#I’ve never drawn eclipse like that before

[just-a-drawing-bean]

Magma stuff had fun!!! <3

Although at the end there I was real tired haha it’s 3am

[metalhoops]

Read Part 1 Here

As small and unassuming as Eddie’s trailer was to others, it had always been his fortress. It was the last stronghold against the forces of evil, and the bastion of all things metal and macabre. It wasn’t much, but it was undoubtedly his. When you grew up with little, you clung to what you had. 

He’d come to Wayne’s at an age when the world had begun to haemorrhage magic, leaving a realm devoid of colour in its place. His uncle worked hard to stoke the flames of his creativity, buying or borrowing what he could to keep Eddie’s dreams of castles and kingdoms alive.  

He’d spent a small lifetime buried in tomes of fantasy and mythology. He’d whiled away afternoons flicking through books that let him choose the story, always managing to die before finding the right ending. As a child whose mother died young, it was nice to live in a world where death could be undone. 

Eddie managed to cling on to that last spark of childlike wonder into his early twenties. His childhood had been a landscape inhospitable for the companionships of knights and the trickery of wizards, yet he’d made it work. That kind of alchemy didn’t fade easily. 

Yet, with Chrissy’s death tainting his memories of the trailer, he understood his fortress, his kingdom, was nothing but rubble and blighted soil. He was Frodo, returning to The Shire after the destruction of the ring. Eddie’s Undying Lands came in the form of a small bungalow on the edge of town, paid for with government hush money. 

The place wasn’t much larger than the trailer, yet it felt vast in the late hours of the night when Wayne was working and Eddie was alone. They’d only been in the house a week. He still felt as though he were in hostile territory. He sat on his bedroom floor with the curtains half-drawn. 

He’d spent the past half hour drawing them open before pulling them shut. If they were shut, the place looked deserted. People would be less likely to try to peer in, but he wouldn’t be able to see if someone or something was coming. If he left the curtains open, people would be able to see in. Eddie told himself he was being paranoid until he watched a pair of headlights flicker in the distance down the isolated road. 

Eddie was quick to action, darting into the entrance as a knock sounded on the front door. He grabbed a box cutter from the pile of unpacked boxes and peeked through the keyhole. You could never be too cautious, not when half the town thought you were a murderer. 

Standing in the doorway was Steve Harrington, the former king of their ever-changing kingdom, looking lost and worse for wear. His hair, a Harrington point of pride, as good to Steve as a crown to a king, was a sodden bird's nest perched atop his head. Though that wasn’t all. One of his arms hung naked at his side. Steve hadn’t managed to pull it through his polo, leaving half his skin exposed, the other half covered in poorly wrapped bandages. 

They’d both been hurt by the hoard of bats, but Steve's injuries eclipsed Eddie’s. Something about that fact sat wrong with him. It was as though he’d stumbled upon a wrong ending. He wanted to turn back and find a story where Steve was safe. Eddie dropped his makeshift weapon and swung open the door. 

“Steve? Christ man, you’ve seen better days,” Eddie spoke, ushering Steve inside, locking the door behind him. 

“I’ve had worse.” 

Steve, like Eddie, appeared changed from what’d happened to them. He hadn’t known how to explain it. Most of what he knew about Steve Harrington was mythology, a collection of stories which changed depending on the teller. Yet, all those close to him, far closer to him than Eddie, had agreed something about him had changed. This Steve was a broken bone set wrong. Something about him always appeared to ache. 

Buckley had hauled up in the Harrington manor with him after they were released from hospital, helping tend to his wounds and wash his perfect hair. She’d confided in Eddie when he had come to check up on Steve that he was forgetting things. 

Perhaps forgetting wasn’t the right word. Robin spoke five languages, yet she couldn’t find the term to describe what was going on with Steve. He seemed out of place, like a sour note in a once sweet melody. 

Maybe it was one concussion too many, Robin had justified, which was a collection of stories shrouded in contention. How many concussions had Steve had? Nancy swore Jonathan hadn’t hurt Steve badly during their fight. He’d been able to run away, after all. Jonathan admitted he probably had. 

The kids all agreed Steve was knocked out cold after his fight with Billy while Robin recounted what’d happened in Starcourt. She’d later confess Steve had other concussions before Jonathan, though wouldn’t elaborate on their origin. Some stories only hurt the teller. Eddie had learnt how to read negative space.  Occam’s razor told them it was the easiest explanation, but to Robin and Eddie, it didn’t feel like the right one. 

Steve talked about things that’d happened weeks ago as if they’d occurred to someone in another life. Then there was the way he looked and spoke to Eddie. Every time he’d show up at the Harrington’s front stoop, Steve would look at him as though he’d risen from the dead, shook off the grave dirt and stumbled back into his life.

He had the feeling Steve was always seconds away from telling him something important, but he too, didn’t seem to have the language to convey it. When they stood together in silence, as they did that night in Eddie’s new fortress, he felt as though he almost understood. 

“What brings you to my humble abode, Harrington?” Eddie asked, trying to keep his eyes from Steve’s exposed side. 

“Mostly pride,” Steve admitted with a humourless laugh, ushering to his side, inviting Eddie to look. He did. 

“I told Rob to go home for the night and uh...” Steve cringed as he tried to lift his hand up to pull it through his sleeve. Eddie stepped closer without meaning to. 

“Shit, hold still. Don’t rip your stitches again or Buckley’ll hand my ass to me on a silver platter,” Eddie grumbled. His hand twitched, wanting to touch. Steve took a step forward, inviting him to. Eddie hesitantly brushed his fingers over the gauze, examining the bandages. 

“When did you last change these?” 

“Two days ago,” Steve admitted, leaning against the wall, trying to keep his balance. Eddie cursed under his breath, grabbed Steve by the wrist, and guided him to the bathroom. 

“You don’t have to change ‘em. They’re pretty gross,” Steve protested. 

“Which is exactly why I have to change them,” Eddie argued as he help Steve slide onto the bathroom countertop beside the sink. 

“I’ll get Robin to do it tomorrow. She didn’t throw up after dissecting a frog in junior bio.” Eddie groaned and scrubbed his face with his hand. 

“Didn’t know that was public knowledge, great.”

“Not many people knew. I just... we were in biology together.” Eddie knew they weren’t. 

He knew every class he’d had with Steve Harrington, much to his chagrin. They’d had gym, history, and Spanish together. Like shiny plastic to a crow or jewels to a dragon, Steve always managed to capture Eddie’s attention. He’d like to blame it on the fact he found Steve attractive, but there were a handful of other hot jocks who made Eddie want to shove his hand in a blender. Steve had always been different to him, though he’d managed to keep his affections close to his chest. It’d never do him any good. 

Steve had a habit of rewriting their mythology. Eddie had noticed him doing it often as a way of explaining away little things he’d have no right knowing, by fabricating new pasts. That was a piece of Steve’s new persona, which was reserved only for Eddie. 

He wasn’t sure how to broach the topic. He liked Steve. Hell, the more the two got to know one another, the more Eddie thought he could love Steve, but their relationship felt like an empty hallway in a horror film. It was devoid of any real threat, but it felt as though something was lurking just out of view. 

Eddie blamed his feelings of love for the strange gravity between them. Occam’s razor. He wanted to kiss Steve. He didn’t know what Steve wanted. That caused tension. 

“Why did you come here? I mean, don’t get me wrong, Stevie. The door’s always open,” Eddie said as he peeled back the bandage. 

He felt Steve stiffen and moved one hand to rest on the boy’s thigh. Steve’s hand covered his, lacing their fingers together and surprising Eddie. He tried not to look too closely at the wound. He found their first-aid kit and got to work, squeezing Steve’s thigh each time he pulled the bandaged taught. 

“I miss you,” Steve said, once more sounding seconds from another confession Eddie knew wouldn’t come. 

“I haven’t gone anywhere, dude. I saw you yesterday.” 

Steve muttered something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like, 

‘I used to see you every day.’ 

Another past that’d never happened. A reinvention. To make matters worse, Eddie wanted to believe in that past. He wanted Steve to tell him their story, the one that lived only inside his head. Eddie would follow it. He’d do anything to stop the boy from looking so lost. 

“Can I do something weird?” Steve asked, and all Eddie could do was nod. 

Steve hooked his arm around Eddie’s neck, pulled the boy into the space between his dangling legs, and buried his face in Eddie’s hair. Steve’s hands balled into tight fists in Eddie’s shirt fabric, holding him so close he felt his bones creak like wooden floorboards underfoot. 

“You don’t have to miss me, sweetheart. I’m right here,” Eddie assured, feeling the need to do something, say something to make everything better. Steve’s grip tightened.

“Do you ever feel like we’ve been here before?” Steve spoke, his voice muffled by Eddie’s skin. 

He knew the answer Steve wanted. He couldn’t in good conscience give it to him. 

“No,” Eddie confessed. 

“But I wish we had.” 

Steve pulled back so the two could get a better look at one another. Unable to help himself, Eddie leaned forward, trying to smooth down his hair. 

“When you were seven, you scraped your knee so badly you walked with a limp for half a year and ever since you’ve hated the sight of blood,” Steve spoke, not daring to look at Eddie. 

He felt his whole body go stiff. His hand in Steve’s hair froze. He was right, but Eddie couldn’t understand how he knew. He’d moved to Hawkins when he was twelve. His life before that was a mystery to the town. 

“How?” Eddie began, but Steve wasn’t finished. 

“You do that thing when you’re nervous. Yes, that thing you’re doing with your hair,” Steve observed. Eddie had taken a string of hair between his thumb and forefinger and half hidden behind it. 

“And when you’re flirting,” Steve amended. Eddie’s brows drew together. 

“Which you do with me, a lot. Took me forever to work out that’s what you were doing but give me enough time and a good enough thump to the head and I’ll realise it, eventually.” 

Steve knew Eddie liked him. Shit. 

“Took me even longer to realise I liked you too, but everything’s kind of screwed now, isn’t it?” Steve asked, his humourless, dry laugh coming back. 

“Because every time I’m with you, I miss you. And I know that makes no goddamn sense, but I do.” 

Eddie tried to unpick what Steve’s words meant, but he kept coming up short. Steve liked him. That much Eddie gathered. It was enough to send his stomach plummeting into his boots. 

“Tell me what you’ve gotta tell me, Steve. I’m a big boy. I can handle it. Get some of that damn weight off your shoulders,” Eddie mumbled, placing a hand on Steve’s shoulder and rubbing circles into the spot as though to prove a point. Instead, Steve looked at him with a crooked grin and uttered,

“Like Atlas, right?” He hadn’t picked Steve as a mythology geek. Eddie felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end, as though he were seconds away from putting it all together.

“We’ve had this conversation before, haven’t we?” 

“Not exactly, but almost.” 

“Then why the hell don’t I remember it?” Eddie questioned, his voice growing strained. 

“I don’t know. You never do. It doesn’t matter, it’s over.” 

“What’s over Steve?” 

“I’d ask you if you really want to know, but the answer is always yes,” He grumbled, nudging his face against Eddie’s hand. 

Steve took a deep breath and told Eddie everything. He spoke about Eddie’s death, about being stuck in the same day for hundreds of repetitions. He told stories of Eddie’s death while brushing over similar terrors. Eddie knew he was getting a sanitised version of the tale, but still, he understood why the boy was haunted. He couldn’t imagine what he’d do if he were in Steve’s place. 

Stories, where death could be undone with a simple flick of the page and another binary decision, were easy. In practice, with hundreds of little choices and thousands of ways things could go wrong, it seemed more akin to a nightmare. 

“When you said you missed me,” Eddie breathed after a moment.

“Which version of me do you miss?” Steve’s brows pinched together, looking as though he’d been asking himself the same question. 

“I don’t know. I think, shit. I think I miss a version of you that never existed. If that makes sense. I miss what I thought we could’ve been when everything was over. You’re alive. I’m alive. It was supposed to be easy after that.” 

Eddie gave the boy a sad smile and nodded. To Steve, trapped in a never-ending cycle, Eddie had been his kingdom. He’d been a land to defend and a safe haven to return to. Yet, he’d wanted himself to be the same wide-eyed hero who’d left the empire, not the jaded veteran who’d returned home from war. They could never be the uncomplicated love story Steve had told himself to get through the days, but that didn’t have to mean things were ruined. 

