingers feeling around at your skin then cupping your boob over your bra. You pulled away slightly, unexpecting of his move and he looked at you with concern.

“Is this ok? We can stop if you want,” but you shook your head and leaned up to tuck your head in his neck and you shyly asked him to continue. He laid you back down and kissed down your neck, making your eyes flutter at the feeling. Your hands threaded in his unruly hair as he worked his way down, kissing your chest that was exposed under your shirt. He hooked the bottom of it around his fingers and, with your help, pulled it off.

“You’re so gorgeous, Kitten,” his eyes scanned you with a smirk, then carried on with his lips. He carefully unhooked your bra, peeling it off and taking your breasts in each hand, giving them a gentle squeeze as his mouth worked over them. Your heart was beating so fast at his touch, and you squirmed a little as his tongue flicked over your nipples. He kissed his way down your stomach and, when he reached your jeans, he buttoned them slowly, taking his time to pull them down your legs. You whined a little at his teasing, receiving a light chuckle from him as he, then, worked on pulling down your underwear too. You covered your face with your hands after you were stripped naked, shy from his gaze

“Don’t hit yourself from me love, I want to see that beautiful face,” he tugged gently as your arms, pulling them away and pressing a kiss to your cheek. After asking if you were good to continue, his hand moved down to graze your pussy, feeling your wetness. You squeezed your eyes closed as he slowly rolled your clit under his fingers – you could feel his stare on you, burning into you. He picked up the pace a little and you let out heavy breaths as the pleasure started to build. One of your hands gripped his arm to steady yourself as he worked your body, feeling the muscles contract and release with his movements

As you started letting out quiet moans, he moved his hand lower, working one finger into your opening. He could feel you clench around him, the warmth and wetness sucking him in. As you relaxed a little, he added another, gently stretching the muscle for you to take his fingers. He, expertly, curled his fingers upwards how he knew you liked and you released a high-pitched whine that make his cock twitch. You were almost leaking onto the floor with how wet you were as his fingers moved in and out of you, and he added a third to prep you for his dick.

You could feel the knot in your stomach forming from his actions already, but he soon removed each finger. Yours eyes shot open at the emptiness you felt, but your eyes fell on Kuroo resting back on his heels, undoing his belt as he watched you. He quickly shed himself of his clothes, leaving you both bare. His body was broad and toned from years of volleyball training – especially his thighs that had grown thicker in the past few months, and his arms that looked and felt so strong.

Moving a hand down to his dick, he pumped it a couple times as he ran the other over your body and leaned forward to kiss your lips. After a few moments, he leaned back again to grab a condom from your draw and slipped it on. He positioned himself back over you, leaning his forehead on yours as he rocked his hips forward slowly to press himself into you. You let out a small gasp at the stretch of his thick dick, and hooked an arm around his neck. Once you settled, he pulled back his hips then pushed back deeply into you in a paced manner. Your lip was between your teeth and your head tilted back as you let the pleasure run through your body. His mouth attached back onto your neck, kissing and nibbling down it as he let out quiet groans that vibrated onto your skin.

Your free hand cupped his cheek and pulled him to your lips, working your tongue around his and kissing him deeply. His thrusts weren’t fast, but they let you feel every tiny ridge and twitch of his dick. Fumbling a hand down, he rubbed slow circles on your clit to bring you closer to your release and pulled his mouth away.

“You feel so good around me, you’re so good love,” he moaned out – the sound headed straight to your core. Both of your breathing was heavy as you looked at each other, seeing each other’s eyes so close up and full of love and lust. He picked up the pace in desperation, pulling you both further towards your climax.

“Cum for me baby, let me hear those pretty noises,” he taunts in pants, and after a couple trusts, you do just as he says. You moan in broken sounds as the pleasure bursts in your stomach, clenching and pulsating around him that brought him to his own orgasm where his head flung back and his eyes squeezed shut. His cock felt so hot inside of you as it rode you through your high in staggered movements.

You both tried to catch your breath as you came down, chests rising and falling quickly. He opened his eyes to gaze down at you – you looked so gorgeous with your hair a mess and your lips swollen. His fingers raised to brush some of your hair from your face and grazed down the side of your cheek, letting out a content hum.

“I love you,” he murmurs, a little too warn out to speak louder. You relax into his touch, turning your head to follow his fingers’ movements.

“I love you too.” After a deep breath, he slowly pulls out of you, disposing of the, now, full condom.

“Let’s get you comfy Kitten,” he says, his voice gentle as he helps lift you up onto your plush bed. He grabs some tissues from you table, wiping you down and placing occasional kisses over your body. When he finished, he got under the covers beside you, lifting his arm so you could tuck into his chest.

The two of you stayed silent as you revelled in the afterglow. Many minutes and slow breaths past before he spoke.

“Baby?”

“Hmm?”

“Are you made of copper and tellurium? Because you look really CU-TE to me.”

[wayward-mikaelson]

The Run In

Word Count: 4692

Pairing: Misha x Reader 

Characters: Reader, Misha, Diego (OG Character), Xander (OG Character), Divorce Lawyer, Police Receptionist, George (OG Character), Female Officer, and Male Officer

Summary: The Reader gets away from her abusive husband. After bumping into a stranger, the Reader forms a friendship with him which the Readers soon-to-be ex-Husband finds out about. 

Disclaimer: Language, Angst, Fluff, Mentions of Domestic Violence, Mentions of degradation, Blood, Implied Smut

Disclaimer 2: This work of fiction contains Domestic Violence. If you have been a victim of DV please read at your own discretion. If you are in a DV situation please call 1-800-799-7233, of you’re unable to speak safely, you can log onto thehotline.org or text LOVEIS to 22522. YOU ARE NOT ALONE. If you are in an emergency, call 911. There are also DV/IPV programs and shelters in your area who can help you. 

Disclaimer 3: Any of the shorts that are hot and steamy, I want to put out there that it's in no way disrespectful towards Vicki at all. I love her to death and respect that marriage between her and Misha. So when reading those shorts, know that it all takes place in an alternate world where they aren't married at all.

A/N: Sorry this is late. I have been hitting some sort of writing block. I have the words in my head but for some reason I can’t get them out. 

A/N 2: Tag your anyone who loves Misha! 

*18+ Content. Anyone younger than 18 will need to move along. I do not want to risk my account being deleted. 

**Please DO NOT copy and paste my work anywhere WITHOUT my permission and WITHOUT giving me the proper credit. I work way too hard on my work and don’t want it to get stolen.

***This work is also posted on Instagram, Wattpad, and AO3. Go show it some love over there.

****Please follow me on my other accounts Instagram, Wattpad, Twitter, and AO3

*****DMs are CLOSED for REQUESTS. I gotta finish up my other two projects. 

Forever Tags: @donnaintx​ @myinconnelly1​ @magssteenkamp​ @elansaidaris​ @hobby27​ @440mxs-wife​ 

I sit alone in the apartment, huddled on the couch. The fight had been bad this time. I mean, all fights with Diego were bad but, this one in particular had been pretty bad. I look around the trashed apartment and try not to replay the events that took place almost an hour before. The television was busted, a couple chairs had been thrown over, the mirror my mother had salvaged and repurposed for me was destroyed, glass was everywhere, and my grandmothers clock she passed down to me was busted up.

I don't know how I got here.

I don't know how I let it get so bad.

I slowly get up off the couch and watch my step all the way to the bathroom. I flip the light on and there, glowing bright red, on my face is the handprint of my husband. The throwing of things has been going on for a couple years. Hitting is new and Diego never hit me until recently. I should have left him months ago. Maybe even years ago.

After that first hit.

It was after a Christmas party at his office. We got into a fight about me talking to his co workers and about the dress I wore. He said he had been embarrassed by it all. I'm the stand you ground type of woman who snaps back. The moment I had snapped back, was the moment Diego hit me. Diego has been surprised so he left for the evening. I should have just packed and left. I didn't, I waited an apology that never really came and when it did, I knew he didn't mean it.

Tonight, it was about the fact I went out with a few friends and forgot about dinner for Diego. When I came home with take out, he lost it. Called me every name in the book. Threw things and hit me and left.

I slowly touch the already welting mark. I suck in a sharp breath when my cool hand touches the raw skin. It stings so bad that even my tears make it sting. I look at myself again in the mirror. "How pathetic," I whisper to myself. "How pathetic of you to have stayed this long over a boy that can't handle his anger. That's going to change."

I walk out of the bathroom to the room Diego and I share together. I head straight towards the closet and pull out a duffle back and begin to fill with the important things. Clothes. Some shoes. Bathroom and shower necessities. I swap out purses, leaving both my car keys and phone in my old one. I can't risk having Diego try looking for me. I log into my bank account and change every security question and answer. I close my eyes. I never thought I would need to do this yet here I am.

I look around the apartment one last time. My eyes land on the photo from our wedding day. I grab it and rip the picture from the frame. I take a lighter and set it ablaze in the kitchen sink with a few other photos. Taking a deep breath, I finally make my exist from the apartment.

I walk to the nearest bus stop and wait for the bus to show up. Even in the dark it's difficult to hide my swollen face from the world. So I keep it down and tucked behind the collar of my coat. When the bus finally shows up, I get on it and pay my fair. I go sit in the back and ride it all the way to where I need to get off. The ride is quiet. A few people stare at me when they catch sight of my face. I turn away from them and keep my face hidden away. I stare at my bags and think, this is all I have now. A few clothes, money, these bags, a few personal items, etc.

The bus stops and I quickly grab my bags and get off. I turn this way and that looking for the building I need to go into. I spot it, It's hidden behind some trees and another bus stop across the street. I make my way across the street and into the police station.

There is a lady sitting at the front desk. It looks like she's packing up to go home. She gives me a friendly smile and sets her bag aside.

"What can I do for you?" She asks. I see her zero in on the mark on my face and the look in her eyes looks like she's about to cry. "I think I know what papers you need." She turns and leaves the area and returns with a few papers in her hands. She slowly hands me the papers and a pen. "Do you need a safe place to fill these out? Theres a room I can take you to."

I nod, I want to cover as much of my trail and steps as I can. Diego is a smart man. He will soon learn I left him and will soon come looking for me. The lady walks me to a room with a table. She tells me that she won't close the door because some people in my situation get triggered. She walks to the officer that is sitting at a desk across the way and tells him something while pointing to me. The officer looks at me and then nods to the woman.

I look down at the Order of Protection and Restraining Order papers and take a deep breath. When I start to fill the paper out, I notice that I am still wearing my wedding ring and band. I take them off and set them in my bag. As I finish my paper work, I slowly get up and walk out of the room. The officer sees me and slowly approaches me.

"I can take care of this for you," He says reaching for the paper. "Now how about we get some ice for that mark and have a look to make sure it isn't more than raw skin." The officer sits me down and leaves. When he comes back he has a small ice pack and places it on my face. The cool pack feels so nice.

"I have a question," I say as the officer pulls out a first aid box and starts to look at my face.

"Yeah?" he responds.

"Is there a way to put in your system that I am not a missing person but on the run from my husband?" I flinch when the officer wipes my face with the alcohol wipe.

"Sorry," He starts to apply an antibiotic to my face. "If or when your husband comes to us looking for you, our system will actually show that these orders are on him. What will happen is that they will take your information and tell him he has two days until you are declared missing. In that time frame he would have been served with the restraining order." The officer puts a large band aid over my face.

"Good," I say.

"How long?" the officer asks.

"Long enough to finally say fuck it and leave his ass."

***

A few days pass. I'm staying at a hotel and paying by the day. I purchased a brand new phone and got a new number. I called my parents and told them what was going on. They were mad and sadden by the situation but are happy that I got out when could. I got word from my officer friend that the restraining order was delivered but he said that Diego didn't look happy.

A week passes and I am still staying at the hotel. Not many apartments won't rent to me until I'm legally separated from Diego. I meet with a lawyer to have divorce papers drawn up and served to him but according to her, once the papers were signed, it would take a few months for them to be filed.

"Now all we need to do is get you two in here to sing these?" the lady says.

"About that," I fold my hands. "I have a protection order and restraining order on him."

The lawyer nodded her head. "I see. Well, I will have someone deliver to him and see if he will sign them. Just be prepared," She reaches for my hand and takes it in hers. "Some men like him, they will stall this as much as they can to get you to meet in person."

I nod. "I understand, in that case, if I have to meet him, I will have someone I trust with me."

As predicted, a week later, the lawyer calls me ups and tells me that Diego refuses to sign. Says I'm having a mental breakdown and needs to just come home so we can work it out. The lawyer also mentions that Diego had said that I'm lying about him throwing things that it's all me and that he only hit me in self defense because according to him, I slapped him before he slapped me.

I sit back in my hotel room in hot anger. I can feel the steam of my anger coming off my skin. I'm angry he won't sign the papers. I'm angry he started to make up shit about me. But jokes on him, I kept a private album on my iCloud of all the times he hit me. It my friends idea, she encouraged me to document it all somewhere where he doesn't know the password to. She passed away about a year ago from getting hit by a drunk driver.

"I'm going to need a printer," I say looking at the countless pictures of abuse.

***

The next day I go out and purchase a decently priced printer. And a decent laptop since everything was on my phone. As i'm walking down the street back to my hotel, with my things, I find myself falling onto hands and knees. The printer box rolled a few feet from me. I hope it isn't damaged, I think slowly sitting back on my knees and just staring at it.

"Oh my goodness," a voice says. "I am so sorry."

I look up to see a man with a ragged hair, black sunglasses, a black t-shirt with a jean jacket over it, and dark skinny jeans reaching down to help me up to my feet. I take his hand and slowly get to my feet. I notice the scruff framing the rest of his face. The sun shines perfectly behind him and I can't help but feel drawn to him.

"I should have watched where I was going and make sure there wasn't a beautiful woman carrying a large object," the man says turning to pick up my printer. "Doesn't look damaged from the outside."

I smile and feel my face burning. I'm sure it's bright red. "It's okay, I should have called an Uber instead of walking three blocks. I'm sorry about your coffee." I gesture to the fallen cup and spilled contents on the sidewalk. "Let me buy a new one."

The man laughs and waves a free hand. "No need to waste your money on my accident."

"What can I do?" I ask after I made sure my laptop box was fine.

"How about you let me help you with this so another person doesn't run into you?"

Taking a deep breath, I accept the strangers offer.  We walk the last block talking about the city. When we get to the hotel, this man offers to carry the printer all the way up to the room. Didn't even question if I was living there.

"Thank you for doing this," I tell him as he sets the box on the small table.

"Anything," he smiles. "And when you are ready to search for apartments I know of a few good ones."

I give a small smile. I guess it's obvious that I was living in the hotel. "Thanks," I watch as he walks himself to the door. "I did never get your name." I call after him.

"Misha," he smiles. "Collins."

***

A month goes by and I am no longer looking like a crazy person after submitting all my pictures to my lawyer. Still Diego refuses to sign the papers unless he can meet with me alone. Of course I say "fuck no."

"If you want to be rid of him forever, then you have to compromise," my lawyer tells me.So I makes plans for the inevitable. But I have my officer buddy tagging along with me to the meeting.

