#in my website era

[escargon]

[Image ID: An old web style gif of a werewolf with “JFK is trapped in the moon” written to the right. End ID.]

I never posted my blinkie i made for my site

I have it linked to this site here, made with blinkiescafe

[earlycuntsets]

non concert photos from mychemicalromance.com 2004

[n0ahsferatu]

pov you are a locked chest or perhaps someone bleeding to death

[viktorpartner]

Haven't been able to think about anything other than the victorian/edwardian/WW1 twink and his 80's punk almost-boyfriend for a week, send help

[tasaq]

Bill baby laces are not fascist

naked triangle with yellow hands

[michelle-jacksons-art-blog]

To be loved is to be changed.

[theblisterdoesntexist]

now i'm back with assaulting corey's tag, as i should

[batfamiliar]

there is something wrong with me.

there is something ugly following me, it must be, because why else would everyone leave me. something is wrong with me and that's why everybody leaves. and i tried, i tried so hard to make peace with how ugly this part of me is. i tried to keep it at a distance, keep it separate from me. but any time somebody caught even a glimpse of it, it frightened them and then they left.

there is something wrong with me and it makes people leave me and so they can never find out. they can never see that ugly side of me because then they will leave. except i'm hiding it and they still leave. what am i doing wrong? did it slip through somehow and made them leave? or is the ugliness in me still?

i try so hard to hide it because i don't want to be alone, i don't want to be abandoned dammit, but the ugliness won't leave and the ugliness is all i can think about. i think about it more than i think about my partner, my friends, my family. in a way, it's the closest thing to home i have now

and then something happens and i think to myself - this is it. this is what all of this has been for, something is wrong with me and everybody leaves me. but. if i can be useful then maybe this awful ugliness will finally leave me alone. yes i want to be left alone now, please abandon me like everybody else, please prove me right

and then i'm useful and the ugliness stays. i sigh

years pass and people continue to leave me. i don't know if it's because of me or her anymore, it doesn't really matter. everybody left, but she is still here. i can always see her out of the corner of my eye. her presence brings me comfort. she stayed. despite everything she stayed. she is my closest confidant, my best friend, the one that will stand with me when nobody else will

she is me

and i won't abandon myself anymore

[wastingawayinmyroom]

@jegulus-microfic prompt: improve word count: 641 words

warning: moments during and after a nightmare (walburga’s a+ parenting)

inspired by a rosekiller microfic i saw recently. can’t remember the author, but they’re amazing.

…

He’d been doing so well. So, so well.

The nightmares were going away, slowly. No flashbacks, no seeing something and suddenly being trapped in that house all over again, his mother’s suffocating love and his brother’s screams, no, no, no. Gone. All gone. Well, almost.

He’d been improving. That was the main thing. James always said, that no matter how small it was, a little improvement was always an improvement.

Improve, improve, improve. And here he is now. Eight years old again. In that cursed house. Screams and anger are blending together. His cheeks are wet. Why is he crying? Heirs to the house of Black do not cry. He’s not an heir. He’s not cut out to be an heir.

She’s saying something. She says she loves him, she really does. She wants the best for him.

Is this the best? He wants to ask her that, but he does not say anything. He sits. He listens to screams. Sirius’ screams, maybe his own. He does not know. He is scared. He wants his brother.

She does not like his brother. His brother did something. Something bad. He can feel his brain slowly shutting down, his mind filling with thoughts and emptying simultaneously, and he hates it. He feels like he’s going crazy. Maybe he is.

He wants to scream. He does, he thinks. Very loudly. And she’s angry again, and he’s scared, and he just wants someone to hold, and he thinks—

He gasps.

It’s night. He’s in bed. There’s someone next to him, he can see them sleeping, snoring soundly. The sheets move up with every breath they take.

The next thing he registers is brown hair, and the first thing he thinks is, Oh, James.

But he can’t relax.

He gets up, stumbles to the bathroom. He can’t breathe. He feels trapped, like he’s back at the old house. So he turns on the tap, sets it to the coldest temperature, and runs it through his hands, splashes it on his face. He’s still trapped, still eight, but a little bit safer now. A bit better.