“Hey, Stevie? What’s your favourite movie?” Eddie spoke, causing Steve to really look at him for the first time since they’d started speaking of other timelines and death. 

“Star Wars... The one with the teddy bears. Why?” Eddie got a goofy grin on his face, wondering how the hell someone who’d had the reputation Steve once had could love something as nerdy as Star Wars. 

“You know a damn lot about me. Time we even the goddamn playing field.” Steve nodded and gnawed on his bottom lip. His eyes trailed down to Eddie’s lips. He didn’t have to know Steve well to know what he was getting at. 

“Can I kiss you?” He questioned, his hand already tangling in Eddie’s hair. 

His thumb ghosted over the space between his ear and jaw that always made his breath hitch. Steve knew how Eddie liked to be touched. That was a new revelation. 

“We’ve kissed before, haven’t we?” Eddie questioned, Steve’s breath hot against his face. 

“I haven’t kissed this version of you before,” Steve supplied with a smug grin. 

“No fucking fair. You have the hometown advantage,” Eddie reasoned, and Steve let out a shocked laugh, a real one this time. 

“You’ve never made a sports reference before.”

“So they’re surprises in me yet,” Eddie beamed, sick of the anticipation, he leaned forward and pressed their lips together. 

The kiss was long and desperate. Steve clung to him, kissing him breathlessly, making Eddie weak at the knees. They had to pause when Steve let out a sharp inhale as Eddie accidentally grabbed his still-healing side. He muttered a slew of apologies, peppering Steve’s neck and jaw with kisses. He hadn’t shaved in days and Eddie felt a good kind of ache from the scrape of stubble against his jaw. 

When they finally pulled apart, the two looked decidedly more dishevelled. Eddie caught his breath and whispered, 

“You know, I’ve got Return of the Jedi on tape in a box someplace. You could stay over and we could... I don’t know, re-get to know each other,” Eddie proposed. 

“I like the sound of that.” 

[live-laugh-neteyam]

can you do a hurt/comfort w/ Neteyam, Ao'nung, or Lo'ak where they're in a arranged marriage and the reader thinks that they don't love her the way she loves them.

kind of based off of that one scene from the Corpse Bride?

"I love you, Victor. But you're not mine,"

that's if you're taking requests. if not, I love your works and thanks for reading this! ❤️

You’re Not Mine ||| lo’ak x omatikaya!reader

hi lovie! thanks for the request 💞 ok so I've never seen the corpse bride so hopefully I didn't butcher this 🙈

masterlist

pairings: lo’ak x omatikaya!fem!reader

summary: alexa, play yours by conan gray

words: 1k

warnings/notes: angst (because that’s all I know how to do apparently) arranged marriage, one sided love, use of y/n, lo’ak is emotionally constipated, sweet ending tho

It was never difficult to love him. Falling for him was the easiest thing you had ever done. Like a moth to a flame you were drawn to him from the start. All he had to do was want you back.

But he never did.

Always feeling like the outcast of the clan, Lo'ak kept his heart guarded. More often than not he'd get hurt and he couldn't stand another heartbreak.

So Lo'ak swore off love. Never giving anyone a chance he declined every potential mate that came his way. He'd rather stay alone than risk the familiar ache in his chest.

Lo'ak's stubbornness as usual was testing his father's patience. Being well into adulthood, Jake was ready to see his youngest son settle down. It seemed the only way for that to happen was for Jake to take matters into his own hands.

The Olo'eyktan noticed the way your eyes always seemed to land on Lo'ak no matter what you were doing. You had grown into a fine hunter, beloved by the clan. You would be a great match for his son.

Jake sat you down along with your parents to ask your approval. He wouldn't force you into something you didn’t want, but he felt an arranged marriage would be best for his son.

The idea of finally being with the man you've been in love with for years lit your heart ablaze. But then the cruel reality of it came crashing down.

It was an arrangement. Not love.

With teary eyes you accepted Jake's proposal. You'd rather have Lo'ak to some extent than lose him completely.

Lo'ak was outraged with his father for not only allowing this, but causing it. He became shut off even more than he already was. Lo'ak hardly even looked at you anymore. It broke your heart.

A part of Lo'ak felt bad for resenting you. Deep down he knew you didn't deserve to be treated like this, stuck in this arrangement just like him. But his twisted mind told him that you were only here because you pitied him.

You tried desperately to get Lo’ak to see your love for him. But it was no use, you couldn’t make him see what he refused to.

Preparing dinner for yourself you weren’t expecting Lo’ak to be home anytime soon. Usually he stayed out until eclipse. You assumed that he couldn’t stand to be around you anymore than he had to.

You heard someone enter the tent. Looking up you were met with the last person you expected. Eyes widening you couldn’t help the look of shock on your face.

Lo’ak took in your wide eyes. You quickly went back to what you were doing. He sighed. After a few weeks of sulking he decided to actually give this a shot. If you had to be together it shouldn’t have to be miserable.

Besides, Lo’ak would be lying if he said he didn’t like you. Growing up he always admired your kindness. You never treated anyone differently, including himself.

“You’re back early.” You whispered as he sat across from you.

“I thought we could eat together.” He said nervously.

“Why?” It slipped out before you could stop it. You internally cringed at your bluntness.

“I understand if you don’t want to. I just thought-“ he sighed trailing off.

“I’d love to, Lo’ak.” You smiled at him.

“But why?” He stared at you stunned. “I’ve been nothing but an asshole to you when you did nothing to deserve it.”

“I want to make this work.”

“You don’t have to pretend Y/N. You can leave at any time and I won’t say a thing. I won’t fuck up your life anymore than I already have.”

“Lo’ak.” You sighed. “Please don’t say such things.”

“Please don’t.” He sighed looking up at you with watery eyes.

“Don’t what?” Your heart pinching at the sight of him.

“Don’t act like you want me. I wouldn’t be able to take the rejection. Not from you.” A tear slid down his cheek.

“Oh Lo’ak,” you sighed reaching your hand out to cup his cheek.

“No one wants me. Not even myself.” He whispered just loud enough for you to hear.

His words broke your heart in two. If only he knew how truly loved he was. Lo’ak caused himself the headache he was trying to avoid by building his walls too high.

"I want you!” You exclaimed. All of the pent up emotion you’ve been holding for weeks exploding out of you. “I would rip my heart out and lay it at your feet if that's what you asked of me."

“Y/N, what are you saying?” He breathed.

"I see you, Lo'ak." You confessed, hugging yourself tight as tears stung your eyes. "But you're not mine."

Lo’ak stared at you stunned. He couldn’t believe that you, the kindness and purest person he knew saw something worthwhile in him.

“I’m so stupid.” He muttered rubbing his palms over his face. “I’m so sorry Y/N.”

You took his hands in yours slowly bringing them up to your lips. Not breaking eye contact with him you gently kissed his knuckles.

“I. See. You.” You mumbled, lips still pressed against his knuckles.

Lo’ak stared in awe at you. His heartbeat quickened as a strange swirling feeling took over his stomach. Looking down he noticed the way you gently cradled his hands, as if you were holding precious stones.

His breath caught in his throat. He cursed himself for being so hard hearted. How did he go so long without seeing you?

Moving his hands to cup your face he slowly leaned in. Your eyes fluttered closed in anticipation for what was to come, praying that this wasn’t a dream.

His lips hesitantly met yours. You felt like your body was lit on fire. Pulling him closer you passionately kissed him back. As your lips moved in sync the sound of walls crumbling filled your ears.

Taglist:

 @ilovejakesullysdick @fanboyluvr @athenalikethegoddess @loverofallthingsfandom @forasgaard @plzfeedmebread @instabull @avatarappreciationblog @romimiux @ferrtan @tammitammytime @eternallyvenus @dreamyescapesfromreality @dvxsja @jakesullyfatjuicypeen @mightyneteyam @doggyteam2028

[spiderlandry]

soft place to land — rotxo

Description: Rotxo thought he had more time to finalize his plan on how he’ll court you. But as he saw you sneaking off with Neteyam to fly on his ikran, he couldn’t help but think he may be too late.

Pairing: Rotxo x GN!Reader (Metkayina)

Warnings/Tags: jealousy, misunderstandings, angst, fluff, mentions of parent death (not reader’s), neteyam being a wingman, neteyam being flirty but they’re just a couple of besties

Word Count: 4.1k

Author’s Note: rotxo my sweet boy <333 included my own hcs about his family situation in this one

At the edge of the forest of Awa’atlu sitting on a rock, you and Neteyam sat shoulder-to-shoulder watching the eclipse. Though you’ve been trying to convince him to make more friends and get out there, he always found his way back to you.

“I swear,” you watched the tides crash against the shore. “I never took you for the shy type.”

“I am not shy,” Neteyam quipped. “I just like being alone.”

“Would you like me to leave?”

His head snapped in your direction, his mouth beginning to scowl until he realized you were smirking. “You’ve been a good teacher. You deserve to reap the rewards by being in my presence,” he laughed as you shoved him, careful not to do it too hard that he fell off.

The truth was Neteyam was drawn to you because of your nurturing nature. He would never outright tell you, but it was something that he sought in people—a calmness he sensed in your soul. Yet, you entertained his little teases with just the right amount of sarcasm. He knew he wanted to be your close friend on the first day you helped teach his family about the Metkayina way of life. You accepted him almost immediately, even after he gained a few stern looks from you when he started teasing you about a certain someone a bit too soon.

That certain someone being Rotxo. On that first day, Neteyam said he noticed the way you stared, which you followed up with a concerned, is it really that obvious?

The answer, it was only obvious to Neteyam because he went through the same thing back home. When he told you this, you were able to read the solemn look on his face and he opened up about the woman waiting for him in the forest, the one he was beginning to court before they were forced to seek uturu. You both bonded over the pain of belonging to someone you couldn’t be with at that moment.

You’ve been best friends since then.

Neteyam sighed, idly fidgeting with his hands. “I miss home.”

“I know,” you whispered, unable to provide further comfort than a pitiful patting of his back. “You should tell me more about it.”

“I’ve told you many stories already,” he flashed you a flat smile, appreciating the sentiment. “I don’t know if there are any more.”

“What about your ikran?”

“I already told you how I tamed him.”

“You never told me your first flight. Neytiri said it’s the most important.”

He lightly scoffed—more of a laugh, really—he should have known you would get around his deflections. “We almost got lost,” he began.

“Really?”

He hummed. “I got carried away with trying to do all kinds of tricks. Flying just felt…good—It still does.”

“How did you make your way back?”

“Father found me,” he chuckled, “I almost got scolded. But I think he saw how happy I was.”

“What is it like? To fly, I mean.”

“It feels freeing, like the whole world is at your disposal.” He shrugged.

“I would like to fly sometime.”

“Seriously?” When you nodded, he grinned. “I could take you.”

And so, you both made a deal. Tomorrow morning, at dawn. Needless to say you were thrilled to see what the fuss was about.

When the time came, though, nerves got the best of you. You woke up two hours before the sun was fully in the sky, and had to leave your marui due to your own sleeplessness.

Coincidentally, Neteyam was also awake, feeding his ikran. He was at the cliff’s edge near your usual hangout spot.

Climbing up the small hill, he sensed your presence behind him, your gaze falling on his banshee that was giving him the death stare. “It’s been a bit difficult for him adjusting to the food here.”

You were silent, it was far too early to be having conversation. Instead you hesitantly extended your hand toward the animal, feeling its tough skin with a gentle graze under his chin.

Neteyam’s eyes widened—his ikran didn’t like to be touched, he should have warned you. But imagine his surprise when the banshee leaned into your touch, not away from it.

“I should have known he would like you,” he broke the silence.

“Hm?” You looked back at him, still scratching the animal.

“You’re good with animals. That’s why you’re a teacher, right?”

“I suppose.”

His lips curved into a soft smile. “Are you ready?”

With a scrunch of your nose, you flashed him a nervous grin. “Promise not to drop me?”

“Only if you behave,” he adjusted the straps on the banshee.

“I think I’m ready.”

“Let’s do it!”

Neteyam got on, helping you get your footing, and you settled nicely behind him. He made tsaheylu.

“Hold on to my waist,” he grabbed your arm and placed it around his middle. “Don’t let go.”

Without warning, the ikran lifted off the ground, the flap of its wings leaving behind a cloud of dust. On instinct, you squeezed Neteyam’s torso with both of your arms, and the animal shivered beneath your thighs as he must have felt it, too.

