#*sits in shoe box and flies off to Saturn*

[junk-whunk-punk]

😦😳HELLO??????????

AWOOGA AWOOGA AWOOGA AWOOGA AWOOGA AWOOGA AWOOGA AWOOGA AWOOGA AWOOGA AWOOGA AWOOGA AWOOGA AWOOGA AWOOGA AWOOGA AWOOGA AWOOGA AWOOGA AWOOGA AWOOGA AWOOGA AWOOGA AWOOGA AWOOGA AWOOGA AWOOGA AWOOGA AWOOGA AWOOGA AWOOGA AWOOGA AWOOGA AWOOGA AWOOGA AWOOGA AWOOGA AWOOGA AWOOGA AWOOGA AWOOGA AWOOGA

Gil-Galad/Celebrimbor #KINGSMITH (both TROP & Silmarillion Versions)

A commission I made for @fallensmith - <3 They asked for a Rings of Power version of GG and Celebrimbor, and a Silmarillion version of them #KingSmith <3

(....this is my first time drawing Non-TROP Celebrimbor or Gil-Galad, but I love drawing long elf hair, so it was veryyyyyyy enjoyable <333 Thank you for the commission Tyelpe! <33333)

[artisticfade]

                      - MY BLOOD IS SINGING WITH YOUR VOICE I WANT TO POUR IT OUT -

    tw: blood, lots of it, horror, gore, vague suicide references

he trails a finger absentmindedly across the table, a small trail of wet condensation following its wake, the particles clinging together for survival, and all sam can think about is the way humans are somewhere around 60% water. everything inside is soft and pumping, shades of scarlet and violet staining the veins that run along every square inch of him—all that kaleidoscope inching just beneath the surface, so delicate and fragile, just a pinprick between warmth and freedom. his ears rush with the sound of his body in heated turmoil, over nothing except the cacophony of living itself; stomach rolling, lungs inflating, heart valves pounding. he bites his lip and thinks about the saliva in his mouth, how much water is that, how much does he waste every day, how much does he swallow and forget about?

the last few days have been difficult on sam’s psyche, thereby causing a very physical reaction in his body, making him weak, making him sullen, making him exhausted. he hasn’t eaten anything substantial in days, hasn’t even been hungry. he hasn’t seen or hung out with any of his friends, except to say goodbye to people like imogen and des, both of which were less-than-ideal encounters. he sits at the school café, thinking about how it might be the last time he sits here, with nothing but an untouched water in front of him, the ice melted, the napkin under it soaked. he hasn’t turned in his withdrawal forms yet, but they’re filled out, sitting on his empty desktop like a blackhole, all light and gravity and hope inescapably stuck inside it.

he hasn’t painted anything in days, his dorm room and studio are barren and lifeless, hollow like the chambers of his chest, howling for a lost love that nothing will ever be able to replace. it’s painful because he still wakes up thinking about painting, thinking about art and shades and charcoal, thinking about what his painting mean, about the dreams and plans he’d made for his life, the critiques he’d gotten from his teachers, the praise he’d received from friends. his mind is still stuck on the adoration of a dying star, and it’s eating him alive. he needs to get out of here.

he scratches his arm, getting up and leaving the table, abandons the water because, well, that seems to be his forte lately. he heads back to his dorm room, his hands stuffed into the pockets of his hoodie, his head lowered to avoid attention. walking slowly, his brain wanders back to how much blood is in his system, cycling around from his eyes to his feet to his throat. how fast it moves. how loud it sounds to him now. recently, he’s been weirdly obsessed with water; dreams of drowning filling up his nights, the campus dotted with lakes he catches himself staring at, running water in faucets and water pitchers. he doesn’t know why he watches it and has such a hard time pulling his gaze away. he doesn’t even think anything specific when he looks at it, just the noise of rushing in his ears, the resonance of blood flowing through him.

he strolls back to his room and takes off his shoes and hoodie, shivering a bit but then stepping over to the desk where the paperwork sits, the heaviest object in the universe. he ought to get it back to the registrar’s office. he ought to finish packing his shit—he only has two boxes of clothes stacked up by the door. he hasn’t told his father yet, although he did try calling. no return messages yet.

he reaches out to pull a chair and that’s when he looks down and notices it; long red lines along his forearm dragging across his veins, as though he’s been scratching it raw. he frowns and touches it, wondering when that had happened? does he have a rash there? doesn’t feel like it, but there is something itching, the urge to scratch it becoming only more uncontrollable now that he’s seen it and become aware of it. he tries rubbing it but that doesn’t help, doesn’t satiate the itch, the skin there becoming damaged. he purses his lips and walks into the bathroom, hunting through what little supplies he’s got to maybe help salve the problem.

nothing, of course, because sam isn’t jude, and doesn’t know how to be prepared for everything like a robot. whatever, he’ll stop by the nurse’s office on the way to the registrar’s, or maybe pick something up from the store? he tries to put his shoes on but it’s burning now, the ringing in his ears growing louder and louder until his head starts pounding. suddenly, he feels overfull, like there’s just too much inside of him, bloating and threatening to explode. 65%

70%

75%

he gets the strangest sensation that the blood in the veins of his arms is singing, humming and red red RED, desperate to get out, desperate to taste air. the throbbing in his head is in league with the pumping of his heart, and he squeezes his eyes shut against the shock of tears welling up at the edge of his lashes — WATER WATER WATER. everything around him is a DEƧEЯƬ, and everything around him is a ¢AиνAѕ, and he has nothing, n o t h i n g, to set his mind free, to set his  p o w e r  free. nothing except himself, the scarlet of him, the gore of him.

there is approximately 5 liters of blood coursing through his body, and for the mural he has to create, he’ll need every ounce of it.

                                                                *****************************

light footsteps breach the empty hallway, blonde hair, fair eyes, a small frame of a girl just coming to drop a book off, unassumingly delicate and polite, expecting nothing, abhorring nothing. fragile wrists and thin knuckles rap against the door, garnering attention only from two felines inside, the cats yelling and calling for her; something’s wrong, he’s gone insane, he’s ruining everything, come come come inside.

 c o m e   a n d   s e e

worry burns through her as she bangs on the wood, hearing the small animals’ cry, hearing crashes inside, a dresser falling over, knickknacks scattering across the floor. she beats harder and tugs on the handle, yells his name over and over, asks if he’s okay, if he can hear her. anything? nothing. finally she remembers words he’d muttered weeks ago about never really needing to lock his door because it’s so bent out of shape from the frame, it requires extra pushing and shoving and slight lifting to get it open. she hopes, she hopes, and after two failed attempts, finally the door flies open, and she collides into the chaos of the room, eyes wide, breath caught.

he stands in front of the far wall, all the furniture he’d once had against it shoved away, pushed over and discarded like waste onto the floor, his hands frantically moving along the wide surface, meticulously forming an abstract model of the beach, twelve figures standing along the shoreline, aligned like stars in the sky. the painting is in shades of red, the color he’s scratching out from the veins in his forearms, both wrists clawed open and bleeding, dripping onto the floor before he can get it onto the wall.

something in him must sense that she’s barged in, breaking his focus, breaking the trance, and he turns slowly to look at her, his eyes shining bright blue like colored flashlights, gazing into the core of her, gazing into the path she walks, the path she will walk. he takes a half-step towards her, wobbling and unsteady, his knees faltering and close to collapse.

“saturn returns….” he whispers, breathy, delirious, exhausted, before his eyes roll back into his head and he faints onto the floor from blood-loss.