Hands wrap around his waist. A face pressed into his curls. They stay there until he can think again. Until the only reason his hands are shaking is the cold water. He shuts the tap off. Allows James to take him back to bed when he asks. Snuggles in the warmth and brings his knees up to his chest.

James does the same, pressing their noses together, legs knocking, and Regulus drinks in the warmth, the comfort that this man brings him. “Cuddles?” He asks, voice still rough from sleep. Regulus feels guilty for waking him up, but god, the sound of his voice is enough to convince him otherwise.

He nods slightly, still reeling from the nightmare. He takes James’ arm, rolls over, and brings his arm along with him, and James understands. He presses himself onto Regulus, and that’s enough to let him breathe again, nice and slow.

“I was doing so well,” he whispers. James cups his face, staring into his eyes like they’re the whole Milky Way. “I ruined it.”

James shakes his head. “No,” he says, “Improvement is an abstract thing. It happens in weird ways. Ma told me, once, that improvement is also experiencing the thing again, too.” He shifts, slightly, to get a better view of Regulus’ face. “It’s seeing how much you’ve changed in the way you deal with it.”

Regulus closes his eyes. “Je ne te mérite pas,” he says. I don’t deserve you.

“Hm?”

“I love you,” he says.

James smiles, and he wants to put that smile in a bottle and get drunk on it every night. “Me too, Jaan.” Me too, my soul.

He drifts into sleep like that, with his boyfriend.

Improvement, he thinks, is an abstract thing.

[sophaeros]

happy birthday to this baby boy

[akkivee]

WAIT STOP THE PRESSES NEW ARB ON SWITCH ART

[earlycuntsets]

from 2006 mychemicalromance.com band page

[lucabyte]

ppl saying they look to my comics for inspiration and pointers on how to format things is WILDDDD to me (and delightful don't get me wrong!! i am overjoyed) because like. none of you are privvy to the absolute WAHHH I DONT WANNNAAA bitchfits i was *CONSISTANTLY* throwing every time i forced myself to make a comic before i got into isat. like no joke. i considered comics such a fucking difficult medium they always drained my drawing energy so hard because they always felt like they took sooo long and had so many moving parts and were so much harder than storyboards (WHICH I ALREADY STRUGGLED WITH) because you had to account for panel shape and speech bubbles and-- like you get it. but genuinely for real. the sheer amount that i complained whenever i clawed my way through drawing a comic (which thus! was not very fucking much!!) compounded by the fact that i *genuinely have trouble reading comics*. as in, i really struggle to parse the flow of contiguous movement or action between panels (possibly connected to the fact ive got mad aphantasia?) of even really well done best-of-the-best professional comics...

... BUT. basically. what im trying to get at is. if you wanna learn to draw comics, evidently you super can?! I genuinely *didnt* draw comics before drawing isat fanart! I have no idea what it was about ISAT fanart that made it finally click for me? (I think it was... not having to think about colour? Removing a step from the process really helped. Plus, it being fanwork meant I could just start en-medias-res and not have to think about setup... Trying to cram too much explanation and setup into my oc stuff was always a big hurdle too...)

I find them fast to do now! and damn if i dont value speed in art (<- impatient little fucker). its still going slowly on my oc comics.. mostly due to the colour again, i think. but it's not extremely, ecruciatingly difficult anymore. is what im saying. and im genuinely baffled by it every time i put pen to page. its fucked up. did you guys know that practice makes things easier? . fucking perverted if you ask me.