Your eyes closed and your head pressed up against his back, hiding from the wind. It was then you noticed he had tied his hair so it wouldn’t get in your face. Laughing at the realization, your eyes opened naturally—you were caught off guard by the beauty surrounding Awa’atlu.

The sea, clear as glass, reflected Eywa’s sun carefully placed in the sky as it came out of hiding. The light bounced off the wavelets in the water, illuminating the homes tied up under the large roots of the trees. Speechless, you were.

“Like the view?” Neteyam asked, his ikran circling near the reef, giving you a panoramic glimpse of your home.

“This is crazy,” you beamed.

Yet, when he turned his head to you, he found a faraway expression.

“You good?”

“Yeah, yeah.” You shook your head. “That’s Rotxo’s marui. Near the edge. It’s further away from the others.

At the mention of your friend, his eyes softened. He knew Rotxo was adopted by the leaders of the clan, but he never pushed to know about the rest.

“The Olo’eyktan gave him a separate marui after his parents…you know. So he had a private place. He’s in there a lot.”

You weren’t sure if you were right to tell Neteyam. At this point, words were just coming out without any real thought. Maybe you were lightheaded from the sheer height.

Veering away from the last part, he still kept on topic. “Are you ever gonna tell him about your feelings?”

“No.”

“Eywa, you are oblivious.” He muttered. “It is not good to dwell on your feelings alone, you know.”

“What else am I supposed to do? Court him?”

“Exactly right.”

“No!” You slapped his back lightly, and the ikran screeched. “What do I even give him?”

“What does he like?”

“He’s been wanting a new armband. He’s outgrown most of his, but—“

“But?”

“I don’t know how.” Neteyam felt the shame radiating off you at not having learned an important skill.

Going back to where you both took off, he landed on the grass smoothly.

After a beat, catching his breath, Neteyam said, “I’ll help you.”

-

From a young age, Rotxo hoped that being by your side would inevitably get you to see him. Not that he didn’t value being your friend, or that he was only with you because of an ulterior motive, no—he genuinely had this incessant need to be in your presence, and the realization that those feelings were more than platonic was just another side to the coin.

After that epiphany, he started a necklace. Multiple, actually. Perfecting the craft with Tsireya’s help to ensure it showed how much he loved you; his own marui was just the place to practice since nobody bothered him.

He was sort of dealt a bad hand in life having lost his parents as a child, but he was picked up by Tonowari and Ronal who took him underneath their wings. Growing up, feelings of being a burden made themselves known. You, however, being the eldest child of the leaders’s close friends, befriended him.

You both confided in each other about the pressure that came with status. You, being trained to become a warrior and a teacher, and him, as the adopted son of respected leaders. Your friendship bloomed naturally. He wasn’t as close to you as he liked, though, you were much closer with Tsireya and, lately, a certain someone.

About being the son of two great leaders, he had his own duties to perform. Often, that included having to wake up early to get them done. He was up before dawn, stretching and exiting his family’s marui. (But not before lightly kicking Ao’nung on the way out.)

Doing this for years, Rotxo was easily a morning person. So, imagine his surprise when he spotted you—strictly a night person, you told him yourself—walking outside.

He was about to come greet you, until he realized you had a destination in mind: the cliffside. He watched from afar as you climbed up and greeted that certain someone. The one you’d been spending much of your time with, which is none other than Neteyam.

Neteyam was okay. At first, at least. He listened to instructions better than his siblings which Rotxo was thankful for. But then the Sully had to go and become friends with you. Next thing he knew, you were spending most of your time with the guy.

He pictured it so clearly. You and Neteyam bonding over the pressure of being the eldest children. You had many friends, he knows. But recently your touches toward Neteyam got a bit too close, and your smile wider, and suddenly Rotxo became a beacon of an ugly emotion they called jealousy.

He always tried his best to shake it off. Now, seeing you mount Neteyam’s ikran, putting your hands around his waist and grinning when you both took off—he no longer had the dignity to deny it.

A shove from the back had him twisting to look at Ao’nung. “What?”

His brother smirked, pointing his head toward the ikran they both knew was Neteyam’s. “Jealous?”

“No.” Of course he was. But he would never give him the satisfaction of saying yes.

“You’ve been standing there for Eywa knows how long. You’re sure?”

“I’m sure.” Rotxo nodded curtly, jerking his head away when Ao’nung tried to pinch his ear.

Since you were always with Neteyam, and Tsireya was with Lo’ak, Rotxo was stuck dealing with Ao’nung making sure he didn’t stick his neck where it didn’t belong. Ao’nung was a good brother, protective though he wouldn’t admit that. But being him, he was also quite unbearable.

Rotxo just was not having it today. Throughout his training and helping with the clan, he couldn’t help but be short with everyone. He would never be disrespectful, but it was a sure stark contrast from his usual smiles. From crinkled eyes to empty stares.

He didn’t think it made that much of a difference, but apparently it did. He was cleaning up in the Tsahìk’s marui, listening to Ronal with one ear while Tonowari sharpened his spear.

“Say, Rotxo, do you know if Ao’nung has talked of a mate?”

Focused on organizing materials, he gave a simple answer. “No, Tsahìk.”

Unbeknownst to him, both of his parents’ heads slowly raised toward him. Tonowari stopped sharpening his spear, Ronal stopped talking.

At the silence, he looked up. “Is something wrong?”

His mother shot his father a look, and as he nodded, she left.

Uh oh. This can’t be good.

Tonowari put down the spear. “What’s bothering you, ma’itan?”

Ears pinned to his skull, he bit his lip trying to come up with a response. Lying was not on the table. “I am sorry for being curt today, Olo’eyktan. You taught me to be better. I am just…”

“You can tell me.”

“I am…jealous.”

“Of whom?”

“I don’t think it’s important.” He shook his head. “It’s trivial.”

“If it is affecting your behaviour, it’s important.”

Well, he couldn’t disagree, could he?

“I have been jealous of Y/N. Who has been spending time with Neteyam.” He looked around, desperate to see anything but the reaction.

A hand came upon his shoulder, and he finally spotted the smile that crept up on the leader’s face. “You should give them the necklace.”

“Wait—how do you know about that?”

“You know, I didn’t raise Tsireya to be a liar either,” he laughed. “Besides, I would not worry much if I were you.”

“What does that mean?”

He patted Rotxo on the back before picking up the spear and gesturing to the doorway.

“Give them the necklace and find out,” he went back to sharpening the spear.

Rotxo, stumbling out of the pod, pondered on the implications of what was just said. Was it true? Could he really have a chance with you?

With a newfound hope and determination, he headed to his own marui to retrieve the necklace. However, that faith was short lived when he ran into you.

“Rotxo,” you beamed at him. “I was looking for you.”

“You were?” The spark of hope in his chest flickered to a flame.

“I flew on an ikran this morning,” your excitement was so strong that you didn’t seem to notice Rotxo’s grimace. “I wanted to tell you about it and—“

Just like that, the fire was extinguished.

“Um. I’m sorry, Y/N. But I have to go.”

“Oh.” You blinked. “Well, come find me later?”

“Sure.”

Closing the flap of his pod, he stared at the line of necklaces on the floor, his string of failed attempts. Laughable, he thought he ever had a chance with you. Furthest from the entrance was his most recent attempt. His best one.

He laid down, taking the necklace in his hand to hold close to his chest. He let himself grieve the little chance he thought he might have had.

“Eywa,” he breathed. “Please give me a sign before I give up on the one that I love.”

The lack of light guided him into a slumber.

He was woken up after eclipse, found by Tsireya so he could come eat supper.

“Working on the necklace again?” She asked, leading the way.

“No, I accidentally fell asleep.”

She laughed, “When are you going to give it?”

For Tsireya was the one who rooted for you and Rotxo since the start, he didn’t have the heart to tell her he may never give it.

“Soon, probably.” He said instead.

She nodded.

The problem with Rotxo’s marui being so far away, it was a long walk. And because of that, he had to pass practically every single pod. Including the Sully’s.

It was only for one second. His eyes were drawn to the light coming from it, a fire for food. Then he saw you. Eating with the Sully family, handing food to Tuk.

If it were any other kid, his heart would have swelled at your parental instinct. But she was a Sully. His heart, instead, constricted at the thought of you making good relations with Neteyam’s family because you could have loved him.

Still walking, he caught up to his sister. “Why is Y/N eating with the Sully’s?”

Her eyes narrowed at him. “Their parents are away on that hunting trip, remember?”

Right. They sent out a big hunting party every thirty eclipses, and your parents led them. In his haste, he’d forgotten. You must be worried like you always were. Likely searching for comfort. You found that in Neteyam, not him. He was too slow.

The silence wasn’t lost on Tsireya. And not to the rest of his family, either. Not even his little sister who was a few years older by now. But Tonowari steered the conversation away from Rotxo, knowing his situation.

In the following eclipses, he kept to himself during duties. He hadn’t spoken to you since that day you flew on Neteyam’s ikran. He wasn’t purposefully avoiding you, no, you did it for him. It was almost like you disappeared but not completely; you still sent him sweet smiles accompanied with a greeting. He hated that his name sounded just as sweet from your tongue, there was no sign of his feelings dissipating anytime.

Right before eclipse, sick of wallowing in his own misery, he went for a walk.

He spotted you on the shore with an Omatikayan. It was Neytiri, weirdly enough, and not Neteyam. He put the pieces in his head and came to the conclusion that it was because you were talking about a possible union with her eldest after he would pass his rites. Which would be…soon.

Blinking back tears, he saw a blurry glow in the corner of his eyes. Atokirina. He scoffed, pushing it aside and letting it float away as he went to a secluded spot for a swim.

-

Groaning at your restlessness, you continued to work on the armband for Rotxo. You could spot the mistakes. Your eyes grew hot, maybe you would never be able to make the perfect armband for him.

Neteyam was nice enough in urging you to learn weaving under a real professional in your clan. You were joined by Neytiri in these lessons, who was learning alongside you. You found solace in having someone else learn with you, because most Metkayina either learned as children or not at all. Your embarrassment was quelled when Neytiri took the lessons in stride, encouraging you on the way.

But there was one thing: you kept messing up.

With the unfinished accessory in your grasp, you sought out Neytiri, and found her sitting on a rock at the beach.

You cleared your throat, hoping you weren’t intruding. She smiled upon seeing you. “What do you need?”

“I am a failure,” your shoulders sagged.

Beckoning you to come closer, she patted the spot next to her which you took. You showed her the armband in progress.

“It’s beautiful.”

“No,” you insisted. “It is not.”

She frowned, “How come?”

You pointed out the mistakes.

“You know what I see?”

You hummed, preparing yourself for the sting of rejection.

“Love,” she replied. “You made it with love.”

“Does that even matter if it looks terrible?”

“It is not terrible.” She disagreed, “It is imperfect, but so is love.”

You finally shed a tear, partly out of frustration but at the epiphany you had upon hearing Neytiri’s words. What mattered was that it’s for Rotxo. And you already knew he would love it regardless of how he felt toward you.

“You know,” Neytiri continued. “In our clan, we often made jewelry that matched. One for the lover, the other for the loved. And if the other accepts, that is their gift, and it means they become the lover, too. The love is mutual and their bond is strengthened.”

You wiped the tear away. “That’s poetic.”

“It is.”

“Should I do that?”

“If you want to.”

“I’m going to.”

So, you took it upon yourself to keep going. You got so carried away that you lost sleep for the next two nights, finishing Rotxo’s and making one for yourself.

Early morning, sitting on the cliffside, you looked at your work side by side. A little too honed in on the armbands combined with a lack of rest, you didn’t notice a pair of large blue feet right next to you until the owner of said feet cleared his throat.

“Skxawng!” You hissed at Neteyam, straining your head to look up. “You scared me!” You swatted at his calves.

Finally noticing his state, “Why are you out of breath?”

“I ran here.”

“For what?” You stood up, worried.

“To tell you…” he wheezed, “that you should probably give it to Rotxo soon.“

“Why?”

“Tsireya told Lo’ak who told me that Rotxo has been sad,” Neteyam answered. “He thinks that you and me might be…”

“Oh Eywa, that’s gross.” You said, not really thinking. At Neteyam’s slight offended look, “Sorry, I just—I can’t think of being with anyone except Rotxo.“

“Then tell him!”

