#Slate Fine Art

[canadianartjunkie]

David Thauberger - Endless Summer

David Thauberger has become internationally known for his paintings of the architecture and cultural icons of Saskatchewan.  “Swirls,”  2023,  acrylic on panel, 18″ x 24″ (courtesy of Slate Fine Art) He is on exhibition in Endless Summer at Slate Gallery in Regina through Dec. 2. “Dessart Sweets,”  2023,  acrylic on panel, 25″ x 30″ (courtesy of Slate Fine Art) Thauberger was among a number…

[vargaslovinghours]

EleVeN!11!!1! (1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 10½)

Fuzzy Edgar forever. I don’t remember the context now, maybe there wasn’t any to begin with haha, he’s just so cute with slightly longer hair! And upset :)

Some Diaryfic snuggles ♥ Scriabin can be so sweet to him at the worst time ah, I love Edgar’s hard on his arm and Scriabin’s pulling his hair out of his injured eye 💕

While I was very inspired by the Red Flags meme going around (we’ll get there), I was just as inspired by Mixed Messages - this exchange is so silly and them to me. He’s just trying to flirt back, you don’t have to make it harder! That’s just what Scriabin does haha

🥐 🖕 D:’

What else did you expect Scriabin to do with texting capabilities?? I’m still very enamoured with the thought of Scriabin using emojis and Edgar using emoticons - they are sort of different generations!

Here’s the Red Flags! So gd catchy, damn lol. I was specifically inspired by the X is on a date with themself edits, it was so tempting to consider a Ladyverse version as well haha. Edgar’s uncomfortable smiles were so incredibly fun hehe ♪

Y’see because with that many eyes- you get it

Edgar’s little “Or do I??” makes me laugh haha, anything to get out of this situation!

Waiter Jake ❤️💕💖💞💗 Rescue him!

Very inspired by this one specifically, he’s totally innocent! Not offputting at all! ♥

Alright well good luck with that bye. I love Edgar being menaced into continuing this date hehe ♫

Scriabin just keeping on the pressure for this date to keep going! Slight neg in “Couldn’t you have dressed up a little nicer though? ✨” pft

Brief aside with Scriabin!Edgar out drinking with my OC Mint who has very openly had a crush on the Vargases for a while now, thanks Mint

Honestly it was all just an excuse to turn him down and have Scriabin call Edgar his “landlord” haha; I was feeling nostalgic and went back to reread some old YuGiOh fics and had been so long away that I forgot that was a term used in the fandom to refer to the bodies of people the various Yamis would take over hehe ♪ It felt very fitting!

I can call him that but don’t you call him that >:(

Angy Scriabin!Edgar, the usual

Handplates re/reading doodles!! Hghgh!!! The theses of these stories of codependent relationships cut me to my very core I’ll have you know 💕 I managed to avoid falling down the rabbit hole of Handplates!Vargas but I was this close, lemme tell you. The subtle shift in phrasing changes so much ;; I love them dearly

A kind-of leftover WOY style Scriabin, since I made his hair all pointy in my first doodles - the WOY style is quite soft and round! He looks very silly hehe

Another song that is, yes, unironically in my Vargas playlist. This is a Nny song to me and you can pry it from my cold dead correct hands. That beautiful facial hair ♪

More Handplates/Vargas, this time obviously inspired by my holiday request 💕💖💞 I honestly rather like how calm Gaster seems whenever he’s in Edgar’s vicinity, he is a fairly unassuming human haha. Is it because he doesn’t laugh very often? Oh no that’s sad actually haha

I’m not done with Blank Slate Ch. 4 just yet - hopefully soon! - but this lineup stands out to me especially since I made it while rereading Handplates. Specifically after Gaster is pulled out of the Void - Gaster having to face the people he loves who have no memory of him really spoke to me in a Blank Slate way - the scenario of being able to completely start over and have never done anything to hurt your loved ones, at the expense of never having done anything to them, as far as they’re concerned, ah! It hurts so beautifully!! That’s one of the central themes I’m chasing so it was so cool to see in that context! Very inspiring ♥

So remember how in my Sims post, one Vargas family ended up with two Todds? Well what if that but actually

Twin Todd AU, just try and stop me

The saddest little twins y’ever did see ahh 💔 Having to share Shmee because there’s just the one of him! Who has a greater need :’0

I actually went and skimmed the SQUEE! comics to get a better grasp on the Casils, I’d forgotten basically everything haha. It seemed in keeping that if they could barely keep track of the one Todd, they wouldn’t bother even differentiating between two :’) Taking Todd shifts to better share the load

At least they have each other! More helpful than a stuffed bear who eats trauma? On par at least?

I also happened to catch this screenshot of the Todds gossiping about their shadow-dad, though I’m not sure who had seen him :0 By now I have found an adoption memory-loss prevention mod - thank goodness :D - but it wasn’t installed at the time! :0 Blue Todd is the Todd who’d already been the Vargases’ kid, Red Todd is newly-adopted Todd :)

Greetings in order! One of the Todds came by to scout out this strange new person

It’s a name to go by, if nothing else

Reporting back from the field, he has served his big narrative influence hehe ♥

Uh, yeah, about that- While I don’t doubt you were seeing double at times, uhm-

Surprise! Double the sons!

Only so much space in this apartment! They’re probably used to sharing a space to sleep weh, the implications of this AU are sad! I have no one to blame but myself haha

I have never been able to give up this twisted love I have for Edgar getting flustered about incredibly silly things and Scriabin chiding him with just his name haha ♥ Real twins do not delegitimize whatever the hell you two are to each other 💕

Who me? An affinity for how names shape identity and what it means to be a whole separate person? In love with this story in particular? You must be mistaken. But really, what would their name(s) be? I also love the subtle differences even just here - one Todd speaks up for the other! Dynamics ✨

1994, 2004, basically the same year innit. Scriabin is so much more on the up-and-up about the latest technology than Edgar, that old man

In which the offscreen is me lol, I was so blown away by how much more advanced the Sims 2 was from the Sims 1 ♥ Scriabin doesn’t need a box with a program in it, he has the absolute funnest toy in the world already!

And isn’t that the most important part ♪

Scriabin immediately makes himself and hooks up with every Sim he can, Edgar uncomfortable and totally not watching a~ny of the animations hehe ♪ Honestly though, the thought of Scriabin being genuinely excited to virtually get it on with any-and-every delights me haha

Look. Look, okay, look- If I could choose what to be inspired by, I would but sometimes

Obviously Scriabin would be a long Furby lol, this exchange can be summarized to “Scriabin no D:” “Scriabin yes >:D”

He’s complaining that Edgar ignoring him sleeping is boring haha

I did briefly lose my mind over how the Furbish word for “I/me/my/mine” is all the same - linguistically it makes sense, self-possessive, but in this, in their context ♥

Based on that one Wojak format - looks into the camera like “Yes. I am in your head. Insanity tracks” pfft

And it’s @jaspravex with the steel chair!! I hadn’t drawn any of them in like a month and then all of a sudden- I was 1000% not expecting to be hit with such a huge wave of inspiration but gosh and dang did this line of thought light me up. The implication! The jealousy! Wow that’s a lot all at once I wasn’t expecting ♥ Somehow these two never ended up on my shipping chart, dynamics I swear haha ✨

There’s September through February for the fourth go ‘round! Wild when I put it like that :0 Like clockwork, these lads ♪

[blackout-articles]

[jjoongstar]

𝑨 𝑾𝒂𝒓𝒎 𝑯𝒆𝒂𝒓𝒕

⚜pairing: statue!yeosang x gn!reader

⚜genre: fluff

⚜rating: sfw

⚜warnings: none, just kissing

⚜wc: 888

⚜a/n: i was inspired by a pic sent by @acupoftaewithsomesuga on discord, yeosang looks so gorgeous. so yea, that's how this was produced. feedbacks are much appreciated! (tags are at the end)

you snuck into the art museum by the back door. your steps were quieter than the footsteps of a mouse that night. you glance over your watch to check the current time. 11.48 pm. its almost time!

you continued your steps upstairs towards the one and only exhibition hall. the whole area was empty. decorated by plain dull walls as its main focus was on the art piece at the center of it.

a large statue, carved by a talented artist. it sits on a stone that was also created by the artist, into what seems like a throne to the statue. its face was well made, accentuating its sharp nose, high cheekbones, and beautiful lips. his body structure was magnificent. broad shoulders with fine built chest. the collarbones of a glorious hero. arms and hands full of grace such as a goddess.

but what's most of the reason how you ended up sitting on the cold marble tile floor with your legs pulled up to your chest, eyes gawking up to the piece, is his captivating eyes. a deep set with almond shape. colours of a rich and dark hue that adds the depth of his intrigued gaze.

"oh, hello there little one," your smile widens, showing off your front teeth when your adoration was interrupted by the statue himself.

every night past midnight, all the art piece in the art museum will come to life up till before dawn. it was a little secret only you knew as it was a secret magic by the artist too.

"hello mr. kang yeosang, the majestic guardian of eden," you read the name of the piece that was place on a slate on the foot of the statue, in a giddy way.

"please stop calling me that dear, we've met multiple times already, come up here," the statue chuckles as he reach out his hand to you.

you got up and took his hand, it felt so cold to your touch. he pulls you up to sit on his lap and you made yourself comfortable there. you lean your body to rest on his chest and giggles when his arm wraps around your smaller figure, securing you better in his embrace.

"yeosang," you mutter as you trace your fingers all over his place and your thumb lingers longer at his birthmark under his eye. it was your favourite feature of him. a flaw that made him look more striking to the eyes of humans.

"my little human," he place his other hand on the side of your neck and you shudder at the cold touch of his fingers.

"my gorgeous sculpture," he replied back to your compliment by placing his lips on yours.

you wrap you hands around his neck and chase his lips back. for a statue, his lips were rather smooth and cold, but it also felt soft and sweet to your mouth. you pulled back first as you shudder again when he trace his cold fingers to your exposed thighs.

he loves your little reaction of his touch. he bits your lower lip, wanting your attention back to his lips. you happily obliged to his request and kiss him back.

you push his chest away after a while for you to catch a breath. you're slightly panting but when you look at him, he just smiles at you. must be fun not having lungs and the need of air to breathe.