I stare at the divorce papers and I am praying Diego will sign them at our meeting. But I doubt it. Ever since I left him, I started to see the red flags. Even friends that I still have and that haven't been manipulated by Diego, have told me they saw the way he treated me and spoke to me.

I need fresh air.

I get out of the hotel and walk to the the nearest park. It has a lake right in the middle of it. I rest my arms on the railing and then drop my head on my arms. This is more stressful than when I planned a wedding with Diego. I'm closing a door on almost seven years of marriage.

Diego was never like this. Even when we dated for five years. He was always so sweet, so kind, understanding, etc. He would buy me flowers for no reason. My apartment would be covered in them and I would tell him that I would donate some to nursing homes just to make room. I don't know what snapped in Diego to make him the way he was now.

Sighing I look up and stare at the lake. There is a small flock of ducks swimming passed me. Their color feathers shine in the afternoon. It puts a smile on my face. Something that is hard for me to do lately with everything going on.

"I was wondering when that smile would come," a familiar voice makes me turn to my left. There, a few feet away from me, Misha stands. I haven't seen or spoken to him since he left my hotel after giving me his number.

A number I never called or texted.

I had too google him to see if I could find anything on him. Well, I found a crap ton on him. An actor who did a crap ton of good. He is loved by millions.

"How long have you been standing there?" I ask. Another smile creeping onto my face.

"Not long," he says walking closer to me. "Just long enough to see that frown turn upside down." He gives a small smile. "Are you still at that hotel?"

I chuckle. "I am, I haven't had the time to look at apartments. I've been preoccupied trying to get my soon to be ex-husband to sign divorce papers."

Misha leans up on the railing along side me and looks at the ducks. "Maybe he's holding out to want to try and work things out with you?"

I laugh. "No, he's abusive and isn't having it with me being in control of myself now. The night I left him, it was really bad. It took a while for the mark he left on me to go away. Then he tried to convince my lawyer that I was having a mental breakdown."

"I'm sorry," Misha pulls back from the railing and pulls out his wallet and shows me a penny. "Here's to him signing the papers so you can officially be free of him." He tosses the penny into the water. "Are you doing anything, tomorrow?" He asks.

"Besides meeting Diego to get him to sign papers? No." I answer twiddling my thumbs.

"How about after you meet with him, I take you to look at apartments?" He leans towards me with a smile. "I can get you a really good deal. I'll even drive, so we don't have to walk."

"Sure."

***

"He's late," Xander says stirring his now cold coffee. Xander is the officer that helped me the night after  I left Diego. Xander was also the one who helped set me up at the hotel I'm staying at. Xander's wife, was a domestic violence victim and he was the officer that pulled his ex husband off her. They didn't get hook up until a year later when they ran into each other. They have been married for almost ten years with two kids.

"Just give it a few minutes," I say contemplating buying another coffee eying the divorce papers on the table.

Five minutes later, Diego waltz into the Starbucks and spots us. A smile spreads across his face when he sees me. Then it instantly fades when he sees Xander. He crosses the little shop in a few short strides. His black shoes squeaking from the rain outside.

"So," he sits down and crosses his arms. "Is this who you left me for? Some wanna a be body builder."

Xander smirks. "No, I'm actually a police officer. Since YN here has a few orders drawn up on you it's best that she have the right protection. Even in a public place." I notice that as Xander leans over he has his badge in his hands.

Diego looks over to me. "Can' you stop being so dramatic about this? So that we can just do this alone"

"Not ever going to happen," I say firmly. "And I'm not dramatic. Not about you hitting me."

The look in Diego's eye's grows dark but he puts on a fake smile. "I would never hurt you," He looks around as a few people over heard what I said. "I can't believe you're still on that."

"Look," Xander leans back and pushes the papers towards Diego. "All YN needs you to do is sign these. This game you're trying to play, just keeps hurting her."

Diego stares at Xander. "I don't think I will." He pushes the papers back and starts to get up. "Until next time."

"You're just going string this along aren't you?" I stood up so fast that Xander's coffee spilled. "I don't want to be married to you anymore. I stopped wanting that when you threw the first book and kicked a hole in the wall. I stopped when you hit me. I just let it go on for so long that I forgot how to not walk on eggshells. You don't own me. I don't love you. So sign the fucking papers."

Diego stares at me. I hadn't realized, but I pretty much yelled. I gather my bag and make my way out. Xander follows me.

"Hey," He hands me the papers. "Do you need me tot drive you back?"

"No, a friend is picking me up," I pull my phone out and text Misha. "He should be meeting me in a few minutes. He's taking me to look at apartments."

***

Another month goes by and I'm moved into my new apartment. All thanks to Misha and his ways of persuasion. I got the first six months half off. It was a nice little one bedroom apartment with a little den. Misha even convinced me to let him buy the furniture sets I had my eye one in a catalog.

"I'm just use to working hard for stuff like this," I say when the last of the movers move the stuff in. "I literally don't know how to thank you. Even just saying 'thank you' doesn't seem to be enough."

Misha laughs. The laugh takes up his entire body. "Just a simple thank you would be enough. Unless you want me to come up with a way to convince you to let me take you out to dinner. As friends of course."

I feel my cheeks start to burn. This dude is smooth. "Okay, dinner, as friends, it is."

Misha smiles big. "Awesome, now lets get this place looking as good as you."

For the next two days, Misha is over helping me settle down in my apartment. Whenever he leaves for food or whatnot, he always comes back with something to add to the place. I didn't even argue once.

The time I spent with Misha, he always hyped me up for stuff, he said things how it was and never ever sugar coated things, he held doors open, and gave me words of encouragement whenever I told him that Diego, again, refused to sign papers over.

Diego not signing papers was frustrating. The more time I spent with or talking to Misha, the more my feelings for him grew. But I was still tied to the asshole of a man who knew what he was doing. He knew of my interactions with Misha, he always brought it up but I would shut it down.

"He's just using you for public gain," Diego would tell me. But I knew Misha pretty well at this point. Things I've read on Twitter about him, Misha would never use someone like that.

Each meeting I had with Diego, I started to see him for who he really was. I don't even know how I fell in love with him. He's even gotten his parents convinced that I'm a lunatic. His mom would text me calling me all sorts of names and telling me that I should be the one paying for Diegos therapy sessions. She would also tell me that she knew I was trouble when he brought me home to meet them. His father wanted me to pay back every dime he had spent on mine and Diegos wedding or he would get a lawyer involved. He would even send disturbing texts saying that he's got people watching me and that I should be be careful.

I won't lie, that scared the shit out of me.

That last one pissed Misha off. I have never seen him go off about someone before. After that text, I went out and put restraining orders on Diegos parents and Misha convinced me to have someone look after me while he was gone for his show. I agreed and my new 'bodyguard' went with me everywhere and made sure I got home safe. Misha even hired a security company to set up an alarm system at my apartment.

If I didn't know better, Misha was or has developed some kind of feelings for me.

***

A year after I made my escape from Diego, I finally have my own car. Paid for all on my own. So no more walking. I park my car in my apartment parking spot and pull out my phone. I see the text from Misha, it's from an hour ago. His flight is delayed and that he would see me at some point tomorrow.

"Bummer," I lay back and watch as George, the bodyguard, pull his car into the parking spot behind me. I unbuckle and get out and watch as George do the same. Before I could get a word out, I see two police cars come up and two officers run passed me.

I slowly turn around and watch them run up to my level. My heart beats fast and I follow them. George, of course follows as well. I skip the steps two at a time and watch as one officer kicks my down. I hear yelling and banging around. Suddenly, George has both his hand on my shoulder and pulling me back as an officer finally come out.

With Diego in handcuffs. His nose is bleeding and a bruise is already forming on his face.

I pull away from George and run into my apartment. There standing in the middle of the room was the other officer talking to Misha. Misha has a busted lip and small gash on the side of his head. I notice that the glass bowl that Misha got me was in pieces and the coffee table was destroyed.

Misha sees me and I rush over to him. "Oh my gosh," I take hold of his face. "Are you okay?"

"Are you the lady who lives here?" the officer asks.

"Yes, and this is my friend," I don't my eyes off Misha.

"And the gentleman we arrested?"

"That's no gentleman," my voice is hard. "That is my abusive soon-to-be ex-husband. He has a restraining order on him."

The officer puts her note pad away. "That will explain a lot. We will contact you if we need anything else." With that, the officer left.

"Everything is all good?" Georges voice makes me turn around.

"Everything is good, George," Misha says. "You can go."

After George leaves I turn back to Misha. "You said you're flight had been delayed. What happened?"

Misha leads us to the couch and we sit down. "I only said that so I can surprise you. I hadn't been here for even an hour before he broke in. He wanted to know where you were and I wouldn't tell him. I guess a neighbor called 911 due to the yelling and stuff. Officer saw my stuff and I said my friend lives here and is letting me stay with her."

I nod my head. "I'm just happy you're okay. I don't know how Diego found me."

"It doesn't matter," Misha takes my hand. "He will answer for it in court.

And Misha was right. A week after everything went down, Diego was charged with breaking and entering, assault, and basically breaking the restraining order by stalking. I sat in during the hearing with Misha. Diego's parents tried to fight the five year sentence but the Judge said that if they said anything else before court ended he would double it without parole.

A few weeks after that, I am getting dinner ready when Misha shows up. He had been showing up a lot lately. I don't mind it at all, Misha makes me feel sane and safe.

"Hey," Misha says setting his coat on the couch. "I see that new coffee table came."

"It did, thanks to you," I say pulling a second plate down. I've learned to make a bit extra whenever Misha came over. "Also, I have some good news." I point to the orange envelope on the table. Misha looks at it and then back at me.

"Did," he starts to say.

"He sign it?" I finish his question. "Yeah, he called saying he will sign it. So I dropped by and had them take the paper to him to sign. I wasn't going to see him. They brought it back all signed. I am mailing in the morning."

"That's amazing, YN," Misha comes up to me and hugs me.

"Well, let's celebrate with dinner."

After dinner, after we clean up, we are sitting on the couch. Talking about whatever came to mind. We are talking about things we are still embarrassed by when Misha takes my hand.

"YN," He says softly. "I want to tell you something."

"Sure," I put my free hand on over his.

"I...I really care about you and I am glad that it was me here and not you when Diego broke in," Mishas voice is soft still. "I honestly don't know what I would do if you were here and he hurt you. All I ever wanted was for you to be safe."

"And I am," I slowly rub his hand with my thumb.

We stare at each other for what feels like forever when Misha pulls his hands from mine and put them on my face. His eyes look search mine for permission but I lean closer to him and brush my lips over his. He closes his eyes and I feel the shiver run through his body.

His gentle grip on my face forces my face back to his where his lips wait. They're smooth and there's a lot of passion behind his kiss. My hands run up to his collar as I move closer to him. The kiss deeps and Mishas hands trail down my sides to my hips where he pulls me onto his lap. It makes it easier for my tongue to push pass his lips and into his mouth.

Without breaking the kiss and with a low growl, Misha stands up, both arms supporting me as he walks us to the bedroom. Kicking the door shut.

[greencharisard]

I promise I'm still working on that pokemon project, but it's a pokemon-trainer set of 6 of a 'mon that's very detailed so it's taking a lot of time, and I ended up artblocked.

The first pick was the first thing I did after almost a week of not drawing, what happened is roughly this:

- Was still working on-and-off on the pokemon pic set, and a new TLK one.

- Re-downloaded Steam for some reason I can't remember.

- Found out Spore is in there with all three packs  and on sale (base game+creepy & cute+ galactic adventures)

- caved and bought it cuz it's been years and I wanted the third pack and a convinient way to access it that wasn't a 10+ y/o disc/code I've used a million times on 5 or 6 PCs.

- Played it for 3 days or so, including a day were I completely messed up my PC by tampering with the core folders (went back to normal now THANK GOD) and played switch games for that day.

- Spent another half day after fixing my PC making an EA account to have a proper acc on Spore itself (had to go forum digging, it's a mess). Then played Spore more.

- In all of this watched one HK meme video and stated getting a bajillion of them in my YT recommendeds.

- Played a bunch of switch games for a day trying to stay away from Spore and start drawing (failed).

- Decided to start playing HK again at piss off o'clock in the evening. Still couldn't get past Hornet in Greenpath.

- Next morning finally beat boss 2 and open up a MASSIVE CHUNK OF THE GAME.

- spend the next 2 or so days playing that, including most of today.

So yeah, I fried my brain, in an attempt at grudging trough the art block I tried making an OC, then also tried making self-inserts because Hollow Knight has been my lifesource for the past few week or so, while Hazbin Hotel and Helluva Boss have been one of my latest obsessions for months, so it only felt fitting to morph my crittersona to fit in those universes.

- First I wanted to draw him as an imp, technically I already drew him as a demon/sinner, so a creature native to hell seemed like the next best AU choice. I didn't think much about what he would do, I just focused on the design part itself, and even then as you can see I had quite a few ideas I tried out on the side. One of the main reasons that made me think he'd fit as an imp is that in an earlier design he had that I never posted the tip of his tail was arrow shaped instead of being just a tuft like now (I should draw that impish form again sometime, he was basically like now but not a noodle). For the clothes I kinda used stuff I own irl as inspo, while thinking "what would fit the HH/HB style?" so I used a sleeveless hoodie, a black shirt (I have a lot of those, I just made one with a generic skull pattern here), and the only pair of jeans I own that I can actually stand to wear... escept by the time I remembered I wanted to draw those I had already drawn cargo pants on him out of habit, so I just colored them like jeans instead... I would probably love pants like these lmao. Oh and chains linked to the belt loops, I actually have those too, they're made form crafstore legit normal chains, not ones made to be actually worn like this. Listen I got them in high school I was an edgy basard and I didn't know where to get stuff like that so I just asked dad to get some like this instead ok. I have a pair of normal steel and a pair of black ones, here he's wearing the latter.

- The other idea was to turn him into a HK bug, more specifically, a mosskin tribe member from greenpath, cuz it's my favorite stage of the game with how pretty it is (listen the artwork of that game is goreous ok). He would probably be a bit of a loner/outcast, always hiding with his leaf/bush cape; the lighter fuzz is part of his body. I imagine he'd be a side character you have to go out of your way to meet and interact with, and depending on how you do so his outcome in the story may vary: one option is that he just stays like normal if you befriend him, the second is he succumbs to the infaction and he ends up being a secret boss an you have to kill him, a third however is maybe he does get infected, but if you do some sort of side quest before defeating him you can cure/save him still(?) Idk. His boss/infected form is partially inspired by aspids (because they're some of the most annoying enemies and I think that fits him/me well enough :') ), he probably attacks from a distance with a combo of spitting at you directly from the ceiling and throwing bubbles of infection around the stage by swinging his tail; maybe even releasing bursts of orange gas like some other enemies when you hit him (in later pahses). And yes, the name is a pun; I noticed the characters in this game either have descriptive names/adjectives, or normal names so I went with a combo of the two.

art and characters by me, do not copy, trace, repost, reuse ecc without my permission please.