Seeing your friend so riled up made you chuckle. “Alright, I’ll do it today. Thank you, by the way. For covering my duties.”

Strolling back with Neteyam, putting your armband on, you prepared yourself for the worst. Sensing your apprehension, he squeezed your forearm in comfort. You sent him a grateful look and began to scan the place for Rotxo.

He wasn’t far, feeding his ilu just sitting at the edge of the walkway.

“Rotxo,” you called, mirroring his smile as he turned around.

His eyes darted to the new accessory on your arm, gulping.

“Y/N,” he called back. His breath hitched for a moment when you took your place next to him. After all the time apart, being right next to you still felt right. “How are you?”

“I’m—I’m okay. You?”

“Same here,” he pet his ilu.

It was now or never. “I have…something for you.”

He stopped his motions, not even minding when the animal made a noise in complaint. “For me?”

You hoped you weren’t imagining the hope in his eyes when he faced you.

“For you,” you untied it from the waistband of your loincloth, hesitantly extending it to him.

His eyes darted to the one on your forearm.

“It matches yours.”

“It does,” you nodded. You wanted him to connect the pieces himself.

“This is…for me?”

“Do you like it?”

He responded by putting it on, your smile widening. He stood up and offered a hand, which you happily grabbed. He didn’t let go, though, and you’ll admit it made you giddy.

He pulled you toward a direction, “Come, I want to show you something.”

Leading you to his marui, you wondered what could possibly be there for you. Still, you stared at the accessory, the one you made, adorning his arm. It fit snugly around his toned muscles.

He opened the door for you, letting you see the inside. There were necklaces scattered in the corner, but one, different from the others, sat further away separated from the rest. Rotxo took it and even from the doorway you could see its beauty, with the shiny beads and a medium-sized shell at its middle as the focal point.

Despite the distance between you, he heard you say, “Is that…?”

“It’s for you.”

What followed after was you running to him with such force and excitement that he toppled over, tripping over a scrapped necklace, sending you both to the floor with a loud huff.

“Easy,” he rubbed your back, elated at your gesture and also breaking your fall. He tried to calm his heart at how close you were. “Are you okay?”

His voice so close to your ear made you shiver. “With you? Always.”

Rotxo, speechless, let the silence stretch. He relished in the feeling of being surrounded by you.

“Can you put it on me?”

Ignoring the stutter of his heart, “You would have to get off me for that. Not that I mind this right now, trust me.”

You laughed, “Of course.” You did as he said, and kneeled next to him, as he did the same.

He chose to put it on you face-to-face, leaning in close with his arms around you, his breath against your neck as he felt for the clasp to secure it.

Pulling back to look at it, he couldn’t help but flit his eyes to your reaction. But you weren’t looking at the necklace, either. You were looking at him.

Before you knew it, you found the feeling of his soft lips on yours to be the only thing you needed for peace of mind. You wanted it forever, as did he.

And just like that, both lovers became the loved. The feeling mutual, the bond strengthened. It was real.

[thetorturedpoetsfest]

Welcome to Day 6 of The Tortured Poets Fest!

Click the links listed below to check out all of the content our lovely Tortured Poets have created for all of us today! (and go to our bio to access the rest of the AO3 Collection)

✍️ Cooler in theory but not if you force it/To be it just didn’t happen by BathtubBanana 

Ship(s): Lily Evans/James Potter

Rating: M

Summary:

It's the 31st of October, and as always, Lily can be found at the cemetery, talking to the grave of James Potter.

🕯 I love you / but you were never mine by @multiimoments 

Ship(s): Hermione Granger/Theodore Nott, Hermione Granger/Draco Malfoy, Draco Malfoy & Theodore Nott, Theodore Nott/Harry Potter

Rating: M

Summary: 

It was a shame that the hope of it all, the hope of something long-lasting, had been eclipsed by a short-lived reality for Theo Nott. But he should've known—after all, when had anything ever truly belonged to him?

🗝 only your actions talk by BatFoxx 

Ship(s): Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter 

Rating: E

Summary:

Draco learns from his mistakes, finds new ways to live and falls in love with the new life he is building for himself.

Then, he falls in love with Harry.

📜 someday by @wolfpadx

Ship(s): Sirius Black/Remus Lupin

Rating: E

Summary:

“So how do you know Sirius Black, Remus?”

Remus sighs. How doesn’t Remus know Sirius, is the better question. The harder one to answer, at least. The shorter answer, for sure.

Because Remus Lupin knows Sirius Black in the same way that the moon knows the stars; it’s innate, inevitable, infinite.

Or, Remus hasn't seen Sirius for more than one year and, despite the bond they share, despite his soul-deep longing to have his best friend back, Remus finds that their reunion is not as seamless as he first believes. How does Sirius's return make him feel more at home than ever before while simultaneously making him feel like he's spinning wildly out of control?

**COMPLETED FIC**

🖌 The way you hold me is holy by Messrsnana (art) 

Ship(s): Sirius Black/Remus Lupin 

Rating: T

Summary:

When I first heard Guilty as sin? I couldn’t help but think about Sirius. The Sirius who gets with girls but keeps thinking and longing for Remus. The drawing is primarily inspired by the bridge, but the alternate version also has the addition of “mine” on his upper thigh. I’ve drawn it in gold as a callback to invisible string, and how no matter what they do, Remus and Sirius will find each other.

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

Be sure to check our page for Day 7’s reveals! Until then, Tortured Poets <3

🩶 Your mods,

@wolfpadx @multiimoments @heartsoncover @lemonlans @mercurial-witch @steveahoi damagecontrol & shewritesmaybe

[bluejaysandblackbats]

blood on your altar

Fandom: DC Comics, Titans (fab five), Aquafam, Arrowfam

Summary: Roy Harper is haunted by a strange sight he witnessed while on holiday by the seaside.

Chapters: 4/?

Characters: Roy Harper, Garth, Oliver Queen, Hal Jordan, Dinah Lance

Relationships: Roy Harper/Garth

Additional Tags: Cannibal Mermaid AU, Sacrifice, Cannibalism as a Metaphor, Secrets, Angst, Romance, Horror, 1950’s AU

Chapter Four: Death at the Eclipse

Being followed at nighttime is a strange feeling. I remember Ollie told me something about the true nature of a man coming out when his life is on the line, and I thought it was war talk. Shuffling through the sand at a steady pace kept me from panicking as I listened to the sound of someone’s feet trudging behind me. I didn’t turn but I should have… Because the second I felt his breath on the back of my neck and smelled the stench of liquor and cigar smoke on him, it was too late. I felt something strike me in the back of my head, and I recalled Ollie’s words clearly. “When a man comes across a situation that is undoubtedly life or death, there’s nothing to separate him from an animal… And at that moment… He becomes a predator or he dies like prey,” Ollie’s words echoed in my head while my ears rang like a bell. I was out of it, knocked on my back with a man on top of me, punching me. I couldn’t hear him speak, but I had time to look when he stopped attacking me to see the glint of a blade. I blocked his attempt to stab me with my forearm. I went wide-eyed, staring into the eyes of my attacker. The man from the ice cream parlor. I struggled to get the upper hand, but he’d knocked me so hard in the back of my head. 

I felt his weight fly off of me, and I heard a crunch and squelching noise. Once my ears stopped ringing, and I regained my senses, I tilted my head back in the sand, staring at the blood on the rock ahead of me. Then my eyes focused on my boy creature in full creature form. His entire body covered in dark abalone shells glistened in the moonlit showers. His teeth were sharp and white, and his sharp, scaly claws tore the limp mess of a man’s head from his body. I sat with my legs crossed in the wet sand, staring at him. “Ur ye awrite?” the boy creature asked. I couldn’t speak. He cleared his throat, looking at me with his bright amethyst eyes. “Are you okay?” His American accent was exaggerated and dragged out but I understood him much better. 

“Are you going to eat me next?” I asked. 

“Of course not, dafty… You didn’t hurt anyone,” he answered. He lugged the limp thing on his shoulders carrying what remained of the head with one hand, and walked through a rock mass toward a closed-off beach area. I clutched my head and grabbed my satchel, following him dizzily. “You didn’t tell anyone you saw me… I listened for a tale, and you didn’t speak. You didn’t utter a word about me. Why?” 

“I don’t know. I was curious about you,” I confessed. 

“You made pictures of me. Will you make more?” he asked. He was talkative for a creature. We reached a half-submerged cave and he threw the body down ripping the man’s limbs from his body. “Does this make ya ill? I could eat him later.” I shook my head. 

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have drawn you that way—.” 

“Why not? Do you not like your drawing?” he asked innocently. 

“I—. Well—.” I stammered before taking a deep breath. “I draw what I like to look at. I never draw anything that I don’t like.” He smiled. 

“I liked it too. You made me look special… I’ve never talked to a human before. I have so many questions,” he replied. He could’ve yammered on forever. He seemed lonesome. I wondered if there were others like him. But I figured it’d be better to let the person who could tear men limb from limb ask the questions. I nodded. “Do your parts change?” 

“Huh?” I asked. I watched as he set the arms aside and wiped his mouth. Holding eye contact, he took a fully human form and started touching himself. I felt my face go red hot as I turned away. “Is it not human enough?” I swallowed hard, trying not to let it arouse something in me. 

“It’s human, alright,” I answered. He rinsed his hand in the water and touched my head where I’d been struck. The pain subsided, but I felt so dizzy that I fell forward on him. He held me. 

“I didn’t know if it’d work on ya. Does it hurt still?” he questioned as he smelled me. I thought it was strange, but he didn’t seem like an immediate threat to me. 

With my forehead pressed against his shoulder, I glanced down at his lower body, and I found myself staring. “Are than any others like you?” I asked. 

“Not like me… But there are others,” he answered, “It’s my eyes… There’s a superstition. I don’t know much about it, but people who have my eye color are usually killed at birth… I’ve been alone for most of my life, but I’ve had contact with others. They’re like a family to me. I come here to hunt. I need things that they don’t. That’s why I eat humans. I won’t eat you, though. You make me look nice in pictures… Why do you cover yourself with so many things?” 

“It’s cultural. Most humans prefer we cover most of our bodies. Why did you hide when I saw you that night?” I asked. 

“I thought you’d want to hurt me… Humans don’t like it when people aren’t like them. I wasn’t going to hurt you,” he mumbled. He wrung his soft human hands and frowned. 

“I don’t want to hurt you. I want to—. What I want to do doesn’t matter,” I paused to gather my thoughts and say something more appropriate. “What’s your name?”

“Garth,” he answered. 

“That’s a good name,” I smiled. He removed the man’s sleeve as he bit into a bicep. He went half-creature as he ate, humming and groaning with pleasure. He ate until he picked the man’s flesh clean from his bones. His body alternated between varying degrees of human and inhuman. He wiped the corner of his mouth with his thumb. 

“What do you want to do?” Garth questioned without looking at me. He kept eating, and I didn’t mind. I knew I should’ve, but I was so intrigued with him that I didn’t care. 

I silently stared at him until he looked at me. “Will I see you again after this?” I asked. 

He nodded, still focused on cannibalizing the ice cream parlor bigot. Garth paused as if he’d remembered something important and grabbed my face. I tensed, wondering if it’d be my end, but he rubbed the bridge of my nose with his thumbs and touched my lip with his bloody fingers. The pain in my face subsided, and he returned to his meal. “Wash your face… No one will know he hurt you. I fixed your face. It’s pretty again,” Garth reassured me. Pretty? Ha. I grabbed his wrist, stopping him for a moment. His eyes went from bright amethyst to their indigo color, and I wished I could’ve kissed him. I wanted to, but I didn’t dare. “What’s wrong?”

“You’re the most beautiful person I’ve ever seen,” I whispered. He grinned at me, studying my features. 

“If you come back, I’ll take you to see the beautiful place. It’s going to rain again, so I can’t take you today. Your human skin is too fragile. The lightning could hurt you. After I finish eating, you should go home,” Garth suggested, “And you never told me your name… But I’ve heard it. Roy, isn’t it?” 

“Mhm. Roy Harper,” I replied as I washed the blood off my face. 