"wanna go for a walk?" he agreed to your request and pecks your lips once.

he gently place you back on your feet on the floor before he got up from his seat. you wrap your hands around his thick forefinger and drag him out of the hall.

you walk around together and explore every areas together. giggling, laughing and waving back to paintings, who loves to see you two together. you both enjoyed each other's presence the whole time.

he'd even played hide and seek by trying to blend in with the other statues, and they tried so hard to make yeosang look like one of them.

"i found you yeo!"

"how did you find me so fast," he whines with a pout on his face at you.

"you're just too striking sangie. even if you place yourself in a hall with a thousand statues, i will always find you," he gets so shy with your words and he blushes so hard. you pulled him down closer to you and kisses his cheek.

after a while, it was time he needed to get back on his podium. he gives you a final tight hug, just enough for you to feel his love for you. though with his strength and build, he might crush you. he plants a last kiss on the crown of your head before he head back to his throne.

"tonight was amazing, i enjoyed it really well with you, thank you," you said you final words before he smiles back at you and went back to his initial pose.

you glance out the windows and the sky would turn brighter soon, it was your cue to leave. you turn back your heels and look for the exit.

"i love you." the tall mighty statue mutters quietly under his breath upon seeing your back facing at him when you were bout to leave him for the day.

dividers

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[ghost-proofbaby]

never love an anchor (e.m. x reader)

"On some level, I think I always understood that a ship could never really love an anchor."

warnings: severe hurt/brief comfort, suicidal ideations, severely depressed reader. again: detailed recount of suicidal ideations. dead dove: do not eat.

wc: 5.8k+

an: i cannot emphasize this enough - this fic deals with a severely depressed, and blatantly suicidal reader. it is extremely heavy. it is extremely triggering. it is extremely self-indulgent. the romance aspect is ambiguous and the comfort aspect at the end is brief. this is a genuine, and sincerely personal piece of writing. it is an outline of how suicidal ideations may present themselves to some people. of these 5k words, 4k is deeply littered with reader's ideations without sugar coating. please, please, please do not read this unless you're in the state of mind to read it. you've surely heard it before but i'll say it just to be sure: it is a permanent solution for temporary feelings. and, just in case no one has told you, i'm glad you're alive. if you're reading this, i'm glad that you're alive. you're enough.

if you find yourself feeling like reader, i urge that you find resources such as those linked. hotlines, therapists, friends, your doctor, your family - please. i do not wish these emotions upon anyone, and they should never be taken lightly.

that being said, here are my guts from a very vulnerable moment, spilled out across the page. please handle them with care if you choose to read.

Technically speaking, the pressure that the human body is capable of handling almost seems infinite. When introduced slowly, and time is given to adjust, there is no pinpointed amount of pressure that dooms the human body. Like a crab in slow boiling water, your body should be theoretically able to handle a steady increase, bit by bit, and never truly notice. 

So why does it currently feel like you’re dying?

The pressure was never an overnight thing. It was a conglomeration you’d gathered, piece by piece, collecting little souvenirs of all the responsibilities you can’t currently remember if you’d ever agreed to along the way. It hadn’t been sudden, it hadn’t been with lack of adjusting, it hadn’t been a pressure suddenly unloaded upon you all at once – you’d done this, brick by brick, all with your own two hands. 

Keeping up with friends, keeping up with work, keeping up with expectations. Always trying to run ahead of the curve, always trying to be better. You should be fine. You shouldn’t even notice. You shouldn’t be sobbing on your bathroom floor, clutching the edge of your porcelain tub, every single breath a labor of survival. 

It feels like every bone in your body is splintering. It feels like the world has cracked open your ribs, one by one, just for show. You don’t feel poetic like the movies, you don’t feel like a valuable lesson learned in the books. You feel as though you’ve become nothing more than some crude display in a contemporary art gallery, and you were the one to hang yourself on the wall. 

Needles prickle across your skin with another heaving sob, as if you can feel the push pins you’ve used to spread yourself out for consumption. 

We still on for tonight? 

The text from Eddie glares at you from your phone discarded on the floor mere inches away. You’re lucky the screen hadn’t broken when you’d thrown it down on the ground on your way to the toilet, dry heaving through all your tears. 

He wasn’t a part of the issue. If anything, he was part of the solution. 

A shining clean slate, pristine whites and a scratch-free surface for you to press your cheek to when it all got a bit much. An abyss of freedom and openness for when the world was all a bit smothering. An anchor to cling to, a rope to tie around your wrists to keep from floating too far. The willow tree in a graveyard to rest your back against, the caress of a warm sun even if only momentarily as you stared out across headstones of all the pieces of you that you can never get back. Every version of you that has long since buried, a few even with newly churned dirt resting upon them. Something soft, something sacred, to rest your hands upon. 

Why does he still let you rest your bloodied and dirtied palms on his shoulders? Did he ever agree to that to begin with? 

You can’t remember. Or maybe your brain is simply refusing to recall. 

I hate to cancel, but I’m sick. I don’t think I can come out tonight :-( 

What? Is everything okay? Are you okay? Do I need to bring you anything? 

Please don’t.

The please is what gives you away. You should have forgone it, should have offered him a lighthearted response instead. 

But there is a pit in the bottom of your stomach, and seeing all the question marks across his text only made it more terminal. Only gave it more reason to swallow you whole. Only gave it more reason to grow and to tangle up and to restrict each stuttering breath of yours that you can’t seem to steady. 

Another buzz comes from your phone, but you don’t look to read it. You resort to resting your forehead against the lip of your toilet, all attempts at a deep breath futile as you finally taste the salt across your lips. 

Were you too much? Were you not enough? Was it possible to be an odd juxtaposition of both? 

A harrowing thought crosses your mind, and you know if Eddie could read minds across the intricate webbing that connects cell phones, he’d grab you by your shoulders. Maybe shake you until you see sense, or maybe cling to you until the thought has faded into nothingness. As if he could squeeze you hard enough to press together all the splinters that are left of your bones, forming a new body – a better body. One that can handle the pressure. One that isn’t imploding upon itself. A more durable mind, a more capable suit of skin to occupy. 

Does it even matter anymore? Would it even matter if I simply vanished? 

Would it be so bad to let the pit finally consume you? To just give in, to let it erase you from existence. To finally wave your white flag and let the awfulness inside of you finally win the battle, erasing you from existence and leaving behind an empty space in the world that could be filled with someone better.

Someone who could be a better friend. Someone who could be a harder worker. Someone who wasn’t choked up on their bathroom floor, beginning to contemplate if the painful gasps were even worth it. 

Were you worth it? Were you worth the air in your lungs? Or could it better serve someone who could handle all the pressure? 

And it wasn’t even that much pressure to begin with, if you pick it apart thread by thread. It was the natural weight of the human experience, and you were still crumbling. 

There was a full bottle of ibuprofen in the cabinet. There was a busy street not far from your home. There was a bathtub that could easily be filled with water – you’d never been good at holding your breath, unless someone counted the last few months, in which that seemed to be all you were good at. 

There was even a bridge, 5.27 miles away from your house exactly. You could already envision the patch of grass you could park your car at, feel the drop in temperature as you stood and overlooked the tame waves of a man-made lake.

Maybe your feet didn’t even have to leave the pavement. Maybe it would be enough to just stand in the silence and see the jump with your own two eyes. 

You felt like nothing more than a ghost of yourself, yes, but maybe. Maybe, just maybe, there would still be a broken shard within you that could stir awake at it all. Maybe if you got up off the bathroom floor and set yourself into motion, it would open its eyes just in time to scream no. 

Ghosts don’t just appear. They were a vibrant soul once – they were somebody once. 

But it’s hard to imagine that you ever were. When it gets like this, it’s hard to push through all the tumultuous thoughts and loathly emotions to remember that. A version of you vibrant, a version of you that might have been worthy, if only for a moment. 

A version of you that wasn’t insulting to compare to others. That was capable of progress, of earning your blip of existence. 

You don’t want the bottle of ibuprofen. You don’t want the busy street. You don’t want the overflowing tub. You don’t even want the calm of the bridge. You just want it to stop. 

There’s a knock on your front door that echoes through the entire apartment. You dread that you already know who it is, but you can’t get up to answer. 

You can’t move from this very spot. You’re terrified of what will happen when you do. 

Will your bones collapse into ash upon the floor? Will you make one wrong move, and in a fit of pressure, make a terribly permanent decision for what feels like a terribly permanent feeling? 

Maybe you were born with the pit in your stomach. Maybe you were born with that black hole inside of you. Cursed to always be yearning, always be a juxtaposition, always be a ghost of what could have become. 

You think you hear the click of your front door opening. You think you hear heavy footsteps across the hardwood floors. You think, you think, you think. That’s the issue. 

The tears are still coming and going in erratic tides. The salt is drying out your lips, your cheeks, the corners of your eyes. You’d thought you’d been incapable of any more emotions like this, but your tear ducts have managed to prove you wrong. 

Does it even matter anymore?

You’d left the bathroom door wide open. 

Were you worth it?

You’d been home alone – past tense.

A more durable mind, a more capable suit of skin to occupy.

A soft gasp of your name has you microscopically lifting your head from the toilet seat. You know what the scene looks like; it looks like nothing more than the excuse you’d used. You look as though you’re ill, like you’ve been spilling your guts across the bathroom floor all night. 

If you had been, would it all feel a little less heavy? 

“Hey, Eds.” 

You’re tired. You’re exhausted. Your voice is nothing more than a drag of a whisper as you look up at your anchor standing in the doorway, his face painted with concern. 

Maybe you were an anchor – maybe being an anchor wasn’t a good thing. After all, what use does an anchor have beyond weighing down the ship? 

“Jesus,” he mutters as he rushes to your side, falling to his knees carelessly as his hand flies out to brush back tendrils of your hair, “You look like shit.”