[thwip--thwip]

Hey, I was looking for some new reading material and wondered if you could give me some recs? Please and thank you sm!

ho BOY anon, COULD I! I’ve got over 2,000 bookmarks on AO3 - what are we looking for? I’m going to assume IronDad, or at the very least Peter Parker-centric; short or long? MJ or Gwen Stacy? Angst, fluff, whump? Sorry this took a minute; I went into the vault for you and pulled out some rare gems:

LONG FICS

In the Home by @captainkirkk | 68k

The Avengers have been infected, turned violent and aggressive against their will. And Peter, the only one unaffected, is trapped inside the Tower with six feral teammates.

“Natasha,” Peter says cautiously, “what happened here? Steve attacked me, and if there was ever a sign that something was wrong, it’s having the embodiment of Truth, Justice, and the American Way throw you across the room—”

Natasha comes closer, her stride controlled. Nothing necessarily out of the ordinary, but there’s something in her face, in her eyes—

Natasha lunges across the space, and slams into Peter, hard.

This just…hoo. A classic if I’ve ever seen one. There’s going to be plenty of aloneintherain on this list because she’s the bomb dot com and its no secret I’m in love. we Stan in this house; this might be my favorite Spidey fic ever written.

POW Avengers by Punny_Puck |122k

Tony Stark is thrown into a new Nazi POW camp. It’s his fifth–or sixth–and he’d really like to make it to his fiftieth escape attempt this time. But Stalag III isn’t like any of the other POW camps he’s been in. He suddenly finds himself facing an impossible task: Getting two-hundred and fifty men out of the camp in one massive escape attempt. And dammit if he’s not going to make it work.

Very impressive, very lengthy and detailed historical AU set in WWII. This one is more Tony than Peter, and quite a fair bit of Loki (this author does a great job with all the different POV’s, that’s why it’s so long!). Nice and juicy!

5 Times Peter Fell & Tony Caught Him, and The 1 Time He Didn’t by eva7673 | 35k

Peter has a nasty habit of falling. And Tony, bless him, will catch him every. single. time. Until the day he can’t.

I love this series with all of my heart, but especially this first fic! It’s the perfect amount of whump and IronDad, and oh man, that last time? GETS me. Eva definitely put in so much work on this series, and it SHOWS!

Twelve Days of Peter Parker by @upcamethesun | 27k

In each of the twelve days leading up to Christmas, Tony runs into one Peter Parker — for better or for worse.

In other words, an excuse for this author to write gratuitous Peter fluff/angst/nonsense with a Christmas theme, because ‘tis the season.

This fic is so cute I Die. Perfect bit of holiday nonsense! I read it every year lol. It’s got everything you’re looking for and more, to scratch the itch you didn’t know you had. 

ever in your favor by @iron–spider | 153k

Peter startles awake when someone shakes him.

“Sorry, honey,” May says. Peter blinks a couple times and she comes into focus, her hair pulled back from her face. She’s trying not to look a certain way, but he can see it in her eyes anyway. She clears her throat, keeps talking. “But it’s…” She glances away, wets her lips. “You gotta get ready.”

He remembers what day it is, and his heart beats like a drum at someone’s execution. But he tries to put on a mask, make it all seem normal. It’s everything but, despite the fact that he’s been dealing with reaping day since he was born, between himself, Ben and May. That fear that one of them could be taken away. Sent to surefire slaughter. But now Ben is gone, taken despite never having his name drawn from a bowl, and May’s finally safe. Now Peter’s name is in there alone. The last Parker sitting on the chopping block. He doesn’t know how to be. He doesn’t know what normal is, when the Hunger Games are looming on the horizon.

I mean…how could I possibly do a fic rec list without this on it? Iron–spider’s latest masterwork, and it truly is a masterwork. The Hunger Games AU your soul has been crying out for, and quite possibly the greatest AU to ever live. Do yourself a favor and get settled in - you’re in for a ride.

Magazineverse by @copperbadge | 56k

Heroes In Manhattan: From Captain America’s Hidden Talents To The Truth About The Hulk, We Debunk The Myths And Expose The Daily Lives Of The Avengers.

Avengers-centric, takes place post-2012. The Avengers team we deserve! The whole series is amazing, and I definitely didn’t see the twist coming (SO original, and you totally got me. Well played.)

MEDIUM FICS

devil in a sunday hat by @captainkirkk | 14k

Peter wishes he hadn’t gotten out of bed that morning. Then, maybe, he wouldn’t be reduced to this—limp-crawling through the rabbit burrows that is Oscorp Tower, a monster of a man on his heels, bloody and bruised and choking on a panic attack.

This series really speaks to Peter, and his experience as a street-level hero. I don’t think I’ve ever not cried reading this series - it’s really beautiful. Aloneintherain always manages to capture how much weight and anxiety sits on Peter’s shoulders - and how dire his consequences can really be.

5 things that change for Peter after the end of the world by @iron–spider | 14k

…and one thing that always remains the same.

(SPOILERS FOR INFINITY WAR)

Peter knows he’s different now.

The first three months were like a bubble. He didn’t think about the newness of his old life, he didn’t think about the state of the world now that it had been saved—he just worried. Worried about Tony and Steve recovering. Worried about May worrying about him. Worried about everything in general—he didn’t allow himself specifics because specifics didn’t make sense, not yet. He just focused on his routine, kept it normal, the same schedule every day so he didn’t throw himself off.

It felt like the bubble popped when the party ended, and everything became clearer. The differences in who he is now were highlighted, like there was a spotlight on his every move, like everybody could see the invisible scars the world-ending experience left on him.

The first thing he notices is the sleeping. Or lack thereof.

(a follow up to my story “the rattle of their hearts” from Peter’s POV. You can read this one without having read the original, but it would make more sense if you have read it!)

Everyone knows Rattle, and if you don’t, definitely read the first fic in this series! But this second one is really special to me (and MJ never fails to make me laugh out loud, every time). Peter’s PTSD is dealt with intimately in this fic, and I love it to bits.

the conspiracy kids by @tempestaurora | 13k

WHO IS SPIDER-MAN?

The screen showed Peter Parker, sixteen years old and determined to prove the identity of Spider-Man over the course of the three-part documentary he was making, unknowing that it would become viral within days of the first part being released. Behind the camera, way off screen, was Harley Keener, Tony Stark’s other prodigy child, grinning like crazy as Peter started the documentary. Only a few people knew what was to come, and those few people were about to have a great few weeks.

“My name is Peter Parker, and with the help of my friends, Ned Leeds, Harley Keener, and my Aunt, May Parker, who provided me with a lot of red yarn for this project, we’re going to uncover the identity of Spider-Man.”

OR

“what if peter just decided to fuck with everyone who didn’t know he was spider man and make a documentary about him trying to uncover the Truth.”

Looking for a fun, Peter-and-Harley-being-ridiculous-teenagers fic? This is the One For You. I can see it all in my head, and it never fails to make me laugh. Delightful piece of fluff and probably the best social-media-esque fic I’ve read.

Primary Reason Tony Stark Would Throw Down With An Anti-Vaxxer In The Street by @caraminha | 12k

Prompt from my Tumblr: Have you heard of tetanus? I’m studying it for school and it’s got lots of angst potential - it causes severe, seizure like muscle spasms which can break the patient’s bones, but they’re conscious and fully aware of what’s happening. It also causes fever and lockjaw, and difficulty breathing. I’d love to see an angst fic where Peter has bad tetanus and Tony and co are looking after him whilst his symptoms get worse and worse.

Looking for some Peter!whump? This fic is so sweet. Tony is Dad. What more do you need?

SHORT FICS

Come Together by @captainkirkk | 1.8k

From the ground, Tony squints at Thanos and the young heroes the villain is chasing through the city. “Are they…” Tony begins.

Steve, being lifted onto a gurney by starstruck paramedics, laughs a little. “Leading the man who almost destroyed the Earth in a wild goose chase?” In the sky, Johnny Storm sticks his tongue out at Thanos, ducking and weaving out of the villain’s grasp. “Yeah. I think they are.”

Didn’t I promise she’d be on here a billion and one times? All of her stuff is so good, for every fandom. Go READ this queen who’s been killing the game for years. This fic is such a sweet one, an Endgame fic before Peter was even in the MCU. It’s perfect.

Only Road by @garamonder | 2.8k

A rare breather between fighting should have been a relief for the Avengers. Instead, one small comment triggers a confrontation Peter had been avoiding for months.

Oh wow this one…this dialogue between Peter and Tony is incredible. One of my favorite things in a fic is a good argument, especially one where Peter has a distinct and mature point. 

Every Penny and More by Princessfbi | 1.2k

She forced herself to inhale air and hold it before releasing it from her lips. She grounded herself in the cheap vinyl in a crappy diner that she wasn’t sure she was ever going to be able to look at the same way again. She thought of the life Peter would have if she said yes because she knew that’s what all of this was about: Tony asking her permission to let him do this.

May and Tony co-parenting Peter is…oh, be still my heart. This is such a sweet little fic of something that definitely happened off-screen :’)

5 Times Spider-Man Saved An Avengers’ Ass (and the 1 Time They Saved Him) by TunaFishChris | 7.2k

What it says on the tin.

Going through an angsty Spider-Man phase. I regret nothing.

YES give me Peter x Avengers team! Peter gets a great moment with each of the Avengers, proving himself a capable hero (and getting assistance when he needs it the most :’) baby makes some friends!). Really cute, a fun little romp.

unbearable loss by @iron–spider | 1.6k

“Peter…he was so afraid, Pep,” Tony says, his voice breaking. “He…he just lunged for me, he was so afraid, he wanted—he needed someone to be there for him. And I tried, I tried—I held him, I told him he was alright, which was a—goddamn lie, and the only fucking thing that came out of my mouth. The last thing I said to him.” He shakes his head, swallowing hard. “The last thing I said to him was a lie.”

“You can’t blame yourself,” Pepper says, quietly.

“I do,” Tony says. “He trusted me. That kid trusted me, and I failed him every possible way I could have. I couldn’t save him, I couldn’t—he died in my arms and I couldn’t do one single solitary thing about it. And I couldn’t—me, the human fucking chatterbox—I just stared at him. He was dying, turning to fucking dust and apologizing to me and I just stared at him, like a moron.”

This fic Fucks. Me. Up. Iron–spider’s Tony angst is unparalleled. It hurts me every time, and the dialogue between him and Pepper is just…it’ll get you. 

yesterday, I saw a change by @captainkirkk | 6.8k

Inspired by prompt: ‘Peter is unmasked on live television, and everyone goes berserk—you’ve already heard this one but here’s the twist—he’s wide-eyed, staring into the camera, frightened, but not because of his own safety. The first thing that comes out of his mouth is, “Someone please, please protect my Aunt May.” And the entirety of New York cries out simultaneously. Heroes and neighbours and fellow students rain down on the Parker house, ready to defend her.’

This is - surprise! - a May Parker fic. This fic will move you. You will probably cry. I love it with all my heart. If I ever need a refresher on who May is and how she feels - how New York feels, about Spiderman - this is my go-to.

Hope that gave you some new stuff to check out! I have more, do I ever have more. Enjoy & remember to leave comments for all of these wonderful writers!!!

[lastsonlost]

I needed Marvel to stand by me with more work opportunities to show the trolls that I was more than a diversity hire. “

Sina Grace on Writing Iceman at Marvel: “I Was Surrounded by Cowards”

Posted by Jude Terror June 28, 2019 48 Comments

As has been documented in various Bleeding Cool articles throughout the course of the book’s two series, one of my personal favorite X-Men comics of the past few years was Iceman, written by Sina Grace, and drawn it its first volume by Alessandro Vitti and Robert Gill and in its second and concluding one-shot by Nathan Stockman. The book breathed new life into a character who it could be argued hadn’t really received significant character development since his days in X-Factor in the 1980s. It’s true that it was “The Great One” Brian Bendis who wrote Iceman outed by Jean Grey’s invasive telepathy, but it was Grace who wrote adult Iceman coming to grips with this and learning to be himself and love himself, alongside, of course, lots of mutant action and drama. The book ended too soon, when it was really just getting going, IMHO.

With all of that in mind, it’s sad but not surprising to read Sina Grace’s comments, posted to his Tumblr, about his time at Marvel writing the book and what he says was a lack of support from Marvel while he dealt with online bullying as well as a lack of support and promotion for Iceman itself.

Grace writes:

As Pride Month comes to a close, it’s time I spoke candidly about my experience at Marvel Comics.

To date, I’ve always been honest about the joy of writing Iceman’s journey as an out gay superhero, but I’ve skirted around the challenges that came along with it. This is partially because I prefer to give off an upbeat vibe, and there’s also a fear that my truth will affect my career. With more corporations patting themselves on the back for profit-led partnerships wherein celebrities take selfies in rainbow apparel, and with buzz that Marvel Studios is preparing to debut their first gay character in the upcoming Eternals movie, there is an urgency to discuss the realities of creating queer pop culture in a hostile or ambivalent environment. Hopefully, my takeaways will serve as a guide for people in positions of power to consider when advocating for more nuanced and rich representation. In an ideal world, embracing our stories and empowering us to tell them will yield far more profitable (and way less messy) results than what I encountered while writing Iceman.

Stand by your people

It’s no surprise that I got the attention of trolls and irate fans for taking on this job. There was already backlash around the manner in which Bobby Drake aka Iceman came out, and Marvel needed to smooth that landing and put a “so what” to the decision. After a point, I could almost laugh off people making light of my death, saying they have “cancerous AIDS” from my book, or insinuating I’m capable of sexual assault… almost. Between Iceman’s cancellation and its subsequent revival, Marvel reached out and said they noticed threatening behavior on my Twitter account (only after asking me to send proof of all the nasty shit popping up online). An editor called, these conversations always happen over the phone, offering to provide “tips and tricks” to deal with the cyber bullying. I cut him off. All he was going to do was tell me how to fend for myself. 

I needed Marvel to stand by me with more work opportunities to show the trolls that I was more than a diversity hire. 

“We’ll keep you in mind.”

I got so tired of that sentence.

Even after a year of the new editor-in-chief saying I was talented and needed to be on a book that wasn’t “the gay character,” the only assignment I got outside of Iceman was six pages along, about a version of Wolverine where he had diamond claws. Fabulous, yes. Heterosexual, yes. Still kind of the gay character, though.

We as creators are strongly encouraged to build a platform on social media and use it to promote work-for-hire projects owned by massive corporations… but when the going gets tough, these dudes get going real quick.

Believe in the work

You may be asking if my Iceman book was any good, or if I’m just being sour grapes over a bad work experience. Believe me, I asked that, too. From the get-go, my first editor asserted that Iceman would be DOA if it were “too gay,” while also telling me to prepare for a cancellation anyway, given that most solo X-Men titles don’t last beyond a year. Never mind that my work on Iceman had gotten positive press in the New York Times (in-print), or that in spite of (since-deleted) critical sandbagging, the series nets glowing reviews on Amazon… Marvel still treated me as someone to be contained, and the book as something to be nervous about. Do you know how hard it is to not argue with a publicist when he’s explaining the value of announcing Iceman’s revival via the Marvel homepage? Sis, that’s a burial. Instead of clapping back, I just went and got myself more press from the New York Times. From there, they tightened my leash. I had to get all opportunities pre-approved, and all interviews pre-reviewed. This would be fine if it was the standard, but I assure you: none of my straight male colleagues seek permission to go on podcasts promoting their books.