When I dried my face, Garth grinned at me. “You’re not afraid of me. Will you bring me a picture soon?” Garth asked. He pushed the body into the deeper, murkier part of the water and washed his hands and face. That’s when he leaned forward and kissed me. I pulled away. My thoughts raced as I tried to grasp at something sensible. “Sorry, I thought—.” I reciprocated before he could finish his sentence. I felt him creeping across every inch of my spirit, and I believe I did the same to him. Like an eclipse, for a moment we were perfectly aligned, sharing the same thoughts and feelings. My heart raced as I reached for his face, soft and fleshy like a human’s. Our lips captured each other, and I could taste blood. It made my ears ring and my whole body tingled, raising goosebumps from my neck and down my arms and back. How could I turn back? How could I stop myself from falling in love? I couldn’t be bothered with my conscience. I wanted him, body and soul. He had me. Everything I was… I was willing to give. If he wouldn’t eat me, I’d let him devour me. Heart and mind. Mind and all.

[chimkin-samich]

Honestly, what started your interest with these specific game characters? (Btw, I don't know if this has been asked before or not since I'm quite new to you and your comics! Amazing work btw.)

Also what peeked your guy's drawing and writing interests? It would be interesting to know how you guys got to this point. 😁

(It's also creepy how the ask thing is just like: "Go ahead, put anything." XD)

It has not actually been asked before! Your the first, so for anyone who’s interested in some Feral and Sly lore well feel free to click the read more since it’s kinda long lol

For the interest in Sun/Moon/Eclipse, Feral was honestly the first one to get drawn in, she has been a long time fan of fnaf, likes to brag about how good she was at the first few games (she is I’ve seen it lol) so her getting interested in SB was obvious, she especially like this one for it highly interactive gameplay

I on the other hand knew of fnaf but I was never in the fandoms or played any games, anything I knew about the games was either seen while scrolling thru tumblr or my little brother blasting a gameplay in our room and I didn’t mind listening in if it was YouTuber I liked as well

Feral got a bit interested in the boys after reading a few fics around last year June, she tried to catch my attention but I didn’t really bite at the time, it was around August were she caught my attention when she first drew them, saying they reminded her of me, even drew Sun with chipped rays as a little call to my SH scars but it kinda dropped off since we were in the midst of fighting with the system to let us get married lol

Around December it really kicked in for her and then me, I started delving into reading fics and searching for fan art and was like “oh shit das me” and feral ran with it saying let’s do self insert shit and I was totally down for it, it wasn’t the first time we did something we’re she put herself in and I was a character that I related to heavily

From there we started planning the storyline but decided to do little meant to be yours animatic to kick off some attention towards our stuff lol

As for what got us interested into writing and drawing? Honestly the answer is the same for both of us, we started drawing young them jumped into writing for our own little stories and ideas, we’ve both always been artistic from a young age and when we met it was one of the first things we bonded over, oh and I do also have a passion for singing as well! Which also caught her attention I used to send her audios all the time or sing on call for her

Just something about being able not only to write your own stories but create visual pieces really helps when you have extremely hyperactive minds and imagination, sometimes we yell at each other cuz someone says something cursed and cuz of how we can perfectly see the image in our mind it makes the cursed thought so much worse 😭

But yeah that’s pretty much it! Love of creativity and such started our art and writing passion and that led to us wanting to create our stuff now here with the lovely robo boys, we do have our projects of course, Feral plans on making a comic/book (2 in one kinda thing) that’s gonna be a trilogy and I have my own OC’s that I still world build with

Not to mention all our world building with OCs weve plan on making into story’s as well in the future ✨

[crabsnpersimmons]

So I saw your hairdresser au and I had a question

(Sorry it’s sloppy I’ve never drawn fanon eclipse before and this was from memory)

(ps I love your art 💕)

ahhhhh this is so cute! you've drawn him so cute! he's just a little darling! i'd love to give him a hug!

i imagine he'd go with the second one more often, so then he can always rotate his waist for more range of motion. but i can see him switching things up pretty often. he probably likes the challenge of using 2 right hands and 2 lefts simultaneously. this guy can and will turn anything into a game a game he intends to win

i have some drawings planned to showcase how he uses his extra pair of hands at the salon! can't wait to share them soon!

[susiron]

I’m still rlly bummed out about going to my local park right now.

For years now, mostly during late spring-early fall, I’ve been biking to the park in my neighborhood and drawing with chalk on the concrete of the picnic area. Part of the concrete sticks out away from the picnic tables so it’s a perfect spot to draw-- and it sticks out from under the roof so the rain usually washes it all away in a reasonable time frame.

I never draw or write anything derogatory. I mostly draw dragons, wolves, and other animals-- sometimes Pokemon, sometimes plants. Sometimes if there’s a holiday nearby, like Halloween, then I’ll draw something that fits the theme.

I’ve even drawn little “Happy Pride!” things before during June with gay and trans flags.

But earlier this week I went and drew with my chalk and I decided to include the gay and trans flags next to a doodle of a cat. I cannot stress enough that these were small drawings, and not at all the focus of what I’d drawn. They were just little doodles in the corner, completely eclipsed by a bunch of wolves and dragons and shit.

WELL, two days later I come back to the park, thinking I’ll just draw around what I left their earlier in the week-- only to find that someone had clinically powerwashed away everything I’d drawn.

And like, there was a brief moment where I thought “did it rain? did it rain and I forgot?” but I could see the telltale lines from a powerwasher

But it gets worse.

Cause if they’d powerwashed the entire thing, I could have just assumed that they didn’t like any chalk on the patio (despite this never happening before, over Years of drawing here), but... there were some doodles made by kids Right next to where I had drawn, and they were all left untouched. Faded doodles that had been there awhile, but they were visible enough that anyone who was cleaning this patio just for the purpose of cleaning it would have gotten rid of those two.

But no, they just got rid of my stuff-- all of it. And the only difference between this time and every other time was that my drawings had a gay and trans flag beside them outside of Pride month.

I drew a bunch that day after finding that out-- and I put back a new pride flags. Again, they weren’t the focus, but they’re there. They mean a lot to me and shouldn’t upset anyone, but like-- of course they do.

And I guess I just liked thinking that maybe there was no one in my neighborhood hateful enough to methodically wash away a little trans flag (because I can only assume that, of the two, was the tipping point). And now having proof that someone is is just... depressing.

With everything going on these days-- with all of the fucking hate directed at trans people like an arrow-- it’s just fucking upsetting that you can’t even put the colors down without someone needing to fight back and show just how much they hate you.

I’m a trans artist who has drawn in that park for years, and I’ve had nothing but positive interactions with people while doing so (excluding the First time I did it when I got harassed, but, well, that’s not important right now).

And god it just sucks that the moment you are like “this is important to me” all of that positivity gets tainted.

I haven’t been back there yet to see if the new flags got erased. Idk if they have been, and idk if I want to know if they have been. I also don’t really know if I want to make this an entire Thing, me trying to put it back every time it gets erased.

It’s funny, had they not erased it, I probably wouldn’t have drawn another one until June, but now... 

And now I’m worried that someone might approach me directly when I got there to draw, or maybe they’ll just start erasing everything I put down there as soon as I leave the park.

It just fucking sucks. I just wanna draw with some chalk and share some doodles, not feel like shit-- angry-- over it.

[chocolatechibi]

Nuts n Dolts week: Day 4

@nuts-and-dolts-week

Prompt: sun & moon

Eclipse

“Grandma?”

Charity dug her little hands into the old quilted bedspread, pulling herself up onto the bed. She flopped against a pillow, eying her grandma as she sat in her rocking chair beside the bed.

“Yes child?”

“Is the moon really gonna eclipse the sun?“

“It is,” Grandma replied, her weathered features crinkling into a smile, “Why do you ask?”

“Because… Grandma, why does the eclipse happen?” Charity asked, tilting her head to the side a bit.

“Oh my. Well that’s a story right there. You better lay down if you wanna hear it.”

“Is this just another trick to get me to go to bed?”

“Do you want to hear it, or not?”

Charity sighed, crossing her arms.

“Ya got me, Grandma.”

She lay against the pillow, pulling the bedspread over herself. It was quite cozy, but Grandma didn’t need to know that.

“I’ve been wanting to tell you this story for quite some time,” Grandma said, “But I think now is the perfect time for you to hear it.”

Charity wiggled with excitement, scrunching the blanket in her small seven-year-old hands.

“Once upon a time,” Grandma began.

“Aww, is this just gonna be another one where she marries the prince in the end? That’s boring!”

Grandma’s features gained a knowing look, a twinkle of what could almost be mischief in her eye.

“Not quite. I think this one’s a bit different, though it is a tale of love. Are you ready to hear it?”

Charity nodded.

“Alright. Once upon a time, there was a young maiden who lived on the moon, and for as long as she knew existence, she had been alone. She was the last remaining child of the moon, the guardian of the now desolate rock. Every night she gazed into the stars, and she wished for change. For an adventure, something new.”

Charity pictured the young girl staring into the stars, their light reflected back in her eyes.

“What was she like?”

“The child of the moon? Oh, she was a bright-hearted soul. High spirited and full of life. She would’ve talked all day, had there been anyone to listen. But for the longest time, she believed she was alone in the universe, the only soul alive. What she didn’t realize, however, was that there was another. Closer than she thought, while still far away.”

Charity stared intently at Grandma.

“One nameless day, as she stared into the sky, she glanced to the sun. It was closer in orbit than other days of the year, and she could almost see its surface clearly.”

“Whoa.”

“And on the surface of the sun, she saw something that she had never expected to see, in all her years of eternity.”

“Another person!” Charity cried.

“Yes. It was another young woman, with hair the color of flame, and eyes as deep and teal as the sea. Only, the moon child had never seen the sea. These colors were all new to her, and they were so bright. The child of the moon was drawn to this girl, she was captivated by her in a way she had never been with anything. This girl was a child of the sun, and like the moon maiden, she was the last of her kind.”

Grandma swayed slowly in her chair, her voice ever calm, but Charity watched with bright eyes. Something about the story made her curious, like she’d heard it once before, if only in a dream.

“The moon child knew that there was no way to reach this other girl, but she couldn’t bring herself to turn away. The girl felt like a place she hadn’t been, a place she longed to go. And when the child of the sun saw her, she smiled. It was so profound, to be looked upon by another person, that the moon child knew that she could never go on the same.”

“How could they meet each other? They met each other, right?” Charity asked.

“They did. The moon child rallied the last of her power to her heart, and she moved the moon’s orbit. She pulled herself towards the sun, and the flame-haired girl that she couldn’t tear her eyes away from. In that moment, as the moon crossed with the sun, the sun girl reached out for her. Their hands brushed, and they shone brighter than any star. So bright that mortals had to look away, or they would be blinded. It was the first eclipse, a moment for the maidens and them only.”

“Wait wait, mortals? There were people on Earth?”

Grandma nodded.

“Yes, and in the moment that their hands touched, the children of the moon and sun saw many visions. Visions of oceans, of green fields. Of life. Life on Earth, down below their mighty orbits. Looking closer, they saw a life of their own, in which they would be lonely no longer. In which their souls would flourish among mortals. And even thought it away from anything they had ever known, they knew they could never be apart again. Anything their immortality, and their powers, could have given them, in the end did not triumph over the simple touch of a warm hand. And so the two maidens clasped hands, and they prayed to the sky to be let go from their paths as guardians, to set free into the stars, and in the end, they got their wish. They gave up their lives among the stars, and landed to Earth.”

“They lived- they lived here?” Charity asked, breathless.

“In the end, yes. The first thing they felt was their bare feet in the grass, and the touch of the other’s hand. But slowly, they built a life for themselves. They found a home in a small town by the sea, and they took on new names, for on the moon and sun, guardian had been their only names.”

“What were their new names?”

“The child of the moon was named Ruby, after the gemstone that was as red as the tips in her dark hair. As for the child of the sun, her name was Penny, for everyone she knew saw her as a charm of good fortune and happiness. Her smile could light up any room, for even in human form as she was then, she had still once been a manifestation of the sun itself.”

Grandma smiled, as if remembering a faraway memory of a joyful time.

“From the time the two had first known each other, they had started to fall in love, and eventually, they married. They had their own daughter, who had Ruby’s clear eyes and Penny’s bright hair. The two maidens were happy. They could never bare be apart, even when the sky had still demanded it to be so, so in their lives as mortals, they promised to live the rest of their days together. And that they did. The two had come to Earth as young girls, but as they grew, they were always side by side, and that was how they lived, until they were old and gray, like me.”