You felt like shit. 

Selfishly, you lean into his touch, desperate for comfort. Desperate for those caring palms to soothe the ache you’d carried since birth. Desperate to hear him tell you that you’re wrong – hands to promise you that you’re worthy, fingers to wrap around your bones rather than these burning ropes. You’re bloodied and raw, fully on display, and you just want to be okay. 

You don’t want the bridge. You want Eddie. You want him to magically make it okay, and that’s unfair. 

You’re not his weight to carry, not his burden to shoulder. 

After far too long of a silence, one in which he sits patiently in with you, all you can really reply is a broken, “Yeah.” 

Immediately, he knows something is wrong. Because of course he does. 

Because he’s a good friend. He’s a good person. He has the right words more often than not, and his hands were always formed to heal rather than injure. Create rather than destroy. Those warm palms are made to hold the space he’s earned in the grand scheme of the Universe, and it almost makes you nauseous as the jealousy spreads. 

He’s good. 

And you’re simply rotten.

You used to lie to yourself and say it was simply one rotted bit amongst plenty of good, but tonight, it all seemingly comes to clarity. You can’t dig out the bad, cleanse yourself of the rot, because it’s all decay. 

You don’t have to let the pit consume you – it already has. You were born with it, and it had swallowed you whole from the first cry that had ever left your lips. 

He makes himself a bit more comfortable, and you almost feel bad for reducing him to nothing more than the bathroom floor, “You wanna talk about what’s really wrong?” 

“I’m sick.” 

“This isn’t just some stomach bug.”

Your throat begins to tighten again, and suddenly, his gentle touch across the crown of your head burns. Your eyes water ferociously, and your chest caves into itself.

You can’t make a better body or a more sound mind out of the mess you’ve become. You can’t pull gold from tarnished rubble. 

Confessing to him will only be handing over something heavy, something terrible, that he shouldn’t have to struggle with as well. But not offering him a sliver of the truth almost feels more dishonoring. 

“Do you ever feel like a waste of space?” you croak, leaning back, finally accepting that the small space of the toilet that had been cooling your face has gone warm. Another thing you’ve ruined, in hindsight, “Like, this world is filled with great people, and I just… I just, I’m taking up the space- I’m wasting the space-” 

You can’t get out the proper words. You don’t know how.

How do you say you want to cease to exist when you’re not really sure if that’s the truth? You’re miserable, and you’re selfish, and you’re not entirely sure your feet would have ever left the pavement if you had driven yourself to the bridge. You’d be too scared to do it.  

Too scared to miss the day that science announces it’s found a cure to all your rot, a miracle drug to erase the pit, a way to reverse all the damage you’ve been comprised of your whole life. 

His brows furrow and his hand stops all the calming movements, “What? Are you- are you saying you feel like a waste of space?”

It feels silly to admit it to other people. To try and describe how it all feels. Like a child trying to convince their parents the Boogeyman is real, you have to make him see that you’re right. You have evidence, you have proof, and it’s not just a feeling. 

“I don’t feel like I’m a waste of space,” you finally correct, both yourself and him, “I know I’m a waste of space.” 

“Bullshit.”

“Eddie, don’t-”

“No,” he cuts you off. And somehow, in only a way that he’s capable of, it’s not offensive, “You’re not. I’m not going to sit here and listen to my favorite person claim they’re wasting space-”

“I am!” It’s your turn in the cycle of interruption. You pull away from him entirely, chest heaving with the weight presenting itself once more, tears starting to fall all over again. You can’t even distinguish where the old tears stop and the new ones begin, “I really am. All I seem to do lately is just exist. And that’s such a- such a- that’s such a waste. I can’t read any of the things I should enjoy these days, I can’t even write. All of the words feel like they just come out wrong. I’m letting everyone down left and right, I’m never living up to whatever pedestal you’ve put me on. I don’t even know what I’m doing with my life. I don’t even know where I’ll be in a year from now – I can’t even see that far in the future.”

Heaves become sobs, and the crumbling has begun once more. A cycle of breaking, a cycle of demolition. Even leaving behind the rubble feels like a crime. A waste of space. 

“I don’t think I’m a good person,” you manage to spit out between all your visceral reactions, “Every year, I tell myself the same thing – I’ll be better, I’ll be kinder, I’ll be worth it. And every year, I fail.” 

Can he see it? All the fractures and splinters and pits and metaphors? 

Can he smell it? All the rot and the destruction and hopelessness?

Can he feel it? All the pressure? 

Through your sniffles, you press your back to the tub, knees to your chin as you wrap your arms around your legs, desperately trying to shrivel up. To take up less space. To waste less space.

“I used to think I could make up for it,” you whisper, “I could offer people things that made them forget I’m… so useless. But I don’t think I’m even capable of that anymore.”

If he’s about to respond, it’s drowned out by your cries. You press your eyes hard into your kneecaps, until you see stars, and you try to swallow down all the embarrassment. Try to stop all the hurt from spilling out, to stop all your guts from painting the bathroom walls. 

He could simply sit there, let you wallow in your misery alone. Sit and stare as the artwork finally serves its purpose to the visitors of the gallery. Maybe jot down some commentary on how with your bones all spread out like this, the point the artist was attempting to make becomes oh so clear. 

And yet, he doesn’t. 

You know it’s his arms that are wrapping around you, pulling you from the chill of the tub and into the warmth of his chest.  And you let yourself smother within the fabric of his shirt the same exact way in which you’ve convinced yourself you smother everyone around you, let yourself breathe in drugstore cologne and his last cigarette rather than think about all the thoughts that had been spiraling you into dismay over the last twenty four hours – over the last twenty four years. 

He’d probably been smoking while waiting on your call tonight. Probably riddled with anxiety, if the shake of his hands pressing into your back are anything to go off of. An anxiety and waiting game that wouldn’t have to exist if you didn’t exist.

The thought makes you cry harder. 

If a ghost dies, can it even still return back as itself? Can it still find it within itself to haunt empty hallways, and watch the ones it once loved find peace?

“You’re not useless,” it sounds as though Eddie might be crying as well, if not just a little choked up, “You’re not- I swear- You’re not useless, okay? Never have been, never will be.”

His murmured words are nice, but they fuel an unimaginable guilt. It was supposed to be a nice night. A night of movie marathons and midnight coffee, of trying to remind yourself why you still stick around. A moment of incomparable joy and sweet reprieve as your stomach ached from laughter, your cheeks swelling with an infallible grin that Eddie always seems to pull out of you.

There’s no smiling, no giggling, right now. Just his favorite band shirt from the show you two had attended a few years before, soaking with a fast-growing stain from all your tears. 

When you don’t answer him, only manage to wrap your selfish arms around his waist, he continues, “How long have you felt this way, sweetheart?”

And if you hadn’t already been shattered previously, that would have finally broken you. 

You can’t pinpoint when it started. You can’t clear the smoke of memories and find an exact moment that you can point to and say, there. That’s where the hurt starts — that’s where the rot starts. 

“I don’t know.”

In your mind, it’s a wail. Loud and ferocious, efforts of all it has taken to withstand the pressure of your undoing screamed out loud. 

But on this quiet bathroom floor, it can’t even be considered a whisper. Nothing more than the spoken words lingering from a ghost who can’t give up the haunt. An echo of a memory, an echo of the piece in you that can’t let go, not yet.

Not of existing, and not of him. Your fists hold him so firmly against you, you’re scared that you’re going to bruise him. Hurt him just from the sheer effort of trying to show that you love him. 

The only way you know how to love – a violent dog who will always bite the kindest hands. Leaving behind bloodied knuckles even if you hadn’t so much as snipped this time. 

You take a sharp breath, aware of the levity of the words you’re about to say, “I don’t want to exist anymore, but I wouldn’t even make it off the bridge if I tried.”

It’s not about the bridge anymore. In all likelihood, it wouldn’t be the bridge you turn to. There’s a grand metaphor somewhere in the admittance, but your mind is just too tired to try and paint a prettier picture of it for him. 

Because exist is just a placeholder. And there’s a bigger, scarier word that should stand in its place. 

He starts to break the hold, and you nearly sob out again just at that. Losing the warmth of his chest and arms strike pain somewhere deep within you, just north of the pit that’s devoured all that’s left of you. 

“Bridge?” Phrased as a clarifying question, but when you see his face, it’s clear he knows. There are no good words left to say about it, “Sweetheart, no.”

There are worse reactions to be had. More scenarios that end in slamming doors or deafening silent treatments. Realizations that you’re right and it’s not worth it – defense mechanisms that involve them leaving first. 

“I couldn’t do it, even if I want-” 

Even if I wanted to. The words you can’t speak, dying on your tongue. 

Do you want to? Where does the pain begin? And where could it end?

“You really don’t see it, do you?” he laughs humorlessly, his hands still gripping your biceps in a death hold, “You… you just…” 

He doesn’t know what to say, and you don’t blame him. You knew this was heavy; you knew this isn’t the type of bomb to drop on someone you love. 

But if you didn’t, where would the bomb have gone? You’re not equipped to detonate it. You’re not equipped to survive the explosion. You wouldn’t want to survive that explosion. 

“I’m sorry,” your words pour out, beginning to shake beneath his palms, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” 

Dry, cracked lips feel as though they nearly split from the apologies. More violence, more devastation, more of what you always knew you were. You can see it in his eyes – you’re dragging him down with you, right down to the bottom of the ocean. You’re being an anchor. 

He’s all stutters and harsh breaths, panic filling the space with your own as his eyes search yours, “Don’t apologize. You don’t have to apologize. Just-”

He cuts off and is pulling you close again. Slamming your bones into his, wrapping up around you as if he might be able to keep you safe from the world. From your own mind. 

“I don’t need apologies,” another squeeze of your closer to him, another attempt to pull you away from the dangers that lie within, “I don’t- I just… Can I help? How do I make it better? Just say the word. I’ll do it.” 

It’s not your job. That’s not your job. 