What Marvel should have done is assign me a special projects editor. They should have worked with a specialty PR firm, rather than repeat a tiresome cycle of treating the book like a square peg, and getting confused when it’s a hit.

Give us a real seat at the table

There was a moment before Iceman was cancelled where I wrote then-editor-in-chief Axel Alonso an email, pleading for a Hail Mary arc. I explained that Icemanwas landing with a newer generation of readers who focused more on binge-reading than month-to-month periodicals. The series needed time in the book market before its true strength could be assessed. To Axel’s credit, he was warm to the idea and even gave me an extra month, but when he left Marvel that idea got brushed away. Of course I was right. The first two volumes sold like gangbusters thanks to word-of-mouth, librarian love, and support from retailers big and small.

When the series returned, no one at Marvel asked me: “What do you think landed with readers?” Nor did they ask the question that Axel did: “What matters to your community?” So when I wrote what I thought the fans would be into, a story about a man learning to be a better ally in the war against hate, editorial totally missed its value.

Seat at the table pt II: The Shade of it all

All of the weird drama I put up with crystallized when I created a drag queen mutant, first called Shade, now called Darkveil. I told my editor that Shade would be a big deal for X-Fans, and asked how we should promote her. He said: “leave it up to the reader’s interpretation.” Everyone at Marvel shrugged off two years of goodwill and acted like I’d coordinated behind their backs on an announcement that made headlines. Beyond mentioning on Instagram the queens who inspired the character, I didn’t coordinate shit. Of course, their head publicist can’t admit that my quotes were pre-approved from an unreleased interview. At this point, I stopped believing that there’d be any more work for me. There were so many shady moves on their end that I’m still having trouble putting into language, but it all aligned with an experience I had in retail where a corrupt manager kept lying and moving the goal posts in order to keep me selling in a department I didn’t want to work in. I offered to give Darkveil a proper character bio, and I walked away.  

I recognize that some of my complaints can be filed under “this is freelance life.” I am aware that it was not a queer person of color who joked to me that “it’s not a matter of if Marvel fucks you over, it’s a matter of when.” That came from a cis white male. The same-day turn-arounds without warning, the work emails on Christmas week… that’s the freelance bullshit. Truly, I don’t even think of this as discrimination, I call it general ineptness. It is my belief that if we are telling stories about heroes doing the right thing in the face of adversity, wouldn’t the hope be to embody those ideals as individuals? Instead of feeling like I worked with some of the most inspiring and brave people in comics, I was surrounded by cowards.

Truly, I hate writing this. In keeping with Pride Month, I am proud of the work I did on Iceman… I love the book! It sucks that I may be tarnishing its legacy going public about how the cookies were made. That said, the time for self-congratulating is over, and folks should be earnestly listening when they ask: what could we have done better?

so what’s my take.....

Personally I think the kid got used, plain and simple. Also this should not have come as a shock to anyone.

Look at how badly they treat their customers that pay them money,                  OF COURSE THEY’RE GOING TO FUCK THEIR EMPLOYEES EVERY CHANCE THEY GET. A box full of scorpions would have had more loyalty.

@thespectacularspider-girl

______________________________

little history lesson for you kids: tokyopop did practically the same thing with the rising stars of manga. They snatched up young Talent, use them, and drop them.

[365daysoftododeku]

19th February 2019

Author: Kenyoda

Admin’s Note: The following work was written by @ebonyphd, inspired by one of @crzangel’s headcanons. You can find the headcanon here if you want to know more!

________________________________________________________________

Candid Shoutos

Izuku bit his lip as he tried not to laugh. How anyone had found a copy of Vib Ribbon and an emulator for it, Izuku would never know. But Todoroki’s absolutely perplexed expression was one for the books. He discreetly took a picture with his phone. The teen eventually gave into his urge when Shouto’s face morphed into horror when the stick figure rabbit squealed while demonstrating what happened when you missed a combination. As the others chattered around Kaminari’s emulator running laptop, Izuku pulled up the PlusInsta page on his phone and logged into the page that he ran for Todoroki. He quickly uploaded the photo with the caption:

#his face #he looks so lost #lol

Almost instantly, the like counter started climbing and comments starting flowing about 5 minutes after. They ranged from: ‘he’s so adorkable’ to ‘what is he even looking at?’ Izuku fielded a few of the questions as he chuckled at other comments. Eventually, Shouto gave up the computer after playing a few levels. The game was passed around to several of their classmates until someone suggested a new fighting game and the TV became the main source of entertainment. They both watched the tournament and both cheered when Yaomomo won. After a fuming Bakugou stormed off muttering halfhearted threats under his breath, the class dispersed.

Izuku remained parked on the couch with Todoroki right next to him. He continued to watch all the reactions to his newest post. He had been running candid_shoutos for about six months. Actually, the silly little side project had actually gotten Izuku a boyfriend. He looked over to his right to see said boyfriend had conked out on his shoulder.

His hair had fallen over his face casting a red haze over his pale skin. Shouto’s glasses were precariously hanging onto the end of his nose. Izuku’s heart melted at the sight. He was so cute. The teen took another picture. He did not post it though. That was for him alone. Izuku finally chanced waking Shouto up and removed the glasses from his nose. Shouto wrinkled his nose and muttered some garbled protest at being disturbed. He sighed and snuggled deeper into Izuku’s shoulder. Izuku flushed. Adorkable, indeed. He remembered how it had all started quite fondly…

Izuku had started the whole silly page because Shouto was convinced he wasn’t attractive. Izuku and majority of his classmates had protested vehemently that it wasn’t true. Shouto would only scoff and claim they were biased.

So, Izuku bet Shouto a favor that he could prove Shouto wrong. Ashido, who was in charge of the Class 2-A social media pages, suggested that Izuku start a PlusInsta account and post pictures. It would be simple to post things and let other people decide. Shouto agreed to the page idea with the caveat that the pictures are only candid shots, with no explanations, and that only Izuku could take them. This way the bet stayed among the three of them and Izuku couldn’t doctor the photos. They decided that they would give it two weeks. Ashido also promised to reblog the page link on the Class Insta once Izuku had it up and running.

So the following Monday, Izuku started snapping photos of Shouto doing various activities during the day, save for bathroom activities. Once classes were over, he shifted through the shots and picked the very first picture for the blog. It had simply been a picture of Shouto working on some homework during study hall. He had been perfectly poised at his desk, almost statue-like. But Izuku had zoomed in on his face, you could see the shadow of his hair on his cheek and the determined set to his eyes and jaw as his hand flew elegantly across the page. He had posted the picture with the caption:

#hard at work #go Todoroki

The first picture had gained 100 likes in an hour after Ashido had reblogged it. The blog itself had 30 followers. Izuku had posted another picture before dinner time, this one of Shouto leaning over and holding his knees after he and Izuku had come back from a run. His hair had begun curling at the ends from the sweat and his face had been flushed pink. He ended up looking at Izuku in surprise right as he had taken the picture. The number of likes it got was tripled what the other one had. The blog had a hundred followers by the time Izuku had gone to bed. The blog had also received some of its first comments. Some of them had Izuku laughing out loud:

Dear Lord! That should have come with a health warning!!! *fans self*

*sees curly ends* Omg! Todoroki has curly hair! I wonder how long it takes him to get straight?

Those eyes… just… sigh

Dude… I am kinda questioning my sexuality…

I have been questioning mine since he set himself on fire in the Sports Festival during my first year! #TodorokiShoutocausedmygayawakening

Same.

Praise whoever captured such a blessed image!

He had gleefully shown Shouto the page during breakfast the next day. The gob smacked expression on his face had left Izuku in stitches and feeling light as a feather. As the two weeks wore on, the comments and likes kept coming and Izuku kept supplying pictures. Around day 8, however, Izuku hit a bit of a snag. He was beginning to notice that he was taking far, far more pictures of Shouto than was warranted for the 2-3 random posts he made in a day. And many of those pictures remained in his phone after he deleted all the ones he didn’t like or need.

Izuku was no fool. He was well aware of his feelings for Todoroki. He just wasn’t sure how and if he should act on them. But he was forced to make a decision when he posted a picture of Shouto smiling. It had not been a huge one. A small part of his lips and his eyes squeezed shut. He had been mid-chuckle at a bad pun Kaminari had told. The comment section lost their collective minds. To this day, that photo was one of the most liked pictures on the blog.

At the time however, the picture’s popularity had left Izuku feeling sick and cold. It had occurred to him that if people loved Shouto when he was scowling, sweaty, and flat faced; they would be besotted with him when he smiled. Just like Izuku. He had spent some time looking through some of the pages that were following the blog. There were so many beautiful people on the site. People that weren’t too afraid of taking the chance to ask that beautiful boy out. People that Todoroki might say yes to. Finally, in the midst of his jealous fit, Izuku decided that once the dare was over he would make that favor count.

So, he still posted candids of Shouto like always, however, there was only that one smile picture for a long while. But as soon as the two weeks were up, the two friends had met up in Izuku’s room to discuss the outcome.

“Well…” Todoroki had said, “you won. I never realized that people actually believed that I was attractive.” He had then hung his head between his hunched shoulders. Izuku felt bad. He hadn’t thought about how weird it may have been for Todoroki, who was an intensely private person despite his tendency to be forthright and brutally honest.

“I am sorry if any of this made you uncomfortable, Shouto. Eek! I mean, T-Todoroki!” he blurted out. Shouto’s head snapped back up. His mismatched gaze pierced Izuku and made his chest tighten.

“I wouldn’t call it uncomfortable, just surprising, I guess? And no need to apologize. I agreed to the terms too after all. So, don’t worry about it… Izuku.” Shouto said after a moment. Izuku’s eyes widened. He knew that Shouto expressed a lot of himself through his actions. Izuku could easily read the permission in the use of his own given name. Izuku’s heart began gallop giddily in his chest.

“Ok, Shouto.” Izuku said with a nod.

“So, I owe you a favor now. Do you need time to think about it?” Shouto asked. Izuku hummed thoughtfully. His eyes were drawn to his desk where there was a pair of tickets to a single day pop up hero convention. It was the following weekend. Izuku had been wanting to ask Shouto to go with him but he had been too timid to do so. But now that such a gifted opportunity had presented itself…

“Nope. You’re going with me to this!” answered Izuku. He picked up one of the tickets and handed it to Shouto with a flourish. The other teen pulled his glasses from his hair and shoved them on his face. Shouto took the ticket and looked it over,

“A hero convention?” he asked. Izuku nodded nervously.

“Yeah, it’s a small one day thing. I won a pair of tickets from a podcast.” Shouto blinked at him. He then nodded.

“Ok. But are you sure you want to waste your favor on this? Wouldn’t you have more fun with Kirishima or Uraraka? They seemed to love this kind of thing.” Shouto said uncertainly. Izuku’s heart clenched. Despite being shown that he was attractive, Shouto was still a horribly insecure teenager. Much like himself.

“Well, I kinda wanted to ask you from the get go… I just didn’t want you to be weirded out or anything,” Izuku admitted quietly as he scratched at his cheek. Shouto’s confused expression turned concerned.

“Why would I be weirded out that you wanted me to go places with you?” he asked.

“W-well. I mean, you are not really a fan of crowds and I know you have some—issues with the hero industry… and I really like you and wanted to- eep!” Izuku blurted before clamping his mouth shut. Dread spread through him like tar, thick and sticky. Why did he have to ramble so much?!

“You, you like me?” Shouto breathed after a moment. Izuku looked skyward for divine intervention. But when no lightning manifested and struck him where he stood, Izuku just nodded his head meekly. He knew his face was red. After several agonizing moments, Izuku heard a quiet, “I like you, too.” His heart went wild. He stared at Shouto, trying to decide if he were kidding or not. The only thing reflected in those gem colored eyes was affection and some bashfulness.

“Oh,” he breathed giddily. “Well… how about we hold off on the favor and you just be my date instead? I’ll even buy food!” Shouto’s face turned pink and small tongues of flame shyly came to life on the tips of his red hair. Izuku wanted to die. He was so cute! So very cute.

“Um… ok. I would, like that.” He replied softly, a half smile curling at his lips. Izuku beamed back. This only caused the flames to grow. Now his entire red half was engulfed in flickering flames. It was probably warm enough that Shouto could tell the temperature change. The fire user squeaked in embarrassment before he used his right side to extinguish the flames. He groaned softly as he buried his face in his hands. Izuku could only laugh in response. He was punch drunk on affection, relief and happiness. So much so that he had no fear over going over to Shouto and prying his fingers away from his face.

His friend’s face was still pink and his eyes were wide and sparkling. His lips were twitching as if he couldn’t decide whether he wanted to scowl or laugh. Izuku cupped Shouto’s face and pulled him closer. He pressed his forehead and nose against the other boy’s as his chuckles dissolved into soft giggles. He rubbed against Shouto’s nose affectionately, reveling in the ability to touch him. A soft swooshing sound brought Izuku out of his happy high. Izuku took a step back from Shouto and gasped in awe.

Shouto’s hair had turned into wreathing flames and dancing flurries. One side white and the other a deep red. The two spectacles danced around Shouto’s head like a living halo. Izuku could only gape wordlessly. Shouto’s eyes were glowing, too. He looked like a God or a spirit. Devastatingly beautiful.

“Izuku?” Shouto called worriedly. The God comparison wouldn’t leave especially when his named sounded heavenly coming from Shouto’s lips. Izuku tried to answer but words continued to fail him. Almost robotically, Izuku withdrew his phone and snapped a picture. When Shouto gave him a mildly irritated look, he just turned the screen around. Shouto’s jaw dropped…

Izuku chuckled quietly to himself as he finished revisiting that old memory. Shouto did eventually get the flames and snow to go away and thankfully his hair just returned to normal. That was how they had found out that Shouto could turn parts of his body into flames and snow. Izuku had a field day helping Shouto master this new part of his quirk. The two had actually ended up going on a small dinner date a few days before the convention. Shouto had claimed it was a thank you for helping him with his Quirk. They had been together ever since. Their relationship was a quiet one. It was not hidden amongst the class, but it was a secret to anyone outside of the dorm. Maybe one day it could be public. Izuku grinned to himself at the thought of the collective mayhem that would ensue on the candid_shoutos page when they did.

________________________________________________________________

Would you like your work to be featured in the 365 Days of TodoDeku Project? Apply here! (≧∇≦)/

[agirlinjapan]

Red Data Girl: My Wish on the Night of the Shooting Stars (Week 9)

Red Data Girl: My Wish on the Night of the Shooting Stars By Noriko Ogiwara A Translation

Miss the last piece? Read it here!

Check out the RDG Translation twitter!

Help me pay for my next translation project on Ko-fi.

This week’s RDG is short again. To make it up to you though, I’ll be posting an extra (regular-length!) installation of RDG next week. I had a great month of literary abandon as they put it at NaNoWriMo, but now it’s time to get back to RDG.