As for looking at other people's things for inspiration. if you want to know where I was looking when I was piecing together the first couple fancomics I did for ISAT i want to specifically point at . well besides everything rebecca sugar has ever done (for hands and facial expressions *especially*), the main person i really dug into the work of was Leo Fox (Website link). I feel like i wanna point people to the source of a lot of the inspiration for my more off-kilter panel choices so you all can get the full experience rather than through my regurgitated mimesis. I'm now at the point where i can wing panel layout so i wasn't in there for longgg but. everyone go add it to your knowledge banks as for SUBJECT MATTER aka why i am i so deranged. those are squarely the 2019 postcanon homestuck golden era bleeding through my CLENCHED BITTEN DOWN JAW. A BULL TERRIER ON YOUR BRACHIAL ARTERY. namely that @/floralmarsupial and @/tomatograter's works (no i am not tagging them . im shy) are things i go back to frequently and floralmarsupials pure black/white inktober comics were *especially* an inspiration. if you've been following me a few months you may remember me reblogging a bunch of their stuff from 2019~2021 for seemingly no reason. this was why. The narratively divorced reality of jade strider & Liminal Space are big in my mind here. I balk to call myself anywhere near as good as these but these are what i'm aiming for, tonally and quality-ways with it. also detective pony but ive mentioned that already and thats farrrr too inside baseball for this post.

BUT YEAH TL;DR: I DIDNT DRAW LIKE ANY COMICS UNTIL UHHHH LIKE, WHAT, LIKE 8 MONTHS AGO? JESUS. ANYWAY. THIS MEANS YOU 🫵🫵🫵 CAN DO IT TOO. BELIEVE IN YOURSELF. DATTEBAYO!!!!

[antikr1sta]

my first ever dazai fanart I did a few months ago.. my obsession with this awful creature has gotten worse and worse. I rediscovered my old blog just to post this shit.

[mjblue]

In which Mary forgets.

The first thing she forgot was the colour of a meadow on a midsummer day.

The second was the sound of a door sliding open, and a voice that still hadn’t lost the shake of anger. 

“Excuse us,” said the voice. “But do you mind if we sit here?” 

Mary didn’t mind. 

“You see,” the voice explained. “We had seats already. Perfectly nice seats, in fact—but then we were disturbed. Did you know this place accepts mentally deficient toe-rags?”

Mary had not.

“Me either,” said the voice. It was a bit steadier now. “Well, you seem nice, at any rate—what’s your name?”

The voice had a name, too. But Mary couldn’t forget what it was.

…

The next thing she forgot was her own hands, glowing with the light of a thousand suns. She forgot the letter that came on her birthday and the man who came with it, tall and silver and kind when he told her she was magic. She forgot the feeling of a wand in her hand, the control, the certainty it gave her, something inside her slotting into place without ever having realised it was missing at all. 

Ah, yes, she forgot thinking, when the man took out his own and conjured her mother a rose. Now everything is finally right.

She forgot how it felt when she heard that Word for the very first time and she realised she’d been so very wrong. 

…

Mary forgot that the voice belonged to a girl. A girl with long, soft, pressed-copper hair, hair that smelled like vanilla and apples and sunshine.

She forgot how she sounded when she laughed.

“Sunshine isn’t a smell, Mary—but thank you all the same.”

Mary disagreed. Sunshine was her favourite smell.

She forgot how the girl looked with her sleeves rolled up and her wand in her plait, hands stained red-yellow-green by berries and powders and potions, eyes blazing in triumph when the man with the walrus moustache told her she was clever. Mary wondered how he did it—how he made her light up like that, and how she could do it, too. 

She forgot late nights in the dorm and afternoons in the library, painting nails and proofreading essays. The girl would look at her Potions and Mary would look at her Charms, and they’d roll their eyes when boys with silly names and big mouths sent them cards and curses and called them pretty. 

“You’re all I need, Mary. Romance is reductive, and they’re all arrogant prats with frogs for brains.”

Mary wished it was true. 

But then she forgot glasses and messy hair, and battles won with wands and broomsticks and words, and watching her watching him when she thought no one was looking. She forgot being sixteen and feeling something change around her. She forgot feeling like she should change, too. She forgot crying when she couldn’t. 

…

She forgot the star. 

She forgot his black curls and his silver eyes, and his face, pretty like a girl’s. She forgot holding his hand and pretending it was hers. She forgot how he made her listen to Bowie and she made him listen to ABBA, and how they laughed and cried and fought and made up and never, ever kissed.