You don’t realize you’ve said the words out loud until he’s squeezing you so tightly that you now can’t breathe. Until all you are is him. All his old t-shirts he’s lent to you that hang in your closet, all the nights spent with tangled legs as you sit across from each other on your couch, all the phone calls in which he refused to be the first one to hang up. Cologne that is too cheap to be able to cling so ferociously as it does to all your surroundings, chain-smoked cigarettes you always chastise him for because they’re gonna kill you one day, the smoke of his latest blunt resting in an ashtray as his head finds home in your lap. 

All the inside jokes. All the hugs. All the simple texts, if for nothing more than to just check in on each other. The broken reminders of having someone out there that cares. That loves you. 

How can such rotten hands pull such love from others? How have you yet to infect him? 

“I know it’s not my job,” he finally says, and you know for a fact he’s crying along with you before the first of his tears have wet the crown of your head, “It’s never been a job. You’re not a job. Okay? Get that through your head. There’s- Fuck, there’s plenty of things I wanna drill in that pretty little head of yours right now, but I know I can’t, so just get that.”

He’s trying. A little trill of his tongue that falls a bit flat when he refers to your pretty little head, a brief squeeze of your shoulders as he tries to relax a little. He wants to make you feel better. He wants to make it better. 

But he’s still holding you like he’s terrified. You did that – you instilled that fear. 

“I’m a mess,” you whisper in bitter realization, ash on your tongue as you process what you’ve done. You’ve already apologized, but you’re seconds away from doing so again, “I’m- I’m a mess, and I’m dragging you into it, and I’m sor-”

“Stop being sorry.” Definitive words, no room for argument. The smallest of shifts as things click into place. He isn’t budging – he isn’t letting go, “Do you remember when I first met you?” 

You can’t tell if the question is meant to have a point, or if it’s meant to be a distraction. You let it grow into the latter.

“Yeah,” you breathe out against him, melting into his chest, trying to focus on his voice rather than the ones in your head, “But tell me about it anyway?” 

“Two years ago. Technically, two years and seven months,” he starts in the same voice he used to take on during Hellfire sessions, before the members had scattered from coast to coast and his D&D club only became a rarity when the stars aligned. There’s still a crack to his voice from his tears, but that doesn’t stop him, “We were in some cursed fucking diner we don’t even go to anymore, in the dead of the night, and all the servers knew your name and order,” he paints the picture with a humor that should feel out of place, but it settles some of your breathing. Omitting all the vivid details, opting for triggering the memory with words you’d just get. You can feel the stick of the plastic beneath your thighs, you can smell the grease of the kitchen. You can see the cloudy night out of the oversized windows. He’s a natural born storyteller in the most subtle of ways, always knowing his audience, “You were sitting all alone in that booth, and all of Hellfire had just left. Gareth had just told us how he was going to college in California – did you know that?” 

“I didn’t.” 

“Well, he did,” his chin presses against the top of your head, a huff of a laugh escaping him, “Dropped the bomb it was our last summer as a club probably. We were happy for him, though. Real fucking happy. Got milkshakes to celebrate and made plans to get drunk off our asses the next night to keep the party going. It was dumb, and I’m getting off track, but…” 

Baited breath, you’re waiting for him to continue. No thoughts of the bridge. No thoughts of your failures. Living in a small memory with him on the floor of your bathroom. 

“Anyways, you were sitting there all alone, with a plate of fries and ranch.” 

“Oh, God,” your nose scrunches and you try to pull away, suddenly remembering how embarrassing this memory ends for you. It suddenly didn’t seem like the best way for him to make you feel better by any means, “No, I remember how this story ends, and-”

“I’m not done,” he locks his arms around you, and you can feel the whisper of a smile as it brushes against your temple, “Obviously you know where I’m going with this, but I’m not done, sweetheart. Because all the other guys had just left, and I’m sitting there, realizing the only other customer was some random person over across the diner, scribbling away in some notebook. Thought you looked cute when you were all focused like that, y’know? But then you were so focused that it became distracted, and you spilled that ranch all over yours-” 

“Please, stop.”

You’re laughing through the words, weakly, the air of desperation in the word please being far different from earlier in the night. No bridges, no failures. 

“I was probably being a weirdo, trying to run over and help you or whatever the fuck I was trying to do. I probably made it worse, right?” 

You’re there, remembering a version of Eddie that was a stranger, taking napkins to the knees of your jeans and smearing the ranch rather than really helping you clean it up. “Yeah, just a little bit.” 

“Sorry for that, by the way,” he airily apologizes before continuing, “But I just remember thinking about how focused you were on that notebook. And how you laughed with the waiter. And how you were just… lost in your own little world. And how you were so cute. You were so nice. The type of person I wanted in my life. Took one look at you with that ranch all over your lap and thought, huh. I want to get to know that person.” 

“Nice? I was not nice, I was-” you cut off, heart all but stopping as you recognize the point of it all. It wasn’t meant to just be a distraction. He was making a point. “I was a… a mess that day.” 

“Exactly.”

He pulls away again, and this time, it’s a little easier. The world has put a pause on its ending and you can handle the weight of his arms lightening for a few seconds, just so he can get a good look at your face. 

“You were a mess the day that I met you, and I still wanted you in my life,” he says each word deliberately, not breaking eye contact. Fear has broken through to determination. “And even if you’re still a mess today, I still want you. Nothing changes. You get that?” 

No bridges.

No failures.

The weight of it all had been heavy. The type of sorrow you thought was never meant to be carried by more than your own two hands. But he had taken it in his palms, lifted it from you entirely, even if it would only be temporary. One day you’d have to endure the pain again, get to the root of the problem. Figure out if all your ailments had been something wired into you since birth, or things you’d picked up along your way. But for now, you could breathe again. You could hear the drumming of your heart in your ears, and you could hear every single one of both yours and Eddie’s breaths in the silence, and that was enough. 

“I don’t want to die,” you finally quietly admit. Saying one of the bigger, scarier words. The thing you’d been too afraid to let slip off your tongue originally. “I just- sometimes it all gets a bit loud, you know? And I know you said don’t apologize, but I am sorry that I scared you. And I’m sorry that you have to take the bad to also get that little bit of the good with me.” 

His hand leaves one of your arms for the first time since he’d first wrapped you up, and it finds its way to cradle the side of your head. Holding you as if you’re porcelain still. You know that won’t go away, not tonight. “I’d rather have your bad days than have nothing at all,” he chokes up once more, and you can see tears threatening to welt in his eyes, “You get that, too. Alright? You’re worth it. Bad, good, funny, sad – give it to me. I’m asking for it. Just don’t… don’t leave me with the nothing.”

You’re worth it. 

He’s found a worth in you attached to nothing at all. He’s sitting here with you, on the bathroom floor, and his perception of you has nothing to do with what you can only offer. 

It just has to do with you. He sees you, and he’s decided you’re worth it. Even now.

He smiles softly, as if he can see the realization dawning upon you, “You wanna get up off the floor now? We can go sit on your couch or bed or something.” 

You’re quick to shake your head. Your knees are partially digging into his thighs, your breaths are matching his. 

“Okay,” his face falls slightly, but not entirely. Not entirely, “That’s okay. Do you want me…. Do you want me to go?” 

Another shake of your head. But this time, you need to offer more than just the motion of your head, especially when you can feel tears returning as your throat tightens up, “No. No, just- Stay with me? Please?” 

Your hands reach out without you even processing it, gripping his wrists, desperate and clinging and still verging on the edge of violent. The thought of being alone is terrifying, but the thought of having to watch him walk out of this room is even more petrifying. 

He doesn’t even flinch as you sink your claws in. His smile only returns, and he shuffles to pull you both to hold your backs up against the wall across from the toilet, “Of course. I’ll stay, sweetheart. I’m not going anywhere – wouldn’t even dream of it.” 

His words shake just a little less than they had when he’d first entered the room. 

He can’t fix it all magically. That isn’t his job, isn’t his role, isn’t his choice. But he can sit here with you, on the floor of the bathroom, endlessly patient and tragically caring as he urges you to lay down. He stretches his legs out and pats his lap once before hovering his hands over your shoulder, guiding you until your temple is flush with his thigh. 

He can choose to not hesitate as his fingers immediately push through the baby hairs by your temple, a soft hum in the back of his throat that sounds exactly as you feel.

Hesitantly content. Just for now. It’s enough. 

The storm is receding. As hours pass by, and noises of uncertainty become more confident hums of a song you faintly recognize, it all settles. He stays. You stay. The storm passes for the time being, and the hole tempers itself for just the night. 

It’s enough for now. You’ll worry more tomorrow, or the day after, or the day after that. You’ll talk more about why you feel this way, and he’ll offer better solutions. The weight won’t simply be passed into his waiting hands and forgotten – one day, you’ll find a way to lighten it through dissipation rather than through catastrophe. 

One day, the seas will calm, and you’ll find yourself the ship rather than the anchor. 

And the captain can be the boy who sits on the floor with you through the sadness, content to wait out the storms with you until you find the worth he sees in you.

[bittersuitejacobs]

• an unhealthy obsession • Nate Jacobs •

two. the slate cleaned

Summary: In which Ophelia spends the first day of school realising that she is both far more noticeable, and completely unrecognisable to friends and peers alike.

Warnings: obsessive behaviours & stalking.

A/N: 2422 words. this continues to be self indulgent and possibly messy, also just as a warning, but Ophelia is not necessarily a good person, the warnings for this chapter are about her. please let me know what you think!! :)

{ masterpost }

THE TAGLIST IS ALWAYS OPEN ! (just message or comment to be added)

----

So it continues with the pleated skirts and knee high socks and arms full of books and an air of sweetness.

They share several classes this semester - have for years, actually - but if anyone were to ask Nate, he would claim he'd never seen her before that semester started. Ophelia sits at the front of class now, tight sweater and hair in half-up pigtails, but quiet. The aesthetic change had little effect on her academics; she was a good student when she didn't care how she looked, she's still a good student now that she does. Except now she keeps her books in her arms, and backpack that was only really useful as an accessory, rather than in the large thing that had always clung to her before, which had always favoured function over form. The only real change would be her willingness to participate in class, eager to steal the class's attention and get them to notice her, notice the change.