“Wow,” Charity breathed, wonder in her eyes.

“And to this day, every now and then, the moon still eclipses the sun, pulled into the orbit the moon child created all those years ago.”

Charity was silent for a moment as the end of the story sunk in.

“Grandma?”

“Yes?”

“How do you know this?”

“It is an old story, one that my grandmother passed down to me. I hope you will keep it safe, and pass it down when the time is right,” Grandma said.

“I will,” Charity promised, “How did your Grandma know the story? Did she hear it from her Grandma, too?”

Grandma didn’t meet Charity’s eyes, but she was smiling.

“…Grandma?”

“Do you know what they say about children of the moon, Charity?”

“No.”

“They say that they were the only beings ever to live with silver eyes,” Grandma said, and at last, her eyes met Charity’s, twinkling in the low ambient light.

The breath caught in Charity’s lungs.

Her grandmother’s piercing, silver stare gazed into her own. Charity’s eyes were younger, softer, and yet they still held that same steely depth. The color silver.

“Do you know how my Grandmother knew that story, Charity?”

Charity shook her head numbly.

“Because my Grandmother had silver eyes, too. And her name was Ruby Rose.”

[spoofymcgee]

on alec lightwood and queerness

Alec Lightwood is twelve the first time he stares into his sister’s eyes and feels his heart try to beat its way up out of his throat.

They’re drunk on the late hour, no parents home to supervise and Hodge called away on urgent business. There are rings of cocoa powder around the rims of the mugs to their left and Isabelle has a smear of it under one of her liquid, dark eyes. It mirrors the cut Alec had given her in training the other day.

His hands go numb in hers. It feels like every word out of her mouth drains the blood out of them, like her newly drawn Voyance rune is letting her cut into his soul with her gaze.

It feels like he spends an eternity with his breath locked up in his chest, her question reverberating around his skull.

In reality, it’s maybe a few seconds before he jerks away from her, standing and snarling down at her not to ask him that.

She recoils, shrinking in on herself, and he wants to take it back, to tell her that he’s not angry, that he didn’t mean to scare her.

Alec has never been brave enough, though.

This is a continuing trend through the years. Jace is the blazing sun barging in where he will and swanning out without a hair out of place, and Alec is satisfied being his shadow, putting his body between anything that might harm either him or Isabelle.

Of course, this means that no one gets close enough to protect them from Alec, but by the time he realizes that, life has taught him that love without pain doesn’t exist and he’s grown used to pricking the people he cares about with the bramble he’s grown around his heart.

It’s a double-edged sword, of course, and with every tight-lipped silence from Jace and poorly concealed sigh from Isabelle, Alec can feel his secrets biting deeper into the flesh of his lungs. He welcomes them, because the other option is to risk pulling apart his ribcage and allowing the world to see the ugly, snarled mess that is his beating heart, and in that case he might as well hand a rouge vampire a fang-sharpener and unbutton his collar.

So Alec contents himself with drawing himself inwards, with bandaging up the wounds Jace insists on hiding until they’re out of sight, with wiping away Isabelle’s smeared makeup.

Years later, laying in on the sort of lazy Sunday morning Alec wouldn’t have ever dreamt of allowing himself, Magnus will trace nonsense patterns over Alec’s shoulder blades and tell him that he is Patroclus.

Alec will laugh and roll over to ask if that makes Magnus Achilles. He’ll watch the rising sun stipple Magnus’s skin with gold leaf through the rising blinds and feel the quiet rumble in his chest through the palm pressed to Magnus’s heart more than he hears it.

“No,” Magnus will say, closing his eyes as he explains. “Patroclus was–brilliant. If you read the Iliad, you see that. He was smart and talented and an incredible warrior. Beyond that, even, he was caring and kind and couldn’t bare to watch others get hurt. But the society of the time didn’t care about those other things, and next to Achilles, nobody could measure up.

“You have the biggest heart I’ve ever known, Alec,” Magnus says, letting his eyes drift open. In the shadow of the blinds, his pupils are still blown wide, nearly eclipsing the amber of his irises. He trails two fingers down Alec’s sternum, pausing right above his heart. “And I know you were raised to think that doesn’t matter, but whoever taught you that was wrong.”

Alec has never been good with words. He buries his face in the juncture of Magnus’s shoulder and grabs hold of Magnus’s hand, pressing the it into the concave of his chest and wondering when he’d stopped seeing the mess of vines in his ribcage as a monster and started looking for the flowers.

Of course, this morning is a long way off from twelve-year-old Alec, scrubbing furiously at the crusted rim of the mugs and trying to ignore the tears dripping down his cheeks.

It’s a long way off from Alec at fourteen, watching Jace toss his head back and laugh in the sunlight, surrounded by their peers and delighted by it. Alec, lurking in a nearby shadow, wonders whether how wrong he is for noticing the way Jace’s hair glitters in the sunlight is what makes him so alien to everyone else, and if not, how many ways a person can be broken before someone does something about it.

At sixteen, Alec polishes weapons on the floor of the training room next to his mother and discovers that secrets taste like ash and ichor. She sits there calmly, methodically wiping down blade after blade, and Alec can’t help but think that she looks like a stained glass window, and there’s a stone gathering momentum at the base of his throat, just waiting for him to spit it out.

At nineteen, Alec spends his birthday trying to ignore the secrets piled like pebbles in his lungs, rattling with every breath. His mother hugs him and Isabelle gives him a smile that doesn’t reach her eyes and his father pulls him aside to have a discussion Alec doesn’t remember a word of, having been too busy wondering how many words made up the precipice their relationship sat on. Was is ten? Five? Or maybe just two would do it, would shove the hopes and dreams his father had had for him since the moment he’d first held him off a sheer cliff.

In the end, he goes to find Magnus, to lose himself in being cared for by someone who knew all his secrets and loved him anyway. It’s a short respite, but Alec finds that it’s so much easier to breathe through the weight of snarling shadows in his chest when he can leave them at the door for a night.

Equally, though, it awakens a horrible, desperate desire to empty his ribcage of stones, to break the windows and shove away the choking dreams others see when they look at him. He shoves it away, spends more time with the archery targets and goes out patrolling on his own and doesn’t say anything to anyone about the impulsive, stupid animal lying in wait for him to get tired enough.

It turns out that three words are all it takes to steal his breath away enough for the creature to slink in.

Magnus says ‘Be my partner?’ and Alec takes his hand and says ‘Can I kiss you?’

And he does, in the middle of the Accords Hall, and then he pulls out his stele and presses it into Magnus’s fingers, wrapping them around it when he just stands there and stares at Alec like he’s the sun or the moon or possibly, maybe, just himself and for once, that’s enough. Alec can’t seem to meet his eyes, but he shucks the right arm of his jacket and pulls his undershirt collar down enough for Magnus to lean in, close enough that his breath is warm on the shell of Alec’s ear.

After, standing in the quiet, ichor-soaked fields, the hilt of a seraph blade biting into his palm, comes the panic. He drops to his knees, head ringing, and Isabelle is by his side in what feels like an instant, hands pressed like burning brands to his side.

“–hurt? Alec! Can you hear me? I need you to breathe,” she says, tinny and far-away.

He doesn’t remember how, is the thing. Maybe his lungs are so crushed that he doesn’t remember how to breathe without the weight on them. Maybe they were right, and he really was broken and cursed and now he’s going to die because everyone knows–

“Alec,” Isabelle says, right next to his ear. “Count with me.”

One. Two. Three.

“Four. Five. Six,” he says hoarsely, and they keep going until he can feel the burning on his forearm where ichor’s eaten away at his sleeve and his head feels light and stuffed with cotton rather than clamped in iron.

“It’s okay,” Isabelle says quietly, pressing her forehead to his. Her eyes are just as big and dark as they were when she was ten.

“I’m–I can’t,” Alec says, voice cracking. “I’m not brave enough. And–god, Max–”

Isabelle’s face crumples at that, and she pulls back so she can press herself to his chest and bury her face in his neck. Alec holds her, grief filling the cavern in his chest until his heart feels like it’s barely beating. Isabelle shakes in his arms, and by the time their parents find them there, kneeling in the blood and muck, she’s half asleep, cried out and dropping off the other end of two sleepless days and an adrenaline jump on top of the crushing weight of grief.

Shadowhunters do not get the chance to mourn. Nor do they have the time to be scared; a scared Shadowhunter is a dead one, and so Alec saves his grief for the punching bags and his fear for sleepless, dark nights curled up alone and says he’s handling it whenever anyone asks him.

It takes two months for Magnus to get him to crack, and when he does it comes in a silent flood. He shakes apart in Magnus’s arms, tears streaming down his face and not a sound in the small apartment but his occasional hiccuping breath and the wind banging the window against the frame.

When he’s coherent enough to talk, he keeps his eyes on the opposite wall and tastes bitterness and guilt as he whispers out a confession of resentment that he wasn’t given a chance to be afraid, that he hasn’t found the time to grieve, that it’s so unfair, Magnus, why couldn’t the world be a kinder place?

Magnus holds him tight and smooths his hair away from his face and doesn’t try to answer any of the questions. Alec cries until he can’t anymore, and wakes up to the morning sun in his face and a blanket tucked around his shoulders.

[sapphireskies15]

Warrior Cats Original Character | Eclipse

Hello!! I wanted to come on here and share my progress in my art style over the years. Now I haven’t been on here that long, nor have I honestly shared any art on here up until sometime this year, but I really wanted to share my progress as an artist to really show how far I have come.

I’ve been into the Warriors fandom for a little over 8 to 9 years now, I have created many many characters of my own because I had loved this series so much and cats are also one of my top favorite animals. I believe from elementary to middle school, cats were what I primarily drew. I had sketchbook full of Warriors fan art. I was constantly playing Roblox, any cat game that I could find on there I would find others who also enjoyed these books and would play out these wild stories as if we were in these books. Using our own characters and choosing what clan we were in. This was honestly the peak of my art.

I’m not too sure when the beta for Warrior Cats: Ultimate Edition came out, but around the time it did I was on there constantly, every second of the day I was just glued to this cat game. And since you could customize the model to look like your very own character, I had decided I wanted to make a tortoiseshell because they are honestly so pretty. This character had been my first ever OC to actually get a character sheet. But he’s the only character I have drawn over and over again and he is the only one I have that really shows my progression in a characters design.

Eclipse’s Design

His first deign was either in 2019 or 2020, I’m not too sure when WCUE beta came out or when I started playing, but his design was overall just a copy of what his model looked like since I didn’t originally have any drawings of him up until the game.

Around this time I was obsessed with artwork of MapleShade and Sol, his inspiration had come from any fan art I had seen and loved.

His second design was more of an attempt at a “turn around sheet.” I didn’t really grasp how to make one so I just slapped down whatever I thought makes sense.

Sometime in 2021, I decided I wanted to play around with art styles since I hated how I was drawing before. Semi-realism was my choice! Now I wasn’t smart when drawing at all! I had never once in my life studied how to draw in certain styles, I hadn’t taken the time to really learn. I usually just stared at a picture and tried to replicate what it looked like. That was a hot mess. Not my best era.

His last and final design is more of a “Disney” inspired look. Recently I have been experimenting with styles, studying how to replicate them, experimenting and expanding my skill. Disney has been a huge part of my childhood as I’m sure it has been for many others! I’ve always been in love with the way things were drawn, and I had decided that this was the style I would use.

I’m generally really comfortable with this style and I am really proud with how far I have come.

[samethyst01]

Hellwalker

Entry One

Nobody really knows how the world is going to end.

We can make vague assumptions, while the wealthy elite stain the planet with their shit and piss and cigarette burns. We can only hope that our end is a peaceful one, and that all our labours amount to something when the final curtain is drawn. We can dream of a good death.

Speaking for myself, I waited for an intervention. What kind, you might ask? The divine kind. I’d always been a person of few questions, putting my faith and trust in God above everyone else. I wish I could tell you that didn’t change when it all happened, but that would be a bare-faced lie, and I hate lying. I get sick at the thought of it.

If you asked a random person on the street in the year 2046 how they thought human society was faring, you’d receive two very different kinds of answers. The first one goes something like: “We’re doing fine, man. Don’t even sweat it.”

The other one is more like this: “I wake up every day surprised that we’re not all burning to death.”