She forgot sitting by the fire in a crowded common room, not reading, not talking. He looked at him and she looked at her and neither of them looked at each other.

And she forgot that the reason they’d always worked so well was that really, they’d never worked at all.

…

She forgot the castle in winter, the way the ice hung off the stone like a diamond necklace, the way the white made the blue swallow you whole. 

“Here we are, Mary!” said the girl. “Our very last Sluggy Christmas! What are you wearing? Did you decide yet?”

Mary hadn’t, but she was leaning towards the pink with the lace.

“Oh, good,” said the girl. “That one’s my favourite.”

Mary’s favourite was the emerald silk. 

“Yes,” said the girl. “I was thinking that, too—it matches my eyes, doesn’t it?”

Mary wondered if the girl was sad. She’d just broken up with the latest boy, and it was the first time she’d be going alone. Mary didn’t have a partner, either. She wondered if she might like to go together. 

Just so they wouldn’t be lonely.

Just as friends.

Just once.

“Oh—er, sorry, Mary,” said the girl. “But I’m not going alone.”

Mary didn’t want to ask. But she did.

“Potter,” said the girl. “James Potter.”

…

She forgot the words to Lady Stardust. Cherry Bomb. Jolene, Lola, and Nina, Pretty Ballerina. She forgot the Blitzkrieg Bop and the Crocodile Rock, and she forgot dancing in the tower and the flat and the cottage, arms around a boy or a girl or a stranger or the air above her head, dancing just to move, dancing to remember. Dancing to forget. 

…

The forgetting came quicker after that. 

She forgot the war. She forgot the secrets and the lies they told themselves to get through the day, the lies that tore them apart from the inside out and the ones that put them back together. She forgot killing and torture and running and waking from nightmares to find herself in hell.

She forgot the dead. She forgot the traitors and the cowards and the black, festering hole in her chest where her heart used to be.

She forgot the girl with Healing hands. She forgot her yellow hair, her whip-crack wit, her soft, warm hugs. She forgot the girl who loved her, the crusader with a chip on her shoulder, and she forgot how they died exactly one month apart, how the streets ran scarlet in the August heat. 

She forgot the boy with kindness in his voice and fear in his eyes, the boy who died and the finger they buried. She forgot the snake in lion’s clothing who killed him and the scarred, broken shell of a man he’d lied about loving and left behind. 

She forgot Halloween.

…

She forgot standing alone in a churchyard, carving words on a slab of white marble. She forgot a familiar face, a form in the corner of her eye, and she forgot the words she yelled at him as he tried to explain.

“I loved—”

“Don’t you fucking dare, Snivellus.”

…

The last thing she forgot was a road called Privet Drive, and a neat little house filled with secrets and pain and a crying boy with eyes she’d spent ten long, beautiful years loving so much it almost hurt to look. 

She forgot the feeling of night air on her face, cold and sharp, turning her tears to ice. She forgot knocking on the door, and the face Petunia Evans made when she pulled out her wand and froze her where she stood. She forgot the door to the cupboard under the stairs, and how she didn’t need to say a word before it burst into a shower of sparkling stars. She forgot holding Harry in her arms, and looking back to see a fat, blond baby bawling on the living room floor, and wondering just for a moment whether she ought to take him, too. 

She forgot walking, then running, cradling a soft black head to her chest, too afraid to Apparate with such a fragile thing. She forgot the rage in her throat, on her tongue, when she saw the tall, slim man in silver robes, blocking her path. 

He was there to take him away. He was there to take away her Harry, her godson, just like he took away her Lily. He threw her life away like it was nothing, nothing, nothing, when to Mary it was everything. 

“You can’t,” she said. “You can’t send him back there, you can’t make me leave him.”

Of course he could.

“You won’t,” she said. “You won’t let them hurt him, you won’t close your eyes.”

Of course he would.

“You’re wrong,” she said. “You’re wrong if you think this is good. You’re wrong if you think there’s no choice.”

Of course he was.

But that had never mattered.

“Obliviate,” he said.

And Mary forgot.