Now, she smiles shyly when others talked to her, and her laugh is one she pretends she hasn't been practicing over summer; pretty, musical, dainty.

Befriending Jules, and by extension Rue, wasn't at all part of the plan, but it was a pleasant side effect. It had been a long time since she'd had a proper friend offline. Now she had two.

Jules is in her first class of the year; art. Initially she doesn't quite recognise Ophelia - something about the hair and the makeup and the shirt at the party seemed so different, she'd said - but lights up once Ophelia jogs her memory. When she asks about the bandage on Jules' arm, the blonde rolls her eyes, tells her about how some drunk asshole threatened her while Ophelia was in the bathroom, so she'd grabbed a knife and threatened him right back before making a spectacle of herself and practically fleeing.

"Rue patched me up, though," she giggled with a faint flush; Ophelia knows what the early stages of a crush looks like, and there's something endearing seeing it on Jules' face now.

Ophelia knows about Rue in kind of a nebulous way, which is the same way Ophelia knows about most people in her year. Bookish and desperate to keep her name out of people's mouths when she'd finally gotten to public school in junior high, and for the past two years of high school, she kept mostly to herself, and satisfied her need for a social life online. Even as she grew restless with that, started attending parties, started taking note of the people around her, she put the effort in to making sure they barely noticed her. These people she'd been in close proximity to were still arguably strangers to her.

But that was changing, and she was glad for it.

At lunch, Jules invites Ophelia along to join her and Rue. A proper meeting with someone she'd run into around school for several years, and sat silently beside at a handful of parties; all of which Rue was too high at to ever event notice her presence at all, which worked just fine for Ophelia at the time.

As if proving this point, Rue asks who she is when Jules waves her over, which only confuses the blonde.

"Lia, I told you I invited her to sit with us."

Rue squints up at Ophelia, who happens to know exactly how Rue looks across her various stages of being high, and knows she's seeing it again now.

"Are you new too?" Is the first thing she asks Ophelia, who's sliding onto the bench on Jules' other side. Ophelia shakes her head, Rue hums for a moment, "I kind of recognise you..."

"We used to share study periods on Thursdays," Ophelia prompts, not that she's sure Rue remembers. It's not as if they actually studied together; Ophelia studied, Rue... was there.

"Didn't you used to be a dirtbag?" Rue tips her head to the side, scrutinising Ophelia now. Ophelia, despite knowing that someone may notice, may make the connection and have questions, was still caught off guard.

"Dress like one? Sure," Ophelia shifted a little awkwardly, avoiding looking at Jules and her confused, silently questioning glance.

"Cool," Rue says nonchalantly after a beat, only adding to confirm her name; "Lia?" And Ophelia gave her a sunny smile, nodding.

The only things Ophelia can fit in her backpack are her lunch and her phone. Today, lunch meant two apples she'd bought that morning from the grocery on her way to school. It used to include a packet of chips, of a sleeve of Oreos, always something she could buy on her way, but forfeited them for the sake of her optics of her new look.

"Is that all you're having?" Jules seems concerned.

"I'll eat more when I get home," Ophelia assured. Food was an... uncomfortable situation for her; she always preferred eating at home nowadays. Jules doesn't exactly seem placated, but she leaves well enough alone.

The pep rally at lunch is enough to steal her focus, all of their focuses, actually. Its... a lot. Rue and Jules are caught up in their adjustment at how over the top it is, but Ophelia guides her gaze with intent. The coach and his enthusiasm. Maddie and the cheerleaders. The football team riling their peers up. Nate Jacobs, their captain.

For a moment, as his eyes roam the cafeteria, watching the sea of chaos as it ebbs and flows with the excited shouts of his teammates, his gaze catches on her. There's not even a flicker of recognition in his eyes before he's looking past her, to Jules and Rue, frowning. Ophelia pointedly turns her face, turns her eyes to the cheerleaders, to watch what she felt like she was supposed to, rather than to be caught staring at someone she wasn't.

She'd already been attending football games for most of the last semester, part of her pattern of observation, but she'd always kept close to the back of the stands, out of sight, out of mind. Starting this Friday, she'd make herself far more seen at events.

After lunch, and saying goodbye to Rue and Jules, Ophelia walks into her algebra class and takes the front row seat closest to the window. Others filter in behind her, and Ophelia watches them all with the most mild of interest, appearing to zone out more than anything else. Nate is one of the last ones in, with another footballer behind him, and Ophelia let's her gaze drift away so she doesn't look like she's staring. His gaze slides her her with a casual kind of disinterest, and Ophelia realises very suddenly that he has absolutely no recollection of who she is.

Good. A real fresh start.

Still that day afternoon she still takes the long way home out of habit, music in her ears as she follows the suburban streets. Nate's truck is outside his house when she stops past on her habitual detour; she wonders if he'd already dropped Maddie home, or if they were both here. Of course she could check; the backyard bordering on the Jacobs' residence was owned by a young, busy couple who both worked late, a side gate that was easy to scale, and a front door camera that was easy to avoid. But it didn't feel like something worth bothering with today, so she simply lingered a few houses away as she lit herself a cigarette, and continued the final half hour home.

Considering her change in style, she wondered if she could still keep up the routine she'd developed. Walking past his house wasn't the issue; even if he did see her, it's not like he knows where she lives, or that she's going out of her way for him. It was more that she'd taken to sitting under the bleachers after school on Tuesdays and Thursdays, smoking and sketching and pretending like she wasn't watching football practice. With the new persona she'd created for herself, it would seem out of character if she was seen skulking around behind the bleachers.

Beneath the bleachers was another place Ophelia used to see Rue, though she never stayed as long as Ophelia did. It's not as though they hung out; Ophelia kept to the side, trying to remain as unnoticed as possible, and she has a feeling she often succeeded -

"Ophelia? Lia?" While pondering her plans for that Tuesday afternoon, a voice brings her out of her thoughts during her study period, and Ophelia looks up to see Lexi Howard giving her a confused smile. Immediately, Ophelia beams; she's always been rather fond of Lexi, at least since she'd started high school. A year below Ophelia, but with an air of someone much wiser than anyone have her credit for, it wasn't long before they were friends. Lexi wasn't some vague, nebulous figure in Ophelia's life the way the rest of the school was, she was probably the only person Ophelia genuinely considered to be a good friend. Lexi laughed awkwardly, setting her bag down, "you... look different."

"New year, new me," Ophelia shrugged.

"Really new you," Lexi looked her over, still obviously trying to come to terms with Ophelia's new aesthetic, "I almost didn't recognise you; you look really good," she's quick to assure her. Ophelia ducks her gaze, laughing the compliment off as she asked her about her summer. Lexi seemed to relax at the question, thawing out as she chattered away about the break that had just passed. It hadn't been particularly eventful, apart from learning Rue had overdosed and spent the summer in rehab. Ophelia knew this; Lexi had called her the night she'd found out, and Ophelia had stayed on the call for hours in her hotel in Sweden, heart breaking for being too far away to give her friend proper support, or even a hug.

As much as Lexi had spent the summer worried about Rue, she still enjoyed the time away from school. Most of her time was spent either in her room, or with Cassie and her friends; they liked Lexi well enough, and Ophelia was at least glad she had people around her who were good to her.

They're catching each other up on the shows they'd been watching by the time the bell goes. When Lexi stands, she invites Ophelia over to her house.

"I need to know everything that happened in Sweden," she laughed, "I'm still not entirely convinced you didn't somehow get a concussion," she admits, "you still sound like you, but Lia, seriously, you look like a different person," at least she sounds fond, even if the confused concern is back in full force.

"I haven't got brain damage," Ophelia rolled her eyes, "I just wanted a change," she assured honestly. Lexi holds up her hands, placating, warmth still in her gaze as she lets it drop, insisting that she still wanted to hear about Ophelia's summer in Sweden.

"I'm staying back to do some drawing, work on my proportions and poses, but I'll come over after," it was a usual enough occurrence that Lexi nods, not asking any follow-up questions.

Which is how Ophelia finds herself walking back to Lexi's house with Cassie Howard after football practice. It wasn't on purpose; the cheerleaders also had practice on Tuesdays. From what she'd observed, the cheer team trained in the school's gym on Tuesdays and had the field on Wednesdays when it was free. Watching them on Wednesdays wasn't exactly a regular part of Ophelia's routine the way watching the footballers practice was, but she's no stranger to them. Maddie may not be the main focus of her observational habits, but that didn't mean there was no merit in trying to understand what Nate saw in her that meant he kept going back to her.

And the cheerleaders were talented athletes in their own right; more than a few pages in her art journals were dedicated to trying to capture their graceful, dynamic movements. The cheerleaders actually made far more interesting subjects in that respect.

More than once over the past year, Ophelia had considered trying out for the team. She could probably make it; months spent atrophying in a hospital bed at fourteen had lead to extensive physical therapy, and after years of feeling weak and sickly as a child meant it felt good to move her body like that. Exercise had become a big part of her routine in the last few years, not that anyone would suspect it just by looking at her. But she'd always eventually dismissed the idea. She was sure Nate liked that Maddie was a cheerleader, but she didn't think he liked her because she was one, and Ophelia didn't want to draw any unnecessary comparisons if she didn't have to. If he was going to want her, she didn't want it to be because she reminded him of Maddie.

"I feel like I know you from somewhere," Cassie's voice is surprisingly close behind Ophelia when they're a few blocks from the school, and Ophelia gives a start. It's not the first time they'd technically walked back to Cassie's house like this considering their routines, but it's the first time Cassie's spoken to her. Yes, Cassie does know her, but only as one of her little sister's weird friends.

"Yeah," Ophelia gives an awkward laugh, "we're in the same homeroom, Cassie."

"Oh," Cassie frowns, trotting a little quicker to fall into step beside Ophelia. She's still in her cheer uniform, obviously not having bothered to change after practice. It's a good look on her, "right," as she looks at Ophelia for a long moment, it starts to dawn on her, "wait, aren't you Lexi's friend? You're not in my grade, are you?" At least she's smiling, even if it's disbelieving.