Happy Hanukkah to all my readers who are celebrating tonight. Happy holidays to everyone else! Let the season of giving begin!

Red Data Girl: My Wish on the Night of the Shooting Stars By Noriko Ogiwara Chapter 2: Reexamination Part 1 (2 of 3)

This was the first time she had seen Takayanagi since the end of the festival. Like so many other male students, he was wearing a blue button up shirt, a pinstriped tie, a white vest, and uniform pants. However, his clothes seemed so starched and well ironed that everything he was wearing had to be new. It made him stand out from the other students. The uniform fit his average height and frame perfectly which only made him stand out more. It was unusual to see such a well-tailored new uniform. Most students’ uniforms had been altered more times than they could count.

As for Takayanagi’s hair which he had recently cut, the look would have been more appropriate on the historical figure Shirou Amakusa than a student. Seeing him like this after the festival and out of his Warring States era clothes was equally strange as his new uniform. If it had been anyone but Takayanagi, the hairdo would have been strange enough to make the wearer a social outcast, Izumiko thought to herself. However, Takayanagi was unaffected by the students’ reactions. Izumiko could see that there was an old fashioned elegance to his look. At least that point would afford him some approval with the other students.

Izumiko stood in front of Takayanagi, her face stiff. “Are you sure you want to talk with me? I’m most likely going to say some things you don’t want me to.”

“That’s fine. I will most likely do the same. I can explain what happened the other day. I don’t believe you saw everything that occurred.”

I have to let him have it…

Izumiko took a deep breath, but she could not make the word “dog” come out of her mouth.

After a few seconds of silence passed by, Takayanagi said brightly, “Here. I bought something I thought I could give to you. It’s a souvenir from Kyoto.”

Takayanagi pulled a hand from behind his back and opened it to reveal a small box sitting on his palm.      

“It’s a lesser known Kyoto confection. During the Nara era, the Japanese envoy to China brought it with them just like this as an offering to the Buddhist deity Nandikesvara. At the time, the confection was so valuable that only nobles ate it. They called it a Chinese deep fried pastry. Now, there’s only one shop in Kyoto that makes it.”

So Takayanagi went back home… Izumiko thought as she gazed down at the paper wrapped box from the old shop. She understood a little better now why Takayanagi was acting so relaxed. He had probably received a lot of support when he had returned to his family.

“I can’t accept this.”

“It’s not enchanted or anything of that sort. The confection is made with purity in mind. The craftsmen even purify themselves before they make them. So please, have a taste of thousand year old Kyoto,” Takayanagi said.

Still, Izumiko did not take the offered box.

“What are you playing at?”

“It’s strange that you’ve forgotten already. Didn’t I make myself clear after I found you in the woods?” His voice remained bright even as he said this. It seemed like this wasn’t a bluff, and that he meant what he was saying. “I have my family’s permission as well. I believe you and I need to talk further, Izumiko.”

Izumiko’s mouth might have been open, but there was no way she couldn’t have gotten any words out of it. She could sense that students from Class C were listening attentively from a distance away.

At the end of the festival while Takayanagi had still been in his dog form, he had apologized to Izumiko and asked her to turn him back to the way he had been before. He hadn’t made the request in his usual arrogant way either.

Before Izumiko could respond though, a decisive alto voice cut through the air.

“How the hell did you find the nerve to come over here, Takayanagi?”

Izumiko looked down the hallway to see the scowling figure of Mayura standing there with her fists on her hips. Miyuki was standing there next to her as well. The two of them had noticed Takayanagi’s disappearance from their classroom, and had come to help. Izumiko let out an unconscious sigh of relief.

“You shouldn’t speak like that, Mayura. It’s uncouth.”

“Well, I’m shocked beyond words to find you here. Are you still not going to admit that you lost even now?”

Takayanagi gave a quiet chuckle. “Heh. So you think your win’s already decided? Because you won the first match? Nothing’s settled yet. I plan to make a formal complaint saying that there’s been a misunderstanding. As a judge, Hodaka Murakami made a mistake.”

Unlike Izumiko, Mayura had no restraints holding her back.

“Even though you got turned into a dog?”

“I wish you wouldn’t speak about things you know nothing about. There were a number of hallucinations during the school festival due to the field tests the diviners and I were conducting that day. The abilities Izumiko demonstrated were also due to those tests. It would be correct to say that I was the one who performed a great deed.”

When Mayura did not respond to this right away, Takayanagi continued. “I’ll be visiting the student government after school today. I’ve been promised that I can speak directly to President Hodaka. You’re welcome to sit in on our conversation.”

The real reason why Takayanagi hadn’t been in school the day before was because he had been seeking out the shadow president. Somehow, he had managed to overwhelm the top student government members surrounding him and get what he wanted.

“Well, I’ll see you around.”

They watched as Takayanagi’s hand shot out, forcing the souvenir from Kyoto into Izumiko’s hand. Then he turned on his heel and walking away. However, neither Mayura nor Miyuki were fast enough to stop him.

After watching him go, Miyuki said to Mayura almost questioningly, “What just happened?…”

“Don’t worry. We all made sure none of the students around here could hear what we were talking about. Even Takayanagi’s self-preservation goes that far.”

“You’re probably right, but you never know,” Miyuki said carelessly. Then he turned to Izumiko who was still holding the box, and grimaced.

“You shouldn’t have taken that, stupid.”

“But—”

It wasn’t as if she could just throw the box in her hand down the hall and away from her that very instant. Besides, Takayanagi’s story about the confection had been intriguing, and now she was uncomfortably curious over the contents of the box. She felt a little ashamed of herself.

“…He said there wasn’t any magic on it.”

“He could bind you to him with just one bite of whatever that is,” Miyuki said through gritted teeth.

Mayura, standing next to him, intervened. “Calm down. I’ll make sure it’s not dangerous. Izumiko, here. Give it to me. Finding out if food is unsafe is Masumi’s specialty.”

Miyuki turned to look at Mayura, his expression somewhat surprised. “He can do something that useful?”

“That’s rude. He can do even more in Togakushi.”

As Mayura and Miyuki bantered back and forth, Izumiko’s ears were drawn to the conversation some of the girls from Class C were having behind her. They had stopped talking about Takayanagi, and were looking at them and whispering to each other instead.

“Those two from Class A are always together. I think they’ll become an actual couple sooner or later.”

“With them standing so close to each other like that, it sure makes it look like they’re together.”

“They’d really make a good pair.”

“I don’t want to say it, but they might be the best couple in the grade.”

“It’s like they came out of nowhere and knocked all the other couples aside. It’s a little frustrating, isn’t it?”

Surprised, Izumiko looked at the two in front of her, and saw that she too agreed with what the girls were saying. Anyone who looked at Mayura and Miyuki would most likely see the connection between them. Even some part of Izumiko had already noticed it.

She thought back to the conversation she had had with Mayura that morning.

There’s no rumor about me and Miyuki. I didn’t know it, but what Mayura said before about me and Takayanagi wasn’t wrong. She didn’t say anything about a rumor that had to do with herself though…

Of course, Izumiko knew that in truth. There was nothing between Mayura and Miyuki. All the same, something deep down in her chest still hurt. The more the Souda siblings, Miyuki, and Izumiko did things together, the more everyone around them would naturally mistake Miyuki and Mayura for a couple. That was also clear to Izumiko as she stood there, looking at the two of them.

There was no way for her to be happy about it with that reality thrust right in front of her, though.

Keep reading!

[mrsslrss]

2018.

My first memory of 2018: I woke up at 5 a.m. and spotted an enormous bug on my bedroom wall. I was mildly hungover after a really lovely and somewhat raucous party in my house, and when I saw the bug I felt like my stomach dropped out of my body. (I’m a wimp! It had so many legs! Stay with me.) I tried to rouse M for about 10 minutes to kill the bug with no luck, then told myself, with an air of forced gravity, It’s 2018, and I must kill the bug myself. Which, I am glad to report, I did. 

I think I told that story a lot this year in the hopes that the more I retold it, the more it would come to define my year: You know, being brave? Taking charge and vanquishing, uh, icky stuff? (And later, for all the times I told the story of starting my day by sweeping up the post-party-confetti-canon detritus and throwing away the half-used Solo cups before my roommates woke up: Doing rather thankless work for a greater good?) I’m not sure I mastered the art of “manifesting” in 2018, though (sorry Oprah!); I certainly wasn’t as generous or industrious as those stories would suppose, but the image of me resisting something frightening then eventually/begrudgingly giving in and being grateful I did — I suppose that rings true.

It’s easy for me to be blue in December — to think about what didn’t get accomplished, the ways I have been selfish, shallow and lazy — but if I’m honest with myself, the year had its share of success. I got hired out of my temp status, spoke on a panel at a conference, helped lead a project I’m proud of, talked on some podcasts, survived my college reunion. I learned a lot about commitment, complacency and what drives my writing. I spent a lot of time with my family. I watched people I love make incredible art, find cherished partners, move their careers forward, get engaged, become parents. I wrote a couple good songs, played a lot of good shows. My hair got long enough to wear it in a bun most days.

The truth is that I’m pretty scared about the future. Call it cyclical energy or call it the brink of exhaustion but I think things are going to happen in 2019; I think, for better or for worse, I’m going to make them happen. I’m trying to transmute anxiety into excitement for what the year’s bringing but I think it’s ok to be scared, too. Anyway, here’s to 2018, and to the things I felt and saw and did and loved that helped me make it through. 

Andrea Long Chu’s writing

I read “On Liking Women” in January — the kind of article where you start it at your desk and then have to finish it later, and you get home and sit on the couch without even turning the living room lights on and just read and read, breathlessly, until it’s done — and I got hooked and I have read everything ALC has written since. Her work is thoughtful, engaging, provocative, breathtaking, earnest, shady, queer as h*ck. It has made me think about what kind of writer (and person) I want to be and was fodder for some of my favorite conversations I had this year about gender, power, identity and the ultimate self-own. Also, her Twitter is hilarious.

Dried mango

Snack of the year for me, hands down. Though if I’m being honest, green tea kit kats are a serious contender, too -- much tougher to find, though, meaning they can’t quite nab the top snack spot for 2018.

Traveling & open space

I didn’t travel a ton this year but the few trips I took were lovely. In April I visited Seattle, a city I love, for a truly marvelous conference and I saw the water and the mountains. In October I visited Vermont, had a real dream-come-true moment in a field of goats. I visited Sam in Austin and realized that Texas is, indeed, huge. (And affordable!) I visited my family in MA a lot and rode horses a couple times but mostly just sat on the couch with my mom watching re-runs of The Office and making sense of ourselves. It felt nice when I was in motion this year.

Riding my bike

Speaking of motion! I borrowed my sister’s cool bike last year and started riding to work, but then the bike got stolen, which put a big damper on everything. I got a crappy replacement a couple months later and rode it to work every day, nearly, of 2018, and to all sorts of other places. I read Jessica Hopper’s book about Chicago this year and so much of that book takes place on her bike, which inspired me to take things a little more seriously. I’m not an experienced cyclist by any means (truly: most of my bike rides are on two streets in the one-mile radius between my house and my office) but I like what it affords me.

Trying to be a void

that is to say, wearing all black. I know that clothing is how a lot of people express themselves but mostly what I wanted to express this year was: a black hole. By black hole I mostly mean nothingness, and also deflecting the gaze. Incredibly comforting. As a caveat: Mads taught me about the power of navy blue late this year, and I think in 2019 I will try to be the night sky. 

New York

I used to hate NYC for boring reasons but now I don’t, and it defined my year, in many ways — I visited about once a month, for work and for friends and for fun. I nearly always stayed with Mads in Bed-Stuy, which is an excellent situation, although one time I blew a big chunk of a bonus (!) on a fancy hotel room (!!) in Manhattan. (Worth it!) I spoke on a panel, I played my songs in a gallery, I ate bagels with vegan cream cheese, I had bad pizza in a cigar bar, I saw Maggie Nelson give a talk, I watched Duster play two consecutive comeback shows. I had a lot of small moments, too, of bliss and kindness and serendipity, of tortellini soup and espresso tonics, late night talks, doing laps around Bryant Park, walking quietly through galleries. I cried on buses, got freaked out on a plane, had a particularly memorable set of conversations on the Amtrak. I also saw Carly Rae Jepsen!

Playing covers with friends

Ok, yes, seeing Carly Rae at the Turning the Tables event in NYC was magnificent, but more magnificent was being in Gnarly Rae Jepsen, aka the Carly Rae Jepsen cover band I was invited to join around Halloween. Frankly I was just flattered to have been asked, since Lars does a cover band for Halloween every year and they always rip. And Gnarly Rae ripped! I didn’t do a lot of stuff with my own music this year, so it was great to play with a band with pretty much zero pressure and an abundance of good vibes. The Halloween show was one of the happiest moments of my year. Plus this winter I planned a December open mic and so some friends and I decided to do a couple covers — “Silver Springs” by Fleetwood Mac (which Mads sang) and “Dreams” by The Cranberries (which I sang) — which was a little messy and extremely fun.

Christmas cactus

A friend of mine from grad school moved to California after graduating and gave me a bunch of her plants, including a cactus that looked like it was in poor health but I was determined to keep alive for as long as I could. I kept caring for it even though I was convinced it was going to croak any day; turns out I’m just ignorant about what a healthy cactus looks like, because it blossomed just days before my birthday this April. I didn’t even know this cactus could flower, so to have it happen right before I turned 26 made me feel such a deep sense of joy and hope, and connection with the living world, like a true, grounded, healthy Taurus. It bloomed again before Christmas; last week, I realized my grandmother has the exact same plant in her living room.

Writing criticism

I wrote a couple things this year I was especially proud of, and most of them were reviews. (My Turning the Tables essay doesn’t fit in that category but I’m really proud of that, too.) Most of this writing happened in my house where I was alone in my room rubbing my temples and whining softly why is this so hard, why does it have to be so hard but it also felt electric and life-affirming; I heard a podcaster refer to writing as something like “touching the divine” this year and that feels like it, exactly. I think I loved those processes too because they so often involved having really fun, challenging conversations about the art in question with people I admire, and that’s why I got into this game, right? Plus a few conversations I had this year adjacent to these pieces helped me realize that a) criticism is the kind of writing I feel the most drawn to right now; and as we used to say on Tumblr, “not to get fake deep but,” b) the goodness I am searching for in my life/self is a big part of what drives me to write, of what I’m doing in my writing. That helps.

Coffee O merch

My forever favorite coffee shop is Coffee Obsession in Falmouth, not necessarily because they have the best beans in the world or anything but because when I’m there it’s because I am spending time in my favorite place, usually with my family and best friends, etc. Anyway I have recently started to rep them on a regular basis: I got a purple HydroFlask with the Coffee O logo and used it every day this year to bring iced coffee to work, and this summer I bought a big green Coffee O t-shirt that says “LOCAL FLAVAH” on the back (incredible), which is more or less my favorite item of clothing I bought this year. I guess I’m kind of a poseur because I’m a tourist, not a Cape Cod native, but my love for Coffee O is true and real and I’m glad to spread the word.