Things were going about as we all expected. Technology was rising; artificial intelligence had created a monopoly on the market, and everybody wanted something like it. Everyone wanted a TV that turned itself on and curated detailed lists of your favourite shows and movies automatically. Everyone wanted self-cooking meals and self-driving cars and a self-governing world. It was just easier that way. It made ignoring the wars and chaos easier.

No, this isn’t going where you think it’s going. The world wasn’t overtaken by a malevolent A.I. or armies of defecting, indignant machines. That would be far, far too predictable. Besides, if that were the case, we might’ve stood some semblance of a chance.

At midday on the twentieth of August, 2046, the sky went dark.

A solar eclipse is not a cause for global alarm. At least, not an scheduled one. The world’s sciences were baffled, of course, at the sudden cosmic phenomenon. People were told to stay inside their homes and remain completely calm, and told that there was nothing to worry about. Don’t look directly at the eclipse. You could be blinded when it’s finished.

But when it hadn’t stopped after almost fifteen hours, people began to panic.

When you deprive entire nations of sunlight for longer than a day, things begin to unravel. The world’s governments initiated martial law. The servers and stock markets crashed. The internet stopped working. All over the planet, people were living in a nightmare. There was no answer for what was happening. There was no cause, and no reason, and there was no way out.

It got worse when people started killing themselves.

The eternal night and the seeming collapse of society caused everyday people to begin losing their sanity. I can’t say I know the feeling in certainty, but I’ve been close to complete madness many times before. It starts with the panic. The panic rolls into terror. When the terror invades every waking moment of your life, you realise there’s only one way to escape it. There’s only one solution to the end of the world, and that’s to stop living in it.

I never saw any solid figures. With the internet permanently down, all we had was the gossip between neighbourhoods and towns. The only thing I knew for sure was that people were committing suicide in droves, all over the state. It wouldn’t have been much of a stretch to assume that this persisted across the country – and across the world. Every ‘morning’ – without sunlight, we only measured time randomly – I would leave my house to get supplies and see new bodies hanging on the telephone wires.

Almost all of them were families.

We lost contact with the powers that be very quickly. That meant that there was no higher answer for our ruined world. There was no explanation, and some of us didn’t need one. Our purpose was clear: hunt, survive, reproduce… pray.

God does not make mistakes. I know this, and I know His steadfast devotion to humanity will never crumble. But… there is no lie in what I am about to say: I lost my faith when the world ended. God is all-loving and all-sorrowful of our plight but my faith in His holy abilities was torn away from me the moment I understood what was happening to our world. I never believed I would live to see the Rapture, and I was right. This was not the end of days, as I had been told it would be. This was the end of days as it was meant to be.

Restless. Despairing. Monstrous.

My partner and I were never wealthy. We had as much as we needed to be happy, but we were far from drowning in our profits. When the world ended, we had as much as the bare essentials. Our house was warm and secure, we had plenty of canned food in storage, and access to running water. Other families weren’t so lucky. I heard my neighbour yelling in agony one night as I sat by my son’s bed, stroking his hair in an attempt to coax him into sleep.

My neighbour began to scream for his mother. He told her it was so cold, and he was so hungry. He bawled and writhed and groaned for hours, asking desperately for someone to forgive him. No, not asking… begging. The next night, his wails had been silenced. I didn’t check up on him. I preferred not to think about what he’d been forced to do.

Every day was about the same as the last; we had a regimented schedule, and those who had survived all agreed it was the right one. Every ‘morning’, we’d search for supplies and fortify our bunkers. The only thing that mattered was the continuation of our lives, even if we were alive in abject suffering. Maybe this was Hell. Maybe the Devil had won. Maybe we all deserved this.

My old friend from work had a polaroid camera. He loved taking pictures of everything he could see with it. At work parties, he’d bring the thing out and shove it in all our faces, and we happily obliged his hobby. We found it endearing. After the end, all cell phones stopped working, almost simultaneously, and so the only thing left to record our situation was typewriters, paper, pencils, the occasional pen, and old cameras.

One night as I lay awake in bed – night was constant, but we still had our old human routines – I heard somebody scratching at my front door. It was so quiet that, if I had been asleep, I would have never heard it. I rushed outside and found my friend at the porch, lying in a puddle of his own blood and vomit. I brought him inside and tried to tend to his wounds. He was badly mutilated and broken, almost to the point of death. I checked him over and when I saw his eyes, I felt the most intense fear that I have ever experienced pervade through my body. I could see his terror, complete and abominable, staring back at me through his glassy expression. He had seen something that imprinted itself onto his gaze.

He died on my couch that night. He never spoke a single word, just stared at me and choked. As he died, he pushed his polaroid camera into my hands, coughing up one last glob of blood and mucus as his body finally gave out on him. I was more horrified than saddened, I have to admit, and I resisted every primal urge in my mind and soul that screamed at me not to look at his camera. I had to know, I just had to understand what it was that killed my friend.

Pressing the large button on the camera’s back, it began printing out a photograph of the last thing it had captured. It felt like the process was taking hours, and I found my leg to be rapidly dancing up and down in fear and anticipation. When the photo was ready, I gently pried it from the camera’s metal lips with a shaking hand. I prayed – not to God but to the world itself – that what I would see would not curse me forever.

My prayers went unanswered that night.

What I saw was an image of the woods just beyond my house, the ones our children used to play in past their bedtimes and after school, the ones we built treehouses in and had stupid teenage parties in, where we dumped our trash and our used condoms and empty bottles, where the old man whose arms a pockmarked lattice of diseased flesh hanged himself after a lifetime of screaming, screaming about the Hell that awaited us, about the truth behind it all and the chaos lurking just around the corner.

What stood in front of the woods, in the photo, was not a person. Even in the petrified and darkened state humanity was in, and despite the horror our world had become, I could still recognise my fellow human. I cannot tell you with any confidence that what I saw was real, but I knew it had been real enough to dehumanise and eviscerate my friend. It stood not on two legs but a multitude, and its head was more akin to a crucifix – a fact which greatly unsettled me.

I became sickened at the sight of it and dropped the photograph, kicking it under the couch and pretending it didn’t exist. What mockery of humanity was this? What entity lurked beyond our safe warmth and pretend haven? I closed my friend’s eyelids and set about burying him outside. As I dug his grave, my eyes darted from the dirt to the forest beyond. I wasn’t sure what I’d catch a glimpse of, if anything, but the mere chance of coming into contact with that thing put a boulder in my stomach and dragged cold spikes down my back.

I attempted to forget about what I had seen that night. Before either my partner or son could see it, I retrieved the photo from under the couch and burned it. Or, at least, I attempted to. I doused the thing in gasoline and lit it ablaze with a match, but as I watched it sit in the barbecue grill, it refused to be destroyed. Instead, it only grew more horrific in its visage. I heard a screech from the woods and promptly kicked the grill over, watching as the flames slowly extinguished themselves and the photo remained.

If I couldn’t burn it then I’d simply bury it. Not wishing to damn my friend’s soul, I dug a hole further from his body. As deep as I could, I dug, and tossed the photo inside. I would remain content in its false death. My partner questioned my skittishness, further still when they caught me smashing the polaroid camera with a sledgehammer. I told them it wasn’t something I wanted them to see. They didn’t ask further, and I was glad of it.

Life at the end of the world was terrible enough, not for this new hell that had reared its head. Our community was shrinking by the day. Fewer and fewer of us populated the streets, and soon, the comforting consistency of my neighbours’ safe houses were ruined, when each one was broken into and raided. I couldn’t even trust myself not to get attached to the memories. After just a year, our town had gone from a population of just over twenty thousand to a despairing ninety three. Those that didn’t die by their own hands often succumbed to starvation or disease.

But then there were those who were murdered.

Ever since my friend’s death, I began to notice things amiss in my house. Doors were opened when I had been sure they were locked. Objects of great importance, be they sentimental or key in survival, began to go missing. At first I suspected my son, only four years old, to have taken and played with them, but he was not the type of child to steal. He was a good, kind boy, and I pitied him the most for having to suffer through this torturous world.

At one time, I was preparing food and opened a cabinet drawer, retrieving a knife from inside. I turned my back for a mere second, and when I returned my gaze, the drawer was closed and a second knife was placed on the countertop. Its blade glistened in the candlelight.

My partner began to complain about noises waking them up in the night. I told them it was likely just the neighbours, but then they told me the noises were coming from inside the house itself. I asked if they could be sure, and they swore to me that they had heard scratching and creaking in the hallway. I stayed up as late as I could to make them feel safe, and heard nothing. But as I drifted off to sleep, I began hearing them scream in terror.

The bodies were often found in their beds, faces contorted in pain and fear and arms splayed out like a crucifixion. This fact alone was cause enough for alarm, but what worsened the fright was what was always found on the bodies, carved into them through a hole in the stomach – an apple. I remembered the Garden of Eden and the Tree of Knowledge, and I began to suspect that this was the work of some crazed killer. A serial killer at the end of the world was a fanciful notion, and one, I believe, that could have saved me from the true horror of what was actually happening.

I was known in the town as a religious person, despite my loss of faith at the eclipse. My neighbours, those that remained, pleaded with me to call upon my God and ask Him for forgiveness. In turn, I asked them what exactly they expected me to do, and they all responded in the same way: they believed this was their punishment for something. One by one, they began to confess to me things that I never knew, things I never wanted to know, things that marred my perception of them almost instantly.

“It was just one time, I never meant to hurt her!” “Oh God… he killed himself after I did it. I didn’t want that to happen!” “Nobody ever told me the truth, I just wanted to have it for myself!”

Their words sickened me, and I boarded up my house from the outside. My son, a very curious boy, asked me why everybody wanted to talk to me. I told him they were very scared, and they wanted to speak to me because I used to have a friend who people would rely on a lot. He asked who I meant, and, not wanting to bore or confuse him with all the definitions, I simply told him he was somebody like Santa. This friend was very wise and very special, and he gave hope and comfort to a lot of people, including me at one time.

When he asked why I didn’t believe in him anymore, I took a deep breath before giving my answer.

“Because he’s been quiet for a long time, and I’m scared he’s not listening to me anymore.”

My partner’s doctor was murdered last week. She was found in the same state as the others: confined to her bed, arms spread wide, face twisted in horror, and the same crimson apple buried in her abdomen. That night, my partner told me we had to leave. I asked them to where would we go, but they simply told me to listen. Every night since the eclipse, they had had the same recurring nightmare. In it, our home was overrun with monsters, hiding in the dark and slowly cutting pieces of our bodies off us while we slept. Eventually, there would be nothing remaining but our souls, and they’d feast on those too.

The sounds coming from downstairs got worse that day. I began to hear them too. What started off as croaking sounded more like laughing now, and the screams across the street began to sound more agonised and tortured. It was getting worse. I knew there was nowhere to go, but this place was becoming something else, something far more evil. Two nights ago, I began packing everything vaguely necessary to our survival. I had filled up the garage several hours later, planning to drive into the wilderness for as long as possible. Our car ran on electricity, and I had saved up twelve batteries since the eclipse for a moment like this.

I had it all planned out. And then my plans were destroyed.

Last night, as I stared at the ceiling and did my damndest to rid my brain of terrible thoughts and questions, I heard my son’s door creak open. Assuming he had had a nightmare and was coming to sleep in our room, I sat up and awaited him. His presence would surely calm me. But there was no sound from the hallway. I stared into the darkness, counting the seconds since I heard the noise. After thirty of them had passed by, I quietly left my bed and walked towards his door.

It was ajar, and through the crack I could make out his curtains swaying gently. I opened the door all the way and felt my body freeze in confusion and horror. His window was wide open, the black sky laughing down at me with its unforgiving cold. My son’s bed was empty. He was gone. I stood in complete fright for a moment before bolting to the window, breathing heavily and shaking uncontrollably. There was no sign of him. I pulled off the duvet on his bed and found it to not be as empty as I thought. In the indentation where my son had once slept, there was a single red apple.

It rolled over slightly and I saw that a tiny chunk had been taken out of it. The bite of a child.

I screamed and wailed, dropping to my knees and bashing my fists against the bedframe. My partner rushed in moments later, and their cry was piercing and agonised. We held each other for hours, sobbing in terror and misery at the truth of the night. Our son had been taken. He was not murdered  but stolen, stolen from his bed as he slept and taken away to only God knows where.

I held my partner close to me as we wept. They passed out from sheer exhaustion several hours later, and I set about gathering supplies. I packed weapons and rations, compasses and maps and absolutely anything I thought would aid on my journey. I was going to find my son. Nothing would keep me from him, no demon or monster or beast would defeat me in my search for him. Once I was ready, I began this account. It serves as a reminder of my history, and of what I must do. It serves, also, as a memento of the ghastly journey I have taken to arrive at my current point.

When I return with my son, and upon his eighteenth birthday, I shall give him this account and tell him it is his to do with as he pleases. He may read it, ignore it or even burn it if he wants, but it is his and his alone. I am not blinding myself with optimism; I know I will succeed. My son will return home, even if I do not.

My partner wanted to call upon the whole neighbourhood to search with me, but I convinced them to let me go alone. Those left behind would only slow me down. Too weakened to protest, they obliged. Our mutual friends agreed to stay with them as much as they could to help them feel safe, and I’m more than confident in them and their abilities. I promised them I’d bring our son home. I think they would rather die than see him never return.

I’ve already started walking. I know whatever took him went into the forest, so that is where I shall look. Beyond that lies a world I have never seen, one I will not recognise. There are forces out there beyond my knowledge and understanding, and whatever took my son will do all it can to kill me or keep him stolen. I do not doubt that Satan himself would cower at the world I live in. Hell is but a weak shadow of this place, and I have long since stopped waiting for God to answer me.

If He is out there, as I suspect He is, He is no doubt waiting for me to fail.

I cannot defeat my God… but I do intend to prove Him wrong.

[jcmarchi]

President Sally Kornbluth’s charge to the Class of 2024

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President Sally Kornbluth’s charge to the Class of 2024

Below is the text of President Sally Kornbluth’s Commencement remarks, as prepared for delivery today.

Penny, and Mikala ­— thank you both, for your reflections today, and for your leadership in our community.

Good afternoon, everyone.

It’s customary, on this day of celebration, for the president to deliver a “charge” to the graduating class. In a year when there has been so much campus turmoil, I may not be able to offer you either advice or inspiration. But I would like to acknowledge a few things that I’ve learned since I came to MIT 17 months ago.

And I want to start by addressing your parents and families.

As all of you know, the education we offer our students is famous for its depth and rigor — and we’re proud of the bursting satchel of skills and knowledge that every MIT graduate carries out into the world.

But the truth is that the young people you sent to us, whom you trusted us to educate, and care for, were remarkable before we even met them.

You certainly know this about them as individuals. And you know the specific challenges they had to overcome. For some of you, the young person whose graduation you’re here to celebrate is the first in your family to go to college. For some, coming here meant leaving home many thousands of miles away. For some, it meant overcoming language barriers or personal hardships. Some faced all the normal rigors of the MIT curriculum, on top of family responsibilities and even tragic losses. 

You also know their individual achievements — how much they learned, and grew, and stretched, and pushed themselves ­– long before they came to MIT. You know how delightful and inspiring and thoughtful they are.

And I expect at least most of you know the particular thrill of the day you realized that they now understood things that you just cannot understand — the day when it would no longer be possible for you, even theoretically, to “help them with their homework.”

So you know them well, as exceptional individuals.

But at MIT, we also get to see them all together.  Taken together, in their critical mass, they are a natural wonder — as awe-inspiring as a visitation of 17-year-cicadas, as miraculous as a total eclipse of the sun.

It has been our privilege to teach them, and to learn together with them. And we share with you the highest hopes for what they will do next.

Play video

Now, to those of you graduating today:

With the exception of a few masters’ students, nearly all of you have been part of the MIT community longer than I have. You know its culture and qualities so well that they may not stand out to you anymore. But I’ve spent my whole career in higher education — and I have never seen a community quite like this one.

A community founded on wonder — and wondering why. A community whose version of March Madness is 1000 people staring upward, spontaneously sharing the wondrous sight of a solar eclipse — (and actually being able to explain it). A community that runs on an irrepressible combination of curiosity and creativity and drive. A community in which everyone you meet has something important to teach you. A community in which people expect excellence of themselves — and take great care of one another.

I have no doubt that you’re tired of hearing how “resilient” you are, because of the pandemic.

But I mention that long, drawn-out challenge as another illustration of what it means to be part of this particular community. A community that fought the virus with the tools of measurement and questioning and analysis and self-discipline — and was therefore able to pursue its mission almost undeterred. A community that understands, in a deep way, that the vaccines were not some “overnight miracle” — but rather the final flowering of decades of work by thousands of people, pushing the boundaries of fundamental science. A place that does not shy from complexity. A place that embraces the hardest problems.

You may never find another community like it.

But I hope you’ll keep us in mind as you design and invent creative communities of your own!

All of you graduating today have been tested. By the repercussions of a relentless virus. By societal upheaval here, and by violent conflict and the most terrible human suffering abroad.

And of course, you have also been tested — many, many times — by the faculty of MIT.

An MIT education is a test of endurance. A grand p-set made of p-sets! A test made of tests!

MIT is famous for testing its students — but you have tested us too — from the moment you arrived, to the present. You’ve tested our systems. Our assumptions. Our practices.

You’ve revealed places where our understanding may fall short. You’ve shown us that we need to reflect more deeply and be willing to assess and reconsider long-held beliefs.

In short, the Institute you are graduating from is — thanks in part to you — always reflecting and always changing. And I take that as your charge to us.

So thank you! Congratulations! And best wishes to each of you for a wonderful future!

[in-the-blue-notebook]

The photo book I chose to focus on is Barbara Ess’s I am Not This Body, a work that I continually look to and reference. I’ve included some of her writing – specifically on discomfort, safety, and dread. The way her images distort landscapes, domestic spaces, as well as self-portraits into abstraction speaks to the nostalgia, overwhelm, and discomfort I find myself dealing with.  

An exhibition that has stuck with me since March was the Brooklyn Museum’s Copy Machine Manifestos show, one that particularly focused on zines and independent publishing, but also featured films, collages, and photography. I found the colloquial and vernacular aspects of the work to be the most inspiring – how artists can make work with what they have on hand, like in copy paper/xerox printing, collage, and in using lower quality cameras, like digicams, camcorders, etc. 

The text I chose would be Svetlana Boym’s The Future of Nostalgia, specifically the article Nostalgia and its Discontents. I am currently in the process of reading the whole book, but the way Boym categorizes and identifies the different types of nostalgia, and how we use them to cope with overwhelm, is something that is very interesting to me. In particular, she writes, 

“...technology and nostalgia have become co-dependent: new technology and advanced marketing stimulate ersatz nostalgia – for the things you never thought you had lost – and anticipatory nostalgia – for the present that flees with the speed of a click.” (10) 

“The sheer overabundance of nostalgic artifacts marketed by the entertainment industry, most of them sweet ready-mades, reflects a fear of untamable longing and non-commodified time. Oversaturation, in this case, underscores nostalgia's fundamental insatiability. With the diminished role of art in Western societies, the self-conscious exploration of longing without a quick fix and sugar-coated palliatives has significantly dwindled.” (11)

I feel as though my project has shifted, not necessarily in concept but in the way I am presenting it visually. In the past weeks, I have combined found materials on the street with my images in a way that is colorful and attempting to overwhelm, but this method of working has not resonated with me. I think I am more drawn to seeking out the smaller moments of quiet and stillness and discomfort/comfort that the overwhelm does not allow for, in opposition to it. I think this project has become a mediation on the dread I feel not just in the face of overconsumption but of time and events moving too quickly, the dread I feel against the overwhelm I cannot escape. 

I took these images on my dad’s old digicam while I was up north this past weekend to view the eclipse in totality. Experiencing the small-town northern quiet I grew up with and immediately returning to the city prompted me to consider what I have been feeling already in a different way, and I think moving forward I would like to focus on these moments of stillness in response to the overwhelm and dread I feel, rather than responding to it with overwhelm as I was doing before.

[h-didanart]

Hmmm, sure! Let’s answer these

1- Bloodmoon definitely, both versions

2- Not really sure tbh, I don’t outright hate any characters. I guess Goliath since I know them the least?

3-ooooh favorite episodes… “Sun and Moon REACT to Their OPPOSITES FANART” since that’s the first one I watched, “Moon LEARNS Sun’s DARK SECRET in VRChat” because it’s amazing, “can Sun and Moon SURVIVE NATURAL DISASTERS?! In Minecraft” because it’s just so chaotic and funny

4- I was in the middle of writing something along the lines of ‘don’t have one’ when I remembered the existence of MechShark, which like, I love. Specifically the actually Cured and not evil Ruin with Solar version :3

5- oooooh, hmmm, last year 2023, I believe a few days before Bloodmoon got revived, I know for sure I was hooked by the time the Takeover started

6- Sun Star Power Arc. Sun Star Power Arc hands down. Sun trying to do something to keep Nem (New Moon) away from danger, trying to deal with the problem himself, because he can’t lose him again. Sun running himself to the ground training in secret, passing out for hours, lying to his brother’s face. And in turn Nem noticing something wrong with Sun, trying to ask about it. The Ruin Monty fiasco, the confrontation—

“How is this affecting you? Or anything for that matter? How is—“

“BECAUSE YOURE MY BROTHER… how would you having an awful mental state not affect me? How did me having an awful mental state not affect you? Your turn hypocrite”

—Sun confessing to having hallucinations, Nem trying to comfort him, Sun flinching back, Sun being made to take a break… Nem uncovering Sun’s lies. Their fight.

“Th-there’s a method to it”

“I DONT CARE IF THERES A METHOD I DONT WANNA LOSE MY BROTHER”

Jigsaw’s kidnapping of Sun.

“What Sun?”

“Moon I I-“

“Oh Sun stop speaking! Hello Moon~”

“… Sun. Where. Are you?”

“I-I don’t know”

“He’s in a place of security—“

“FREAKSHOW SHUT UP”

The tenseness between them. The therapy session. And then, Eclipse’s death, Sun using his power to push him in, Nem turning his back to Eclipse as he dies. And then the concern over Sun’s near destroyed state. What more could we want? It’s the perfect arc

7- least favorite… this one that just finished I think. It didn’t really grab my attention as much as the others, yeah I watched some episodes but generally avoided the story as much as possible.

8- I am! Lunar models, very specifically Second Version Bloodmoons, I have gotten accustomed enough to their general design to be able to tweak it just enough to differentiate between aus in a relatively short time (ex. the Retired twins having their jacket, Lone having a messed up eye and looking more like and Adaptation AI, Botany having a sun hat, Keeper looking more like an assassin, Amnesiac being generally softer and with less spikes, Rotting being fancy)

9- Monty. How do you even start there? Actually I think the Glamrocks in general, I’ve never even drawn them all

10- I am! This might surprise you all, but Moon. The narrative style I use for Moon— with dashes for the asides— And the first person style add ons! Are very fun to write. On top of that I think I just am good at unreliable narrators, and who’s more unreliable than the smarter-than-thou self deprecating-as-hell jerk? Don’t answer that

11- to absolutely no one’s surprise, it’s The Bloodmoon One. 4k+ hits, over 200 comments, almost 40k words by now, I cannot overstate how surprised I was at the sheer amounts of love this one has and is getting with all the topics and themes it covers, I fully expected to get a few hate comments about me being awful for writing the twins going through all that they go through or for traumatizing them too much or something. But now that we’re here, I must confess, this one is also my favorite. I got extremely attached to the twins, despite putting them through such an awful hell and making them sink deeper and deeper into the depths of depression, they are my dear boys and I’m going to make sure their story has a good conclusion no matter how many more months it takes. And no, it’s not actually called The Bloodmoon One publicly, just in my notes app, due to the nature of the story I just think it’d be better if I did not disclose the name is all

Anyways this was very fun!

Hello, guys

I want to ask you questions:

Who is your favourite TSAMS character/characters?

What TSAMS character/characters do you hate?

What is your favourite TSAMS episode/episodes?

What is your favourite TSAMS ship/ships?

When did you first start watching TSAMS?

What is your favourite TSAMS arc?

What is your least favourite TSAMS arc?

(If you are an artist) What TSAMS character/characters is the easiest to draw for you?

(If you are an artist) What TSAMS character/characters is the hardest to draw for you?

(If you are a writer) What TSAMS character/characters is the most fun to write to you?

(If you are a writer) What is your most popular TSAMS fanfic?