"I've been in your grade since we started high school," but Ophelia let's herself smile as Cassie laughs.

"Shut up, no you're not!" She grins widely, "Lia?"

"I've been to your house many times, Cassie," Ophelia reminds her, and Cassie shakes her head.

"Not looking like this you haven't!" She insisted, "you used to be all emo, didn't you?"

"I'm trying something new."

"Clearly," Cassie looked her over, as if evaluating her, "you're like, really pretty, this is so weird," she finally decided on, meeting Ophelia's waiting gaze with a warm smile.

"Why does everyone keep saying that?" Ophelia laughed, and Cassie gestured broadly to her.

"Look at you!"

"I'm still me," Ophelia insisted with a sheepish smile, heart growing warm with the praise, finding herself genuinely enjoying the company on the walk, "I'm just more noticeable now."

[outerwilds-events]

Well, Campfire Fest was an absolute blast. We had 18 participants and 65 submissions. This is a huge accomplishment that all of you made together! Thanks again to everyone who participated, it wouldn't have been such a great event without you. Major kudos to @noofl, @poisonhemloc, and @sawyer-is-eepy for submitting something for every day of the fest week during fest!

Honorable mention to @unnamedpebble for submitting something for every day of the fest week with the late submission period. Links to each days works are below the cut. If you haven't had the chance to peruse everything you really should. Everyone did such a great job and I continue to be so impressed with how talented this fandom is.

Be on the look out for more information on mod applications and on the winter event!

Day 1: Hourglass Twins, Angst, Slate, Locating the Eye

Tugging the Tether by @sawyer-is-eepy (fic)

Hour Glass Twins Warp Tower by @660percent (art)

Okay Maybe There Was One Death From The Space Program by @poisonhemloc (fic)

A Ship In Need of Repair by @carolkinopf (comic)

Bitter Medicine by @noofl (comic)

broken window by @tippertot (fic)

Campfire Fest 2024 Day 1 by @jellyfish-grave (comic)

Assurances by @merrydock (fic)

The Arrow of Time by @spitzyyyy (fic)

dropped in a canyon (help has now arrived) by @tksfandomhellhole (fic)

Post Feldspar's Disparition Slate by @unnamedpebble (art)

Time Stops for No One by SpaceMange (fic)

Day 2: Timber Hearth, Fluff, Hornfels, Music

Revelations by @sawyer-is-eepy (poem)

Hornfels - The Astronomer by @unnamedpebble (art)

What if Hornfels Didn't Know How to Whistle by @noofl (comic)

If You're Going to Play around a Campfire (You gotta have a Fiddle in the Band) by @poisonhemloc (fic)

Technically Kazoos are after Mirlitons Timeline-wise But by @poisonhemloc (fic)

a favorite of the formerly deceased by @spitzyyyy (fic)

Campfire Fest 2024 Day 2 by @jellyfish-grave (comic)

Child of the Stars by spacemange (fic)

Artistry by @merrydock (fic)

anti-fall tarp by @tksfandomhellhole

Day 3: Brittle Hollow, Hurt/Comfort, Gossan, Warp

Gossan by @unnamedpebble (art)

Gossan by @noofl (art)

Good Thing No One is Watching the Black Hole and About to Freak Out by @poisonhemloc (fic)

Brittle Hollow/Warp by @660percent (art)

warp to me by @tippertot (fic)

Untitled by @sawyer-is-eepy (art)

Campfire Fest 2024 Day 3 by @jellyfish-grave (art)

you're lucky they won't remember this by @spitzyyyy (fic)

Day 4: Giant’s Deep, Humor, Prophy, Sap Wine

Porphy and the Good Stuff by @cobaltbluesu (art)

Small Doodle by @noofl (comic)

This is a Speed Running Strat by @poisonhemloc (fic)

it do go down by @tksfandomhellhole (fic)

Porphy Tasting their Favorite Batch of Sapwine by @unnamedpebble (art)

Humor, Porphy, Sapwine by @jellyfish-grave (comic)

Behold! Sapwine! by @sawyer-is-eepy (comic)

Reflection under stormy green skies by CrimsonQuill086 (fic)

Thanks for Being my Time Buddy by SpaceMange (fic)

Day 5: Dark Bramble, Horror, Solanum, Ghost Matter

Noooo Hatchy by @unnamedpebble (art)

Our Friend with Ghostmatter by @noofl (art)

I Like to Think They are More Salamanders Than Fish by @poisonhemloc (fic)

The Horrors of Basic Biology by @tippertot (fic)

Solanum by @jellyfish-grave (comic)

Horror by @sawyer-is-eepy (comic)

Horror by @sawyer-is-eepy (art)

The Day After the End of the World by @tksfandomhellhole (fic)

Day 6: Space Station, Romance, Hal, Time Loop

White Hole Station by @unnamedpebble (art)

Hal and the Hatchling by @noofl (art)

Space Station by @660percent (art)

Space Station, Hal, Time Loop by @lutiaskokopelli (art)

River Chats by @poisonhemloc (fic)

If You Can't Talk Someone into Being Your Weighted Blanket Homemade is Fine by @poisonhemloc (fic)

Romance by @2isted-chocol8-art (comic)

Hal the Pal by @sawyer-is-eepy (art)

My future is in the forest of the stars by CrimsonQuillo86 (fic)

Day 7: Open Prompts

Time Buddies for the Soul by @unnamedpebble (art)

Don't Worry Guys They're All Fine by @noofl (comic)

Trailblazer 1 by @cobaltbluesu (comic)

Just a Weird AU Started by a Fall Out Boy Song by Fallout Boy (@poisonhemloc) (fic)

Universe by @2isted-chocol8-art (art)

Let's Walk Together by @jellyfish-grave (art)

Final Day by @eldritchcats (art)

Good-bye Campfire Fest by @sawyer-is-eepy (art)

The Divergence Hypothesis by @tksfandomhellhole (fic)

[2isted-chocol8-art]

2isted_chocol8 art Masterpost

-> Outer Wilds

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・

˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗ Illustrations˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗

We reached the end of our journey

Chit chat on Giant's Deep

Time buddies hanging out on Timber Hearth

The Universe Is And We Are

˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗ Comics ˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗

Meet the outer wilds crew!

Tired of the loop

Going fishing

Gosslate + Time buddies art trade

(Fanfic art) Interpolation - All's fine

Are you going into the eye?

˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗ Time Buddies˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗

Time buddies doodles

Time buddies doodles 2

Out Of The Loop AU

Cuddles

Taking Gabbro out of the hammock

Bug buddies

(Comic) Exploring Brittle Hollow

(Fanfic art) Next time - doodles

˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗ Drawing Requests ˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗

Double the Time Buddies

Gabbro and Solanum Chatting

Drunk Feldspar

Slate and Feldspar Are Good Role Models (not really)

Hal and Hatchling Childhood Friends

˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗ Gen Doodles ˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗

All the travelers + (Dlc spoilers)

Misc doodles (Dlc spoilers)

(Fanfic art) Interpolation - 24th chapter doodles

[lullabyalikpoptarot]

BTS Personality Reading

Let's look into the members strongest personality traits they are showcasing at the moment. this is only an aspect of their personality. We are ever evolving and complex creatures, so this doesn't describe them fully. Just bringing some insight to them.

Jin (Hedonist/Knight of Cups rv) -He seems to enjoy the finer things in life. He likes to indulge in good food or fine dining. He tries to find the joy in life. He may also indulge in food to make himself feel better. He is someone who tries to see the positive out of life and tries to focus on the good. Now with the Knight of Cups reversed, he seems a bit disconnected from his emotions. He doesn't really like showing his vulnerable and softer side. I see him being a bit closed off emotionally. I don't see him as being much of a romantic. He is also may be a bit closed off from his intuition as well.

Suga (Destroyer/The Fool) Okay, these two cards kind of tell a story. He is the type that could create chaos to start new beginnings. I am not sure what that means, but that came to me. He is the type that is willing to end things and move past destructive traits. He likes to wipe the slate clean. These cards also indicate to me that he can step into some sh** or crappy situations at times. He can be a bit careless with his actions. He may also have a bit of a temper as well.

RM (Slave/10 of Pentacles) I say he endures a lot to get to the final outcome that he wants. He is tough and resilient. He may have a sense of trusting the universe and letting things fall into place. He is all about investing in the future and building his fortune. There is a sense of family pride, like wanting to make his family proud, to continue the lineage. He likes to appear that he has it all, that is interesting message, that just came to me. He is also willing to make sacrifices to achieve what he wants. He has lots of goals and wants to make lots of money along the way.

Jhope (Exorcist/The Lovers) I don't know, but the first thought when I see this card is he is the type to cut off toxic lovers. He isn't here for that. He is the type to remove himself from toxic situations and people. He likes to keep positive energy around him. I say connections are very important to him. With that Lovers card, he may believe in soul mates. He is also the type to make choices he is passionate about. It seems he goes with his heart. Intimacy is also very important to him as well. I don't see him as the type to make bad choices. He seems to know the right direction and path to take for himself.

V (Engineer/The Moon) He is pretty strategic with his approach to things, sometimes he can be devoid of emotions. He can be pretty matter of fact. He seems to be a good problem solver and has lots of practical solutions to problems. I see him being a very reflective person, especially at night. I wonder if he sits and looks at the moon at night. It is like a time to gather his thoughts. He is a very emotional person, but it does seem like he tries to repress it, but I don't know, it may show up more at night. I feel like with the quietness of the night. He is able to work through his problems and figure things out.

Jimin (Dilettante/Knight of Swords) He is a lover of the arts. He seems to enjoy having hobbies and learning new skills. He might at times be a bit overconfident in his ability to master something, but he is determined to learn new things. He is a communicator. He has lots of ideas, bouncing from one to the next. He is fast on his feet. He keeps his eye on the prize. I just feel he can get heavily fixated on learning something. He might struggle with having fun with it and may take it too seriously. Although, very determined to learn. He may want to learn to let loose, he doesn't have to master everything. This Knight of Swords energy wants to know everything, but sometimes it is better to not have all the knowledge and go in blind sometimes.