Etc: Making iced coffee every morning in the Chemex; roséwave and the #Saltypod, both of which I love fiercely; the difference between being liked and being heard, à la Ellen Willis; editing essays; the Fever Ray show at 9:30 Club; wearing glitter in the corners of my eyes; “no one is going to wait for you to ask for permission”; wearing heels to work; the steam room at the W St YMCA; my tarot deck; the Pome newsletter.

[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.

[madameocotillo]

So

I finally, consciously, realized a big reason why my drawing output has basically become zero over the last few years, or “I was a veritable teen-aged fountain of art, and now when I am a stable adult who theoretically should be in the prime of their production, have zilch to show.” 

After various life things stopped me from drawing much at all, I stopped practicing and therefore, stopped improving. Then, when I started to try to get back into it, I wasn’t happy with how anything looked. I knew the way I used to feel when I drew a face and was proud of the expression, and I had an image in my mind of where my technical ability should be that I couldn’t even come close to on paper, and those two things combined to dropkick me in the confidence.

At that point, I picked up a behavior/way of thinking that locked me into a pretty destructive cycle that I now need to work on breaking myself out of. (Under a cut ‘cause it’s a long post, but please, if the second paragraph hits close to home for you, give it a read. I can only hope the results of my introspection will spare somebody else months or years of feeling in limbo like I did.)

I started hoarding tutorials, and telling myself that I couldn’t work on fun projects until I did all kinds of practices and studies; when I did just start in on a full character illustration, I inevitably wasn’t happy with it, and it reinforced the thought of “You can’t make anything until you’ve put in hours and hours of practice, why did you think you could do this?” I mean, that’s why i’d saved all those references and tutorials, right? To practice with? Of course, because the studies were not very much fun, and as i’ve been realizing, I have mad ADHD yo, I never sat down to put in the time that I thought I had to, and just ended up being disgusted with myself for not having any discipline.

Drawing stopped being fun and started seeming like a chore, because I went in with the mindset that I would be struggling the whole time, and probably still wouldn’t like whatever I produced anyways. Viewing something that used to make me really happy, into something I saw as having to do everyday or else I would never be good enough to enjoy it again really fucked up the way I felt about drawing. Yeehaw, rinse repeat, here I am at the end of 2018, realizing that to show people art that i’m proud of, I am having to go back to 2016 at the MOST RECENT.

Wanting to improve your technical skills is wonderful, and feeling unhappy with what you’ve drawn is just the way it be sometimes, but I went so long without realizing WHY I felt this way, and was too quick to dismiss myself as just being lazy or not cut out for it. At times I was horrified that maybe i’d just grown out of wanting to draw, and I was desperately forcing myself to keep doing something i’d never be interested in again.

I feel like i’ve lost so much time due to this years-long incomprehension of why making art had just become another task to be chipped away at, but i’m trying to be kind to myself about it. Self flagellation got me into this mess, and I know it’s not the way out, but damn if it isn’t easy to just sit back and tell yourself you’re stupid when you’re unhappy about the way things have been playing out in life.

Still, a trait that i’m proud of in myself is that I have always found more value in trying than in moping, and nothing can keep me in the pits of despair for more than a day or two, so now that I can put into words what has been hindering me, I know this is a problem I can work through. What I really needed was to give myself permission to have fun creating again, and not fixate on exactly how wrong or right my pieces turn out. High school age me sure as shit didn’t, that little bugger was slapping cat ears and weird belts on all the characters, and having a fucking ball with it. Not saying that’s EXACTLY the direction I want to take my art in again, but pride in the fact that I was drawing at all is definitely a feeling I look forward to returning to.

[caveartfair]

7 Zines That Helped People Work through Mental Health Issues

For the uninitiated, a “zine” is often defined as a self-published, small-circulation magazine that documents the happenings of a subculture or a niche topic. But in practice, the art of the zine is governed by “non-rules.” A zine can be consist of 40 pages, or just one. It can be entirely made up of pictures or feature no pictures at all. It can make sense, but it doesn’t have to.

During the 1980s, zine-making often involved taking a pile of collages, poems, essays, images, or doodles; lining them up, just so, over the glass of a Xerox machine; then making copies, and stapling together a series of printed pages like this. Copies might be shared with friends or left in a stack at a local record store. Today, publishing a zine can be as simple as one person creating a web page or as elaborate as a small editorial team collaborating on a printed periodical with a cover star. But the non-rules haven’t changed: If you make it and publish it yourself, and it has text, images, or both, you can probably call it a zine.

Perhaps because of this flexibility, artists and other creatives have found in zines a judgment-free space, and for some, it’s a prime medium for discussing serious, personal issues, like mental health. This point was made late last month when an art exhibition in India, organized by one of Time magazine’s 100 most influential people, Dr. Vikram Patel, illustrated how zines can help break down the stigma surrounding mental health. To explore the topic further, we share below seven examples of such zines, with insights from their creators on how these creative projects helped them navigate their own experiences with mental health.

For Girls Who Cry Often (2016)

Excerpt from Lina Wu, For Girls Who Cry Often, 2016. Courtesy of the artist.

Excerpt from Lina Wu, For Girls Who Cry Often, 2016. Courtesy of the artist.

Lina Wu, a Toronto-based artist and illustrator, collected stories and testimonies from over 20 contributors to create the 40-page zine For Girls Who Cry Often. “It’s a nice feeling to be a part of something bigger,” she said of the collaborative creation process.

For the zine, Wu focused on exploring mental health through a femme lens and let her own experiences inform her process. “For much of my life, I noticed that ‘getting emotional’ was seen as a girly or feminine thing—meaning it is often dismissed as dramatic and frivolous,” she explained.

Wu created a dreamy pink atmosphere to backdrop the contributors’ candid and sometimes dark confessions. The zine’s adolescent tone is a nod to the fanzines of the 1990s that gave teenage girls a voice. In fact, Wu points out that zines are accessible art objects because people can easily share and buy them (readers buying copies of For Girls Who Cry Often are encouraged to pay what they can afford).

An interdisciplinary artist, Wu experiments with poetry, illustrations, comics, photography, and design in her zines. And while she doesn’t bring For Girls Who Cry Often to zine fairs anymore, she noted that making it has helped her grow as an artist.

Fuck This Life (2005–present)

Excerpt from Dave Sander, Fuck This Life, 2018. Courtesy of 8ball Community.

Excerpt from Dave Sander, Fuck This Life, 2018. Courtesy of 8ball Community.

Today, Dave Sander (a.k.a. “Weirdo Dave”) is a visual artist known for collaborations with Vans and Supreme. But back in 2005, Sander was cramming newspaper and magazine clippings into his desk drawer almost out of habit. “After I got a lot,” Sander said, “I thought it would be time to make a zine.”

Flipping through the pages of any issue of Fuck This Life is like witnessing the end-of-life montage people describe after a near-death experience. For Sander, zine-making can be an aggressively cathartic process: “You get to kill shit in your own way,” he offered.

Fuck This Life is a stream-of-consciousness compilation of found imagery—like the mushroom cloud of an atomic bomb or porn stars mid-orgasm—the result of Sander channeling his pain to “create a beautiful, loud, brutal fantasyland.” He refers to the zine ashis deepest, darkest best friend. “It was my reason for living, so I guess it saved me,” he said.

Grief Poems (2017)

Excerpt from Chloe Zelkha, Grief Poems, 2017. Courtesy of the artist.

Excerpt from Chloe Zelkha, Grief Poems, 2017. Courtesy of the artist.

Chloe Zelkha describes her father’s death as a “sudden, heartbreaking shock.” Within months, she’d printed out a collection of poems she found in books or discovered through teachers and grieving groups, then spread them out on her kitchen table. There, the Berkeley-based Zelkha began painting onto the pages, cranking out one after another in succession, without drafting or revising. As she found more poems, she created more pages. The result was Grief Poems, a 26-page exercise in letting go.

Zelkha’s introduction to zines was Project NIA’s The Prison Industrial Complex Is… (2010–11), a straightforward explainer zine with minimal text and simple black-and-white illustrations. She sees zines are an inherently raw medium. “That permission that’s kind of baked into the form,” she said, “is liberating.”

Poems by everyone from Kobayashi Issa to W.S. Merwin are coated in Zelkha’s uninhibited brushstrokes. She compared her process with child’s play or dreaming: “If you watch a kid play on their own for long enough, you’ll see lots of fears, feelings, ideas eeking their way into their game, and then transforming in real time. Or when we dream, and different people, places, concerns visit us in weird ways.”

Identity Crisis (2017)

Librarian–slash–zine-maker Poliana Irizarry is probably better known for their autobiographical black-and-white zines, like My Left Foot (2016) and Training Wheels (2013). But with Identity Crisis, the San Jose–based artist seemed the most vulnerable they’ve ever been. “My abuela suffered many miscarriages at the hands of American doctors, and her surviving offspring also struggle with reproductive issues,” Irizarry wrote. “Many Puerto Ricans do.”

Before the birth control pill was approved by the FDA in 1960, nearly 1,500 Puerto Rican women were unknowingly part of one of the earliest human trials for the pill. Between the 1930s and ’70s, nearly one-third of Puerto Rico’s female population of childbearing age had undergone “the operation,” often without being properly educated on its effects.

Irizarry made Identity Crisis,their first full-color art zine,during a South Bay DIY Zine Collective workshop. Personal and family histories intersect across fragmented pictures of succulents and Southwestern landscapes in a half-prose, half-verse journey through Irizarry’s identity. In just a few pages, Irizarry wrestles with intergenerational trauma and their own post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD). Irizarry speaks directly to their oppressors, defiant and resolute: “I live in spite of you.”

Shit I Made When I Was Sad (a.k.a. sad zine)(2018)

Excerpt from Shit I Made When I Was Sad a.k.a. sad zine, 2018. Courtesy of Malin Rantzer and Anna Persmark.

Excerpt from Shit I Made When I Was Sad a.k.a. sad zine, 2018. Courtesy of Malin Rantzer and Anna Persmark.

It started when Swedish friends Malin Rantzer and Anna Persmark were showing each other drawings and writing in journals they’d made while they were feeling low. “I noticed that some of the stuff we’d drawn resembled the other’s drawing,” Malin remembered, “and I think at that point we realized we should make a zine about being sad.” Rantzer turned to social media and put out a “swenglish/svengelska” (Swedish-English) call for submissions.

The then–Sweden-based duo (Persmark has since relocated to Portland, Oregon) made sad zine by cutting out and taping or pasting their artworks onto new pages, then scanning them and folding them into a booklet. Persmark sees zine-making as one of the most intimate ways of sharing her feelings; she goes out in person to share copies with her community.

“Even if all the submitters did not know each other,” Malin explained, “they were all friends’ friends or friends’ friends’ friends, and maybe that also can contribute to an atmosphere where it is safe to be vulnerable.” While making the individual works helped them heal, Persmack noted that the process of compiling the zine proved to be revelatory: “Sadness is both intensely personal and universal,” she said.

Sula Collective Issue 3: Mental Health (2015)

Oyinda Yemi-Omowum, An Emotional Response to Colours, 2015. Excerpt from Sula Collective Issue 3: Mental Health, 2015. Courtesy of Sula Collective.

Sula Collective calls itself an online “[maga]zine for and by people of colour.” Initially an exclusively online zine—different from a blog in name and ethos—it reflected its Gen-Y creators and their new ideas of what a zine could be. It’s one of the more visible new zines, among many, with the purpose of turning an online network into an IRL community. Ever since they founded it in 2015, co-creators Kassandra Piñero and Sophia Yuet See knew they wanted to dedicate an issue to mental health.

Sula Collective Issue 3: Mental Health sheds light on how teenagers of color navigate their parents’ more conservative understanding of mental health issues. “We wanted to discuss the things we kept hidden from our parents or couldn’t talk about with friends,” Piñero and Yuet See explained.

The issue was published in November 2015 and serves as a record of how today’s young artists are taking intersectional approaches to dealing with mental health issues. For example, Oyinda, a then–16-year-old Nigerian girl living in London, submitted a color-coded collage of self-portraits and textures called An Emotional Response to Colours. The literary submissions are paired with original artworks, sourced from Sula Collective’ssubmissions inbox, which range from digital art to watercolors. When asked about what makes zines a unique medium, Piñero and Yuet See answered, simply, “control.”

Shrinks: A Retrospective (2018)

Excerpt from Karla Keffer, Shrinks: A Retrospective, 2018. Courtesy of the artist.

Excerpt from Karla Keffer, Shrinks: A Retrospective, 2018. Courtesy of the artist.

Shrinks is part of Karla Keffer’s zine series “The Real Ramona,” where she discusses being diagnosed with and treated for PTSD after almost 30 years in therapy. The Mississippi-based artist found a sense of direction for her work, and Shrinks in particular, through learning about the Satanic Panic of the 1980s.

This phenomenon (which gave daytime television hosts the ratings of their dreams) involved psychologists across America fueling a nationwide hysteria by diagnosing patients with satanic ritual abuse (SRA) and sending them off to tough-love camps.

“Shrinks are human and fallible,” Keffer explained. “I had put a great deal of trust in their infallibility.” In Shrinks, Keffer created profiles of every therapist she’s ever had—like Julie the gaslighter and Jill the racist. Survivors of abuse are often—and paradoxically—burdened with the task of seeing through the abuse and saving themselves. “One of the things I found difficult was sorting out what had happened with each therapist—like, did she/he really say that outlandish thing?” Keffer recalled.

So much of zine-making is about reclaiming—reclaiming the freedom of expression, reclaiming space, reclaiming the past. And, as Keffer put it, “you’ve made your own book, which is not something you experience when you’re writing short stories and sending them to lit mags.” If any one thing can define zines as a medium, it’s the unbridled control it gives artists.

from Artsy News

[cutepoison0104]

In honor of Wentworth Miller’s decision to unpublish his facebook page, and his granted permission to save anything we’d like to, I’d like to post the first ever thing I read on his facebook page; something that impacted me greatly. Word for word. Link for link.(Because why preserve something if you only take pieces?)

Flour or Wheat. 

I've been coming here a long time, to this strip mall hole-in-the-wall Mexican restaurant off the freeway, with the chicken quesadillas I decided somewhere in my mid-20s (without much research, admittedly) were the best in Los Angeles.

In 199-something it was a small chain with franchise dreams and few locations, one of which was near-ish my apartment. When it closed I started commuting to a location that was not near-ish. It was far-ish. And when I brought someone along they would inevitably pronounce, between bites, that it wasn't worth the gas.

I paid them no mind.

I have a history of mental health issues and routine is important to me. Also consistency. Which might be why, once I started coming, I didn't stop. Why in the hundreds of times I've approached the counter I've always ordered the same thing.

Always.

One chicken quesadilla on a flour tortilla with guacamole. Rice and beans on the side. Plus chips.

Seriously. I've never tried anything else on the menu. For all I know the shrimp tacos make men weep. I don't care. They're not on my radar.

Yet somehow, despite getting the same meal about twice a month maybe ten months a year for almost fifteen years, the guy behind the counter never remembers my order.

Ever.

Or, by extension, it would seem to follow, me.

This isn't "Cheers." Nobody knows my name. And if anyone's glad I came, they're keeping it to themselves.

Eventually I learned not to expect the guy behind the counter to know my order. What I could expect was a set mouth and a flat stare. Free of charge.

And that's been a relief.

At times.

At times I have deeply appreciated being made to feel anonymous. No one approaches me here. No one asks for a photo. No one seizes an opportunity to go full koala around my waist while a friend repeatedly fails to take a picture on their smartphone.

Other times, vacuum-sealed in my LA existence, moving from apartment to car to freeway and back, the luxury of not having to touch or be touched by another human being mine to indulge, I have very much wanted the guy behind the counter to know my order without me telling him first.

But no. Every time I walk in we have essentially the same exchange we've been having lo these many years:

Him: Upward nod and/or raised eyebrows with a split second of eye contact to signal I have his attention.

Me: "Chicken quesadilla, please."

Him: "Flour or wheat?" They've got two kinds of tortillas to choose from.

Me: "Flour." Let's not go crazy.

Him: "Rice and beans?"

Me: "Rice and beans."

He spreads a flour tortilla on the stovetop, sprinkles it with cheese while I pay at the register then get my salsa from the salsa bar. Unless I get my salsa from the salsa bar first then pay after. That part changes depending how fast the lady at the register rings me up. (I think of this as my chance to practice being flexible.)

When my tortilla is done browning and the cheese melting, the guy takes it off the stovetop and says, "Chicken or steak?" Even if I am the only customer in there, mine the only order being juggled, I will be asked to repeat my choice of protein.

Me: "Chicken."

Him: "Rice and beans?"

To be fair, I don't know his name or order either (assuming he eats there too). To be fair, I'm sure it's no picnic chopping onions and grilling carnitas for a living. I spent a summer scraping uneaten refried beans off plates at a Mexican restaurant in Phoenix. An outdoor restaurant. In Phoenix. In summer. So while I don't/won't insult the guy behind the counter by pretending to understand the depth/breadth of his experience, I feel like I can imagine it. At least a little bit.

Or maybe not. Maybe I'm just a spoiled jerk with a sense of entitlement. Maybe the guy's having an off decade. Maybe his dog ran away and never came back. Maybe he needs some sweet understanding. Maybe I should cool it with the judgments and projections. Maybe it shouldn't matter to me that he can't (won't?) remember my order.

But it does.

Whatever. I don't come for the service. I come for the quesadilla. Which, most likely, is average. But which, drawn to ritual as I am, I've eaten enough times to become sentimental about. Ditto the 90-minute drive there and back, the smell of the hand soap in the bathroom, the validation stamp with the red ink they stamp on my parking stub that gets on my fingers if I touch it before it dries. This is my spot. My joint. My Cheers. Even if nobody knows or cares what my name/order is. This (most likely average) quesadilla is threaded through my LA history, this city I've liked and hated (almost) equally, a place I came to because it's "where the work is" and, now that the work is taking me away, I'm thrilled to leave. A town that has never felt like home, even if it was where I chose to lay my head.

As the poet said, #notmyvibenotmytribe.

Which is why, on the eve of my permanent departure, about to begin a new job in a new city in a new country, as I ready myself for a set of experiences that promise change and growth and shift and all the things that used to frighten me but which today I recognize and embrace as gift and gold, it's only fitting that I make the drive to my little Mexican restaurant one last time, for one last chicken quesadilla on a flour tortilla. And by doing so honor all the other times I came here to enjoy "my last quesadilla." Not because I was leaving town but because I was going to go home and kill myself.

Of my close friends, I've known Depression the longest.

By 10 we were well-acquainted. He was there for my first attempt, at 15, for my second, freshman year at Princeton, and for the multiple dress rehearsals and close calls that followed. He was there as recently as four years ago, seated in the front row for what was in some ways my most serious breakdown since college. When all I wanted was to die. When Depression had me convinced - deep down, on a cellular level - that I Would Always Feel This Way and that There Were No Other Versions Of Me/Life On Offer.

That was before I realized Depression is a Liar.

That was before the daily meditation, the prayer, the affirmations. Before the therapy, the men's work, the move from isolation into community. Before the self-expression via writing (privately, professionally) and coming out (publicly). Before the gentle (and sometimes not-so-gentle) letting go of the people, habits, and belief systems that knocked me out of my body, lowered my frequency, and robbed me of a good night's rest. Before the gradual conclusion that I did not come into this world preprogrammed to self-destruct. (That upgrade/virus came later, courtesy of outside influences.) Before the understanding (remembering?) that my birthright is joy. But joy won't just come when I call it. I have to invite it. Gently. With intention. Building a connection, a trust, over time.

But I digress. Where was I? Oh yes. Chicken quesadillas.

Over the years, on a handful of dark days, I would determine that my final meal would be my favorite and when it was finished, I would exit this earth. Because I couldn't imagine feeling better. Because I couldn't imagine a different, vastly improved state of existence.

Which, obviously, represents a colossal failure of my imagination.

That was another tool in Depression's toolbelt: the limits of what I could and could not imagine.

The man I was then couldn't have pictured the man I am now, moving (more) consciously and (more) thoughtfully through the world, (more) alert to the people, habits, and belief systems that invite peace and purpose into my life on a daily basis. A man departing (escaping) Los Angeles with a plateful of things to look forward to.

The man I was then wouldn't have believed any of this was possible. But it was. Is.

And to celebrate, I'm treating myself to one last chicken quesadilla on a flour tortilla before I go. Because it's f-cking earned. If I do say so myself.

I park my car in the underground lot, get my parking stub, enter the restaurant. I walk past the guy behind the counter and into the bathroom to wash my hands. Emerging, I get my tray, approach the counter, and see that for the first time in the near fifth of a century I've been frequenting this chain, on what is potentially and very probably my final visit to this strip mall hole-in-the-wall, this totally unexceptional restaurant I've spent years patronizing and a not inconsiderable amount of gas money getting to from various apartments, the guy behind the counter has already got a tortilla heating on the stovetop for me. Flour.

Eyes down, he sprinkles it with cheese, says to me or himself or to both of us, "Chicken quesadilla."

It is a statement. Not a question.

I say, "Yes. Please."

And "Thank you."

www.huffingtonpost.com/news/national-suicide-prevention-month/ www.thetrevorproject.org www.afsp.org www.suicidepreventionlifeline.org www.activeminds.org www.iasp.info

[celestialceci]

camp kwami: chapter 1

ok. here it is. the @pepper-bottom summer camp au. it's here. or, if you prefer, it's on ao3 and ff.net  also i wanna go back in time and yell at myself bc i wrote this like a month ago and now looking back there’s so many mistakes holy shit COOL ENJOY IT!!!! next chapter ->

Summer break is approaching, and Adrien finally gets to attend the camp he's wanted to for so long. Marinette has attended the camp since she was old enough to go, and considers it her second home. They're both ready for a summer of adventures at Camp Kwami, but neither of them expected adventures quite like this.

long road

Adrien’s computer mouse clicked on the familiar bookmark, and he sighed wistfully as the webpage loaded fully. There was nothing new; there hadn’t been for the past few months. He knew every tab by heart, every detail he could glean from the photographs and entries. Photos on the homepage faded into one another automatically. Soon his favorite appeared: two girls, one with wild rusty red hair and the other with dark bluish pigtails were locked in a tight embrace, covered in mud and paint smeared on their arms, grinning into the camera lens like there was no tomorrow. Adrien hovered over it with his mouse so the photo wouldn't change. He sighed again. They looked so happy, and the dark haired girl’s smile was absolutely radiant.

Though the website had many photos from various years, he had managed to find this girl in more than just this one. In one she is helping a younger child with a yarn craft, and in another from many years ago she’s watching an older girl cook over a campfire. Adrien could tell it was the girl, even in the old photo, by her look of utter happiness from being in the woods.

Deciding he didn't want to go through any more heartache tonight, Adrien closed the browser and put his many monitors to sleep, only to find himself on his phone a few minutes later looking through the tag on Instagram.

Camp Kwami. A tiny, secluded, nature-based co-ed summer camp in Southern France, owned and operated by the same family since 1904. The kids who went absolutely loved it, even making posts in the dead of winter about how much they missed the camp and all their friends. Adrien felt he knew enough about it to explain every minute detail to anyone who asked, despite never having set foot on the property before. Adrien’s mom had gone when she was a kid, and had wanted for Adrien to go, too. He could still remember her stories of late nights and wilderness adventures that she would tell him when he was younger. But with his mother now gone, his father would always shut down Adrien’s attempts to bring it up. Without success, Adrien had tried to convince Gabriel to let him go for the past four years. Now Adrien was the age where he would have to be staff if he went, and he was upset he’d missed out on his opportunities as a camper. This could have been his chance to make lifelong friends and memories like his mom and be a real kid. But noo, his dad had him cooped up at home like a princess in a castle, only making him more desperate to get free.

Adrien locked his phone, and tossed it onto the floor, planting his face in his pillow. He felt like crying. Was it possible to be homesick for place you’d never even been to?

“Father, can I ask you something?” Adrien began tentatively. “About my summer schedule?”

Gabriel didn't look up from the tablet that had a permanent residence next to his dinner place. “What is it, Adrien?”

“Applications for camp are due in a month, and I was having a discussion with Natalie today and-”

Adrien’s father let out a sharp breath, moving his cold eyes from his device to meet his son’s gaze. “Adrien, we have this discussion at least twice a year. My opinion has not changed. You are far too busy to be wasting time away from home when you can be here working.”

Gabriel’s clipped tone never failed to send a piercing jab through Adrien, but he persisted. “I know, I remember. But I was speaking with Natalie about my summer schedule, and you haven't planned any modeling projects for me past May, besides the fall collection-”

“I said, no,” Gabriel said with a definity that would usually end such a discussion.

“But Father! It’s… it’s something mom wanted for me.”

The forkful of steak that was headed for his dad’s mouth stopped midair, but his gaze didn't shift from the plate. Adrien felt himself break out in a cold sweat. “She- she wanted me to go. And I want to go,” Adrien pleaded. “Even Natalie agreed maybe a few months of being outdoors would be good for me so I could finally makesomefriendsorsomething-”

For the third time, Adrien was cut off. This time, not by words, but by his father tossing his napkin on the table and getting up from his chair. “The decision for you to go away this summer is still mine to make. You may be 16, but you are still within my care.” With that, he strode from the room, tablet in hand, leaving a defeated Adrien to pick at his asparagus and mourn another summer lost.

Back in his room, Adrien lay curled up on his couch with his phone and hoodie. The Camp Kwami photo gallery was organized by year. Adrien could scroll back to the 80’s and look through the scans of the old film photos. Only one featured his mother, though: she was standing in front of the fire place in what Adrien knew as the main lodge with three other girls, playing an acoustic guitar with lots of little patterns drawn on it as they sang together. Adrien gazed at the photo as he held back more tears. He wanted to go so badly. So, so badly. To be able to go to a place he knew his mom loved with all her heart would make him so happy. It was the only tangible connection he could have with her now, and his father was the one person standing in the way of that.

Three quick knocks sounded on his door. Natalie. Adrien ignored her, rolling over on his couch and pulling the hood up on his jacket.

“Adrien? Open up. Your father wants to speak with you in his office.” Natalie said.

Silence.

“Adrien, please be reasonable. I think you will want to hear what he has to say.”

Adrien opened his eyes and sat up to look at the closed door before flopping back down on the couch “I doubt it!” he called, his voice cracking slightly.

He heard the jangle of keys and his lock clicked open. Damn Natalie and her master key. Couldn't she just let a boy wallow in his sorrow in peace? He yanked on the strings of the hood, leaving only his nose poking out. He heard Natalie walk in and perch on the coffee table in front of the couch. They sat in silence for a moment. Natalie loosened his hood so she could see his face, but Adrien kept his eyes shut.

“I promise you, he's not going to chew you out for asking a fourth year in a row.” Natalie stated.

Adrien shrugged. “So? He’s still going to say no.”

“You don't know that. Please just go see him.” She rested her hand on his shoulder for a moment before getting up and walking out. Adrien opened his eyes, feeling how puffy they were despite him not actually crying. He pulled out his phone and looked at the picture of his mom and her guitar one more time before getting up and trudging to his father’s study on the other side of the house.

Adrien pushed off his hood before rapping his knuckles on the slightly open door.

“Come in.”

Adrien pushed the door the rest of the way open and walked up to the desk, head down, not bothering to take a seat. “You wanted to see me.”

Gabriel turned his gaze from his computer monitor and looked at his son. “I discussed it with Natalie, and she has made a very convincing case. I see here that children above 15 are trained to be staff,” he motioned to the computer as he spoke. “We’ll have to account for the extra training week they have at the end of May. I can always find a replacement for you for the fall collection modeling we usually have in the summer. Bring me anything that needs a signature, and you have time on Thursday to go out and buy things you might need. I doubt you’ll be wanting to wear designer clothes in the forest. Adrien, are you listening?”

Adrien’s mouth hung slack. “I… I can go?”

“Yes, that is what I am implying.”

“W-Wait, for how long?”

Gabriel only shrugged. “You’re in charge of filling out the paperwork and getting anything you need. I am simply granting you permission and… supporting you monetarily.”

Adrien’s whole face lit up. “Could… could I go the whole summer?”

“If you would like to.”

WOULD I LIKE TO? Adrien thought. Yes! Yes! YES! “Thank you, father! I’ll do it right away.” He turned and ran from the room, beyond excited.

Gabriel watched him leave, sitting back in his chair. He turned to look at the portrait above the fireplace of his wife. “It’s what she would have wanted,” he breathed.

Back in his room, Adrien flew into his desk chair, fumbling with the mouse as he opened the website. He printed a few copies of the forms and the packing list, uncapped a pen and got to work.

Adrien walked in the house and went straight into the security room and to Natalie’s desk. She wasn’t there, so he pushed the button for the mail slot. The mechanical slot opened, revealing it was empty. He sighed. Adrien knew mail from Clermont-Ferrand to Paris took a few days, especially since it was all the way in the forest, but it had been almost a week with no reply about his acceptance to the staff at Camp Kwami. Hopefully it hadn’t gotten lost in the mail. He climbed the stairs to his room and threw his fencing bag down, ready for a badly needed shower.

There it was. A generic white envelope with a simple stamp of a ladybug with cat ears and whiskers next to the return address. Adrien spies his name in neat, rounded print in the middle above his own address.

Snatching the envelope off of his desk, Adrien tears open the top and skims the single paper inside.

Adrien Agreste,

We are happy to inform you that you have been admitted to serve on the Camp Kwami summer staff for all sessions! We are all  looking forward to having you on our team this year.  Only 3 months until summer!

See you in the valley!

Tikki

Camp Kwami

 Adrien actually let out a whoop. Finally! The wait had been worth it, and now he was bursting with joy. He wanted to open his windows and yell to all of Paris that he was going to be free for the first time in his life. Instead, he grabbed his phone to call the one person who would listen.

 “Hello?”

 “Chloe! It’s me!”

 “Adrikins!!! I was wondering when you would return my calls!”

 “Oh, yeah. Sorry about that. Listen! I’ve got great news, Chlo!”

 “What’s that? You have free time tonight for us to go to the ballet?”

 “Actually, I might. I’ll text you about details for that later. You know the summer camp I’ve been trying to get Father to let me go to for the past few years?”

 “That old place down in Clermont-Ferrand?”

 “Yeah, that one exactly!”

 “So? What about it?”

 “You gotta guess, Chlo.”

 “If I guess, you have to promise to not stand me up this time for the ballet.”

 “Fine. JUST GUESS.”

 “Uh… Gab finally relented?”

 “YEAH! I’M GOING THIS SUMMER! CAN YOU BELIEVE IT, CHLOE?!? HE ACTUALLY SAID YES!”

 “Fascinating, Adrien. You won’t be gone for long right? Maybe a few days?”

 “Hell no! I’m gonna be gone the whole summer!”

 “THE WHOLE SUMMER?! Wh-what?”

 “Relax, Chloe, you’ll live without me for a couple months.”

 “Oh, my god. I can’t believe this.”

 “Me neither. Anyway, I just wanted to call and tell you since you would be like, the only person who would actually understand. I gotta go now. Maybe see you later?”

 “I’d better! So… what is this camp?”

 “Camp Kwami. My mom went there?”

 “Camp Kwami… hm. Okay, talk to you later Adrikins!!! Text me about toni-”

 Adrien hung up the phone. He didn’t really want to go anywhere with Chloe right now, but maybe he would just to keep her at bay for another couple of weeks. Especially considering the great mood he was in.

[connorrenwick]

Aaron Lowell Denton: The Accidental Designer

The following post is brought to you by Squarespace, an easy-to-use website builder for your personal and professional needs. You can start a free trial for a website (with no credit card required) today and use coupon code DESIGNMILK for 10% off your website when you’re ready to publish. Our partners are hand picked by the Design Milk team because they represent the best in design.

Entering the world of Indiana-based visual artist Aaron Lowell Denton can feel like stepping through the doorway of an astonishingly preserved record shop you’d long had forgotten – a realm embellished in the hallmarks reminiscent of Stanislaw Fernandes’ finest OMNI magazine covers, the Memphis Movement, forgotten classics of the 1980s Japanese city pop albums era, and maybe even the neon hued geometric landscapes once emblazoned across blank VHS cassette tapes. With a portfolio pulsing with a surreal experimental glow, Denton has carved out a career as a musician’s artist, one adept at mining the collective memory of music’s imprint onto our emotions, expressed through an Indian summer spectrum of colors and absurdist’s sense of movement.

Photo: Anna Powell Denton

Originally from Upland, a tiny little town in northern Indiana, and now based in Bloomington, Indiana, Denton’s journey follows the trajectory more that of a squiggle than a line. “[When I first moved to Bloomington] I had a slew of day jobs before I went full time with design. I served tables at a vegetarian restaurant here in town called The Owlery,” says Denton, “I also painted houses for a while, alongside some carpentry work. I worked the door at a bar during a 10pm to 4am shift. That was a weird time.”

Between this hodge-podge of jobs, Denton was also designing flyers and posters for a local musical venue for the love of it, sometimes for just $50 a pop, but mostly for free. Over time he found himself spending an extraordinary time on these projects despite the modest pay. It was only when his then-partner-now-wife suggested making a go of a career as a visual artist that Denton decided to abandon toiling 70-hour weeks to dedicate himself fully into his design work.

“I was super scared to quit my restaurant job. I figured I’d try it for a few months and go back to waiting tables, but it worked out! I feel super grateful to have the job and life I have. It’s a privilege, especially in times like these, to be able to work for yourself and make art for a living. I can’t believe I get to do it everyday.”

The world would soon come knocking on Denton’s door by way of Instagram, where his work garnered a great deal of attention from design and music aficionados alike. He’d soon find himself inundated with commissions by promoters all seeking Denton’s uniquely hypnotic pop manifestations for the likes of musicians such as Wild Nothing, Leon Bridges and Khruangbin, John Maus, and Stereolab, tying a lyrical sense of typography together with a heart-on-his-sleeve affection for artists such as Donald Judd, Joan Miró, Helen Frankenthaler, and Bridget Riley.“That high art stuff is a bit in my aesthetic DNA at this point, and my sense of color and composition comes from all the time I spent (and still spend) in museums and looking in books.” 

Today Denton’s eye finds itself drawn toward other outliers of art, including surreal futurist Stanislaw Fernandes, 1960s-1970s Japanese typography, and OMNI magazine, influences clearly discernible across his portfolio, “I also got into a big city pop phase last year that resulted in a bunch of work in that style.  I just get really into looking and researching a certain style, and I think it’s fun to sometimes try on styles and techniques. It’s a way to give yourself permission to experiment and grow.”

This growth also included designing his own website on Squarespace, where his online portfolio resides alongside an e-commerce shop where some of his more recent work is available as posters. The site has become an integral extension of his online presence, allowing him to connect with new clients and customers alike. Denton remembers designing his site as surprisingly “easy”, crediting Squarespace’s robust site building tools. “There was definitely a time when building a website felt like such a feat, but it’s just not that way anymore.”

Denton also cites an appreciation for the collaborative nature of his work. As a musician himself, he calls the process a “conversation” integral to informing his eventual solution in tying together his vision with the artist, the venue, and even the audience. It’s a process he’s embraced increasingly more as he ventures solely from poster work toward collaborative commissions.

“Part of the art in it for me is the dialogue with clients, and the personal connection that can come out of creating art together,” notes Denton, “Especially when you’re representing someone else’s art with your own, that process has to be collaborative. That being said, like I mentioned, musicians can understand the need to not be caged in too much. They can empathize with needing a certain amount of autonomy to find something unique.”

“I’ve been lucky to work with some of my favorite musicians and it does sometimes feel like it’s coming from somewhere mysterious, pre-cooked.” Promotional risograph poster for Wild Nothing. September, 2018.

When asked about what makes for a good poster or album design, Denton is quick to point out the open-minded nature of his clientele – musicians – has afforded him a fairly relaxed relationship that tends to foster, rather than hamper good design.

“[Musicians] tend to be less intense than say, an art director. When I do a poster there’s not much between my idea and execution and the final piece; whereas, with something like a logo for a business, or a commercial project, it needs to be discussed and examined. That can be fun too…it’s all just different.”

These fairly unrestricted bounds have permitted Denton a level of interpretive freedom not all designers are always given, allowing the artist to consider both the complete oeuvre of the musician with his own personal connections with their music to form novel solutions. “I sometimes feel like the bands I get asked to work for already have visual representations, fully formed, sitting somewhere inside me. Like, they’re formed from my own relationship with the music and fandom. 

“Design has a rich history of endearing social messages with imagery. With the Abolish ICE poster I was working with a group called New Sanctuary Coalition to raise funds for immigration bonds, which are exorbitantly higher for people in that system. I’d love to collaborate on more social posters in the future though, it’s an area of my work I really value.”

Photo: Anna Powell Denton

Amusingly, Denton’s affinity for collaboration even extends to the nuts and bolts of operating as a one-person operation. “I actually enjoy emailing quite a bit,” admits Denton, “The dialogue between me and my clients is something I’m actively interested in. I don’t dread any of that stuff.”

Denton credits his Squarespace designed site as an alternative medium to show work outside of social media, one where his work can be shown without the expectations and associations of an audience-based medium like Instagram. “I like to think of my site just as a full view of a collection of work. It’s the fastest way for someone to see what my work is all about.” Visitors are welcome to peruse his portfolio of work and purchase posters from an e-commerce shop vertical. Denton’s design is clean, simple, and easy to navigate, permitting his artwork to be the centerpiece of the experience.

Squarespace has made selling my work all around the world a more accessible possibility. The commerce tools are really easy to use and understand.

With a majority of his past work connected to the music industry, Denton is using his site to aid in pursuing new opportunities, both out of curiosity and out of necessity, “When COVID hit, a majority of my poster work evaporated, so this year has been a lot different as far as where the work is coming from. I’ve been doing more editorial jobs, which I’m really into. I’d like to do a book design at some point, and also want to do more movie posters. I’m trying to learn about motion design in my spare time, so I could see myself trying that at some point.”

Ready to share your vision or brand with the world? Take the first step today with your very own website with Squarespace. Start your free two week trial (no credit card required!) and use coupon code DESIGNMILK when you’re ready  to get 10% off.

via http://design-milk.com/

from WordPress https://connorrenwickblog.wordpress.com/2020/08/17/aaron-lowell-denton-the-accidental-designer/

[ladystylestores]

Valve secrets spill over—including Half-Life 3—in new Steam documentary app

The Final Hours of Half-Life: Alyx is now live on Steam as a $10 download, and it’s a phenomenal look at the underbelly of Valve video game development, told with a wealth of inside access and a host of multimedia goodies.

The project, as led by journalist Geoff Keighley, is a years-in-the-making look at Valve’s journey to release a new Half-Life game, complete with stories about other attempts that never got off the ground. Separated into 12 “chapters,” the app is predominately driven by Keighley’s text, full of interviews and quotes, and every page comes with embedded image galleries and pictures to drive each point home.

Get ready for a Borealis-load of Valve secrets

An interactive slider chart lets you dig through a few surprises in Valve’s game-development timeline, which Keighley’s story describes at great length.

A screenshot of the codenamed project “A.R.T.I.,” built in a brand-new, voxel-based engine that differed from Source 2.

Geoff Keighley

A screenshot of the codenamed project “A.R.T.I.,” built in a brand-new, voxel-based engine that differed from Source 2.

Geoff Keighley

A peek at the Shooter prototype developed for possible inclusion in Valve’s “The Lab” box of VR toys.

Geoff Keighley

An early prototype version of Half-Life: Alyx.

Geoff Keighley

Concept art for Half-Life: Alyx.

Geoff Keighley

The app includes a few fun interactive widgets, including full scans of characters from the game.

Valve / Geoff Keighley

You can also create and mix your own chain of headcrab sound effects.

Geoff Keighley

A look at how the G-Man was brought back to life.

Geoff Keighley

More G-Man insight.

Geoff Keighley

The app’s biggest dirt is arguably its confirmation of exactly what started and stopped within Valve on the way to getting Half-Life: Alyx out the door this March. That includes information on Half-Life 3—and it is a much firmer account of Valve’s history than what IGN reported earlier this year.

As described, however, this “HL3,” which began life in the early ’10s, would have been very different from what fans might have expected from a full-fledged Half-Life sequel. Inspired by Left 4 Dead, this non-VR version of Half-Life would have revolved around combat sequences through procedurally generated towers and buildings, chained together by crafted plot events.

A more plot-centric Half-Life project emerged within Valve in 2015, led in part by former series scribe Marc Laidlaw: a VR-exclusive game codenamed Borealis. (This followed the prototyping of a Half-Life arcade shooter, simply titled Shooter, that was made for possible inclusion in Valve’s VR toy kit The Lab, only to be canceled; we’ve reported on that one previously.)

Borealis would have taken place entirely on the boat of the same name while players “ricocheted in time back and forth” between various points in the Half-Life universe, including the series’ Seven Hour War. If that sounds familiar, its concept resembles the story Laidlaw eventually posted for fans, which many took to resemble his vision for a “Half-Life 3.” He left Valve shortly after the prototype failed to “gain traction,” Keighley writes.

Shortly before ground was broken on what became Half-Life: Alyx, Valve also had a “mini team” begin prototyping a Left 4 Dead sequel in late 2015, which was also shelved after “months of work.” (Its codename was “Hot Dog,” if you want to start digging through old Source Engine files for hints of it.) And other sections of the app talk about other canceled Valve games, including Left 4 Dead 3 (not to be confused with “Hot Dog”) and new, codenamed games like “A.R.T.I.” and “RPG.” (Today’s report also acknowledges a Half-Life 2: Episode 3 project that stalled when its team members shifted to help ship the first Left 4 Dead game.)

“The highest-paid blog post writers”

Keighley’s account of Valve’s history is blunt about the studio’s lack of significant game launches during the ’10s and about the issues they had in common—particularly that they all pulled the in-development Source 2 engine in different directions. “We sort of became the highest-paid blog post writers of all time,” longtime Valve writer Jay Pinkerton admits, while other staffers talk frankly about the studio’s reputation for spinning up multiple small projects and then watching them fall apart internally.

“We sort of had to collectively admit we were wrong on the premise that you will be happiest if you work on something you personally want to work on the most,” Valve developer Robin Walker tells Keighley, soundly rejecting the ethos that Valve has publicly carried as a torch for some time. The studio used a new Half-Life project as a way to focus the entire studio—even though, as we’ve previously reported, that project began life with more modest expectations in terms of length and content.

From there, Half-Life: Alyx‘s story picks up steam, intertwined with the studio’s vision for building VR hardware and experiences. The whole thing is a spoiler-filled exploration of how HL:A took shape, but most interesting is that the game’s biggest internal test ended with fellow Valve staffers giving a big thumbs-down to the ending. The production team sought permission to rebuild the narrative arc with a stunning ending, and Valve boss Gabe Newell greenlighted the shift, knowing it would delay HL:A‘s launch outside of the Valve Index hardware launch (which everyone had hoped would happen side-by-side).

And, yes, we finally have confirmation of what those two other VR games were that Newell bullishly announced in 2017: the aforementioned “A.R.T.I.” project, and something codenamed SimTrek, which Keighley only says was built in part by members of the original Kerbal Space Program team. Today’s news doesn’t clarify whether those projects may come back to life, however, and it doesn’t exactly say what may happen to In The Valley Of The Gods, a game absorbed as a Valve project when the studio acquired Campo Santo in 2018.

If you’re in desperate need to tour a famous building while locked up in quarantine, Geoff Keighley has your back in the form of this full-3D tour of Valve’s Bellevue, WA, headquarters.

Having been to Valve’s offices, I can tell you that quite a bit is left off limits; they operate multiple floors of office space, but we only get one floor, and a few rooms are entirely blocked out.

But it’s still fun to turn on “free-walk” mode and walk through its 3D recreation.

Geoff Keighley

A few hand-drawn art murals can be found in the tour, and they all have Sonic the Hedgehog in common for some reason. (Maybe because that game’s feature-length film launched one month before Half-Life: Alyx did.)

Geoff Keighley

I’m going to assume these whiteboards are covered in text that Keighley’s crew censored.

Geoff Keighley

If you’re a public visitor to Valve, you start your real-life tour here. Sadly, the app doesn’t let you go up the stairs to the cafeteria.

Geoff Keighley

The rest of the app is a doozy in terms of Valve history—including tantalizing hints about Valve’s vision for brain-connected hardware—so you’ll have to head to Keighley’s app, available now for $10 on Steam, to learn the rest and get access to exclusive galleries, prototype videos, and multimedia toys, including the above interactive tour of one floor of Valve’s headquarters in Bellevue, Washington. And while the app doesn’t end with a promise of more Half-Life games to come, it strongly suggests such a future: “We’re not afraid of Half-Life no more,” one Valve staffer suggests. (And whether that project may come in VR or not remains to be seen.)

Listing image by Geoff Keighley

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