Jungkook (Priest/6 of Swords) I am quite surprised by this Priest card for him, not going to lie. This indicates someone religious or spiritual. Someone who can connect with spirit and channel through them. He might be doing some spiritual work. He may be listening to religious/spiritual advisors right now. He may be getting some guidance. Maybe this difficult time has connected him to his spiritual side. He may be trying to find peace within himself. He is someone trying to move past the mental baggage he has. He may hide his emotions behind intellect or repress it a bit. He may be a bit more intellectual.

I am not sure how great this was, because I kind of struggles to word this with their energies. This took me longer, than most groups. I had difficulty pinpointing their personality traits, not sure it is because their energies are distracted, which makes sense. Jin and Suga weren't that hard, but the others man, it was a struggle. Anyway, hope you got something from this.

[oftenwantedafton]

Secret Smile - College English Professor/Vampire Steve Raglan x Female College Student Reader

Chapter 1

Rating - Explicit

Warnings - nothing explicit in this chapter

Summary - Your freshman year of college begins with a last minute transfer into an evening session of English Literature 101 with Professor Steve Raglan.

From the moment you first meet, the man puzzles you. Challenges you. Invites you to bring him the words you’ve never shared. Promises you something darker in every secret smile.

Also available on AO3

English Literature 101 - Steve Raglan

That’s the class you’re sitting in this semester. Evening slot, surrounded by non traditional students. A schedule conflict brought you here. A last minute change. You’ve already missed the first three classes. You think you must be the youngest person here, glancing around nervously at a sea of foreign faces. These are people that have stayed home to raise children; people who have had second thoughts and are switching careers. You are neither. You are just starting out, still an undeclared major, adrift in that vague notion of a liberal arts education.

You decide to occupy a spot in the back corner, waiting for the instructor to walk in. The door opens and the chatter among the students becomes subdued.

The middle aged man that enters the classroom is tall, his impossibly long legs carrying him in a brisk stride to the front of the classroom. He places a leather briefcase that looks ancient on the desk along with a couple of books and some papers. You see white threaded through the darker hair, especially at the temples and running through a neatly trimmed beard. The gold framed aviators he’s wearing have eased down the bridge of his nose and he pushes them back up with a gesture that looks like he’s done it hundreds of times, an absent, impatient adjustment. The bowed head lifts and his eyes meet yours.

You freeze, your breath held. There is something in that look. A predator targeting its prey. Piercing light slate blue eyes trap you. A slight twitch of pale lips. Amusement? You don’t know what to call it. Had you thought him middle aged because of the marbling in his hair? His skin is smooth, unblemished. You cannot mark his age by these aspects of his appearance alone. It is something in those eyes. In that weighted stare.

“Welcome back, everyone. I understand we have a new student joining us. Why don’t you introduce yourself?”

Oh God, not that. You hated having the spotlight on you. You stammer your name and your major. Apparently that satisfies the English instructor and he begins the lesson.

You hate being forced to read. You don’t mind reading; quite the opposite. You just don’t like being told what books to enjoy. How you’re supposed to feel about them. Maybe that wasn’t the theme the author had intended to present. Maybe they just wrote out of boredom and it somehow accidentally became popular. You didn’t think anyone should be able to dictate an individual’s response to literature.

The instructor’s voice is unusual, a combination of a harsh rasp that makes you wonder if he’s a smoker and a slightly nasally intonation to some of his words. It’s not unpleasant, just different. You’re focusing more on the sounds of the words than the words themselves and you belatedly realize people are gathering into groups to discuss the last several chapters that had been assigned.

“Would you come up here, please?” Steve’s sharp eyes find yours again.

You slide out of the chair and make your way to the front of the classroom. He drags an empty chair over next to his and you both sit down.

This close, you now learn there is a distinct scent to the older man. Also not unpleasant. Not cologne, not soap, something else. It reminds you of a candle recently extinguished, of smoky reeds of incense, of damp earth after summer rain.

The long sleeved striped shirt Raglan is wearing doesn’t quite reach his wrists. You see surprisingly willowy joints and lines of fine dark hair. There are tiny diamonds printed on his tie.

“I have a copy of the syllabus here for you. You’re going to have to put in some extra work to get caught up to the others. I don’t typically allow students to join this late into the semester.”

The stapled packet of papers that you assume must be the syllabus still sits on his desk, trapped beneath his long fingers.

“I’m sorry. Something happened last minute and—”

“I’m not interested in excuses. I need to know if you can do the work. If you are worth the investment of time, as it were.” That twitching smile reappears. A canine pokes from beneath his top lip. Very white and very sharp looking.

“I’ll get caught up.”

“We’ll see.”

You reach for the syllabus. He keeps it imprisoned and you tug futilely, letting your hand drop.

“Give up that easily, do you?”

He was…testing you? What was with this guy? You glance back at the rest of your classmates, but no one seems to notice the scene unfolding in front of them.

“No.” You reach again and this time his fingers lift to brush yours in the briefest graze that could certainly be considered accidental, except you know it isn’t.

“Why undeclared?”

“What?”

“Your major. You’re that indecisive?”

You hesitate. “I don’t want to choose the wrong career path.”

“Plenty of people return to school. The group behind you is evidence of that. There’s more to it than that, isn’t there?”

You chew your bottom lip. “I know I’m supposed to pick something practical. Something that I can support myself with. That doesn’t line up with my interests.”

“Which are?”

“I mainly enjoy writing.”

“What type of writing? Journalism or…No. Creative writing, isn’t it?”

You nod. How had he guessed correctly?

“And why don’t you think you can make a career of that?”

“I don’t want to teach. And there’s no guarantee I’d be successful. It’s too much of a gamble. I just regard it as a hobby.”

“Times are changing. There are a lot of self published authors out there now.”

“It’s too risky.”

“So you’d rather be miserable doing something you don’t enjoy simply because it ‘pays the bills’.”

“That’s kind of how the world works, isn’t it?”

“You’re awfully cynical for someone so young.”

“You’re awfully judgmental towards someone you’ve just met.”

Steve leans forward. “There it is. A little spark. Not completely resigned to your fate then, are you? I think you’re destined for something more.” The chair creaks as he eases back again. “I’ll give you until the end of the week. Come to my office on Friday evening. The hours are posted there.” He points to the packet you’re holding.

You flip through the pages. “I can’t do Friday evening, I’m working. Do you have anything during the day?”

“I never work during the day.”

“Why not?”

Another smile. Both canines exposed, both equally sharp. “The night is what I’m accustomed to. If you can’t do Friday you’ll have to be ready that much sooner on a different night. No excuses. Understood?”

You nod, about to stand when he halts you, fingers curling around your wrist, blocked from view by the desk, if anyone had cared to look. “Bring me something you’ve written. A sample of creative writing.”

“I don’t write for other people. It’s just for myself.”

“Well. Add that to your assignment then. You’ll write something for me. Yes?”

“I’ll try,” you manage evasively. His touch is warm, firm, unyielding.

“Try very hard.” The manacle of his hand vanishes abruptly and he stands, addressing the classroom once again. You return to your seat.

You can still feel his fingers on your skin.

***

The coursework piles up that week.

You struggle to keep up but you’re determined to finish getting Raglan’s assignment done at the very least. The reading that is; you’re still not comfortable with the idea of sharing your personal writing.

Even more uncomfortable with the man himself. He’s attractive, but intimidating. You can’t tell what he’s thinking; he seems to be able to read you like an open book. His smiles that border on condescending confuse you; even more so when they soften to something secretive, amused. You’re not in on the joke. You don’t understand.

You manage to swap shifts at the coffee shop you work at part time and now find yourself outside your English professor’s office door that Friday evening. The rest of the building—a house that has been converted to offices, actually—is empty. Most of the teachers and administrative staff have left for the weekend. You’ve arrived a bit later than you’d intially intended. It’s already dark outside.

You inhale deeply and knock on the door. You hear Steve’s voice beckoning you inside.

“Come on in. Have a seat.”

The office is small, crowded. Lined with shelves of books. The furniture looks well worn, like the battered briefcase he uses. A single hardbacked chair is positioned before his weathered desk.

You sit. He folds his hands and rests his chin on them, regarding you. The silence lengthens. You squirm and clear your throat.

“I finished the reading assignment. I’m all caught up.”

The hands relax, no longer supporting his bearded face. “And the other?”

“I wasn’t able to.”

“You’re lying.”

“Excuse me?”

“Why are you so afraid of someone reading your writing?”

“I’m not afraid. It’s just…it’s mine. It’s personal. Not meant to be shared.”

“Yet you want to do this for a career.”

“No. I told you. It’s just a hobby.”

He removes his glasses and sets them down on the desk, the frames still unfolded. “Do you want to pass this course?”

You frown. “Yes. And I’ve done what you asked. I got caught up. I switched shifts to be here tonight.”

“You didn’t do everything I asked, though.” He rises, moving around the desk. The desk lamp throws his shadow, dark and menancing on the rows of books.

“You can’t make me. That’s not anywhere in the course description. The course name is English Lit, not Creative Writing. I can go to the Dean and…”

“And what? What will you tell him, exactly?”

“That you’re making me do extra work.”

“Maybe I see potential and I’m trying to foster it.”

“Harassment.”

He barks a short laugh. “Harassment? What have I done to harass you?”

You swallow nervously. “Touching my wrist in class, for one thing…”

“My dear, that is not a touch.” His fingers wrap around the metal armrests of the chair you’re seated in and he leans towards you. That smell from before is heavy in your nostrils. “Would you like to know what a touch is? Hmmm?” His face moves so his lips are beside your ear. “When you have crossed a century. When the only dawn you see is one printed on a page or captured on a screen. When the stale blood that circulates with the beat of an immortal heart is invigorated by another, gifted, teeth in skin, that is the touch I speak of. How fast your own heart is beating…”

Your breath rasps. This cannot be real. He cannot be real.

“You will give me new words. Transcend the tedious mediocrity and monotony of an ephemeral existence.” He sinks a hand into your hair and pulls your head back, exposing your throat. “Do you want to know what it is to be truly touched? A brush with eternity?” You feel his lips dust over your throat. The points of his upper cuspids scrape over your skin. The line of your pulse is drawn for him along the arch. Your eyelids flutter. His scent is all around you. The fragrance of forever. Unyielding earth and undaunted metal. “How strange evolution is. Once canine teeth were a sign of prowess, lending dominance when choosing a mate; then withering away over time to more gentle points. Working quite in reverse when I was granted a gift of everlasting life.” Another soft kiss, a gentle counterpoint for what is to come.

His voice and his scent have you spellbound, captive. You cannot move. Sharp fangs pierce your flesh. The pain is there and gone in a flash. His mouth seals wetly against your throat. Pulls at you, drinking from you. He moans at the taste and it vibrates along your skin. A new frequency.

The hand tightened in your hair eases; the sucking pressure abandons your neck. There is a trail of crimson leaking from the corner of his bottom lip. A bloom of color in his cheeks. Mouth no longer pale. Your color, now on him. Inside of him.

Just enough to satiate. Decades of practice. So many more years between you than you’d intially thought.

“You will bring me your writing.” He wipes at the blood trail and it stains his beard. “I’ll give you one more day. You’ll return to me tomorrow night. No excuses.” He holds out a hand, offering you assistance to stand. You find yourself needing the support, suddenly lightheaded. You do not protest when he tugs you with more force than necessary, drawing your body against his.

You do not resist when those smirking lips close over yours.

[misticholly]

Hey cultist! Hope I'm not late!

Welcome to my page, where you'll dive headfirst into my current hyperfixation:

Here you'll find fanart, my oc lore, headcannons, and casual fandom-like content on this page. I haven't used tumblr in a few years, so this is a clean slate. If you recognize my artstyle, I have made Lego Monkie Kid content in the past, but as time went on that hyperfixation went away. Now we have the lamb, goat, and cult!

That out the way, Hi, I'm Jinshi. Otherwise any variation of my username is also fine. I'm AroAce and Introverted, but sharing my passion with others makes me happy. I work in spurts and as long as I'm hyperfixated, content will always come. Although college may be a huge obstacle for consistency.

As for the content of this blog, as I am an adult, things won't always be sunshine and rainbows. Although my artstyle is stylized and cartoonish there may be some themes around death, sacrifice, blood, and although unlikely, gore. Which will be tagged respectively with "TW _". Putting the cult in cult of the lamb!

I'm hoping to gain mutuals as well as experience here to continue to grow in my art. I don't do commissions but will set those up soon. Asks are very welcome and encouraged! I can do art request but only if I'm motivated enough to do so. Have a cotl oc? I might just draw them! Thanks for reading this wall of text, hope to see you again soon!

The art I'll be posting will have the date in the image descriptions, and context if not stated in the post. I started playing COTL 8/16 this year just after unholy alliance dropped, and it's had me gripped up ever since. Post will stay consistent until the art I've drawn has run out and I have to make more which can be between a few days to weeks.

This was pretty long, glad you made it!

[canadianartjunkie]

[h-didanart]

Ok so— I’ve had this au idea floating around my brain for a while now, and I wanted to get more art for it done but couldn’t find the time, so, here you guys go—

(Do be warned, this whole concept is like a big criticism of the ‘Bloodmoon can be redeemed by reprogramming’ stance, if you have that stance, cool, you do you, we can have a civilized discussion about it if you want to, just don’t be surprised if you read this and hate it, because if you have that stance and read this, I assure you, you’ll hate this)

Bloodmoon II centered au, yes? After the Takeover they kinda stop being a villain because they refuse to be forced into a role and they’ve always been put as the villain, or something, look they’re stubborn and spiteful that’s the only thing I could come up with. And in this au they didn’t kill KC, so they go live with KC. Cut to 2024 and Eclipse III, Eclipse decides that he too is done with being the villain and also goes live with KC (and Bloodmoon), and these developments are good for the Celestial family, but they are still very suspicious of both eclipse themed bots, constantly wondering if they’re truly not evil anymore, questioning their choices, wondering if they should just take the chance to kill them, even KC questions them a bit. All this talk about what it would take for them to be redeemed and be accepted by everyone seemingly gets to Bloodmoon.

So one weekend, KC and the others drop by because Eclipse and Bloodmoon have an announcement or something. KC and the Celestials talk a bit while the others set whatever they’re doing up. While doing this they’re probably still making snide comments about Bloodmoon and Eclipse being so easily accepted back, which KC doesn’t like and shuts down.

And then Eclipse grabs everyone’s attention, and he explains that Bloodmoon had asked him to reprogram them.

Immediately KC is like “what the fuck do you mean by that?!” And Eclipse is like “I’m not done talking”

So he tells everyone that Bloodmoon took their criticisms rather harshly and decided to fully turn good by getting rid of the whole murder and blood thing. This leaves everyone shocked because why the hell would Bloodmoon ever do that? As they’re shocked, Eclipse walks back to the computer Bloodmoon’s plugged at and keeps explaining that the change will set in about a week in case they don’t like it, but it should all be fine since this is what everyone had asked for.

And then he looks at the screen.

And then he swears out loud.

By then, Solar, Moon, and KC were running towards him. Eclipse is kinda freaking out, the two nerd buddies are trying to look over to see what’s wrong, and KC stands worriedly next to Bloodmoon (who’s turned off) Eclipse lets out a groan of exasperation and turns to the others, and he tells them that something went wrong and there’s a chance Bloodmoon’s memory banks might be corrupted (basically they get amnesia)

This freaks them all out even more, they are questioning Eclipse’s morals over doing this, their own fault for having pushed the twins, even wondering if a truly clean slate would actually be beneficial to the twins because of all that has happened.

And amongst the chaos, Bloodmoon wakes up. So starts a week of the Celestials and KC having to look after an amnesiac Bloodmoon who doesn’t act like Bloodmoon.

But it should all be fine, this is what everyone had asked for.

Isn’t it?

[angelofchaos001]

Meet Shale!

Okay I made a proper introductory post for Shale! (Schist will come once I figure out their design) I'll make them a separate post for all the dialogue I came up with.

some spoilers for the game but not a lot, also tagging time: @doodlebug091 @mellow-mooon @sawyer-is-eepy @a-crawling-chaos (Just poking at my followers/moots who I know like Outer Wilds)

Alright! Let's start the bidding at this beauty of a reference. I know it's got some messy colors and no I don't know which layer the two random dots are on to erase them, but I'm proud because I drew this without needing to reference someone else's posing art. I just used my own arms and legs to figure it out and winged it and it looks like a person. I'm proud.

While we're on the topic, I might as well discuss my thought process for their design. This is Shale when they're not busy exploring dangerous ice asteroids. I tried to make the design look comfortable, and that's the main thought behind it. Shale likes scarves. They like fingerless gloves. They like baggier shorts. They despise long pants. They don't like wearing bright colors. They like grays and browns. It's Shale in their peak of comfort.

And then we've got this one! Also done without a pose reference. I actually did draw a whole spacesuit originally, but then covered it up with that big coat they're wearing. Anyway, Shale's suit is designed to be bulky, thick, insulted, everything they'd need to explore space properly. But to add onto that, they brought the scarf and coat for extra warmth on the Interloper. A lot of their patchwork fixes were done by them on the fly, and they even made their viola case all on their own. Shale uses yellow as their bright coloration because they hate the color orange. They have a ton of rope, ice picks, and grippy boots because they knew they were going to an ice place. And that antennae on their helmet is meant to pick up distant signals, so far it has not picked up anything new.

Now it's time for what nobody came here for, the infodump about their history and personality!

Shale developed a fascination with space at a very young age. Extremely young. All it took was young Shale getting one look through a telescope to become completely obsessed with the idea that they, someday, would join the well-known travelers out there and do something legendary. Sometimes, when things lined up right, Shale got to opportunity to talk to the travelers over radio. They loved hearing stories of Feldspar's glory and dreamed to be immortalized like they were.

Once they were allowed to join Outer Wilds Ventures and start learning how to be an astronaut, Shale wasted no time being both a delight to teach and an absolute headache to watch over. Whenever they weren't learning or doing their part in the village (Shale helped keep the observatory clean), they were working on their own little project. With some help from Slate, they attempted to make a jetpack just like the spacesuits had. They got precisely two attempts at this before they were shut down, but the first attempt went off mostly fine. Despite the device not working, Shale landed mostly safely in the water and their only injuries were some scrapes and a sprained ankle.

Shale never stopped writing new ideas, but didn't physically attempt any more jetpacks for a while. Instead, they focused on studying and getting closer to the other trainees they were learning alongside. They did grow close to the protagonist, and another recruit named Tin, though weren't able to click as well with the slightly older hearthians, Schist and Bismuth. Most of their time was still spent with their mentors, but whenever hatchling wasn't working with Hal on the translator, Shale liked to be around them.

When they were a little older and nearing the end of their training, Shale made their second attempt at the jetpack, and came out with a promising result. However, this attempt went far poorer than the previous one. For one, they moved the attempt location to avoid being caught by anyone, sneaking away to some of the further-out geysers with Tin (in case something impossibly went wrong). They even snuck a spacesuit (yoinked from the Zero-G cave), since their plan was to launch from a geyser and leave the planet, just for a moment (They didn't take the jetpack there because the entire point here was testing theirs).

The plan went smoothly, with Shale indeed getting launched from the geyser and coming close to leaving the orbit of the planet, except for the part where their jetpack failed. Catastrophically. It actually exploded on their back, pretty much destroying the "borrowed" suit, but more critically, burning Shale badly. Luckily, they had brought someone else with them, so Tin was able to (try and) catch them so the fall wouldn't kill 'em and then get help for them.

Shale got taken to be medically treated, and everyone agrees they're incredibly lucky to have survived as well as they did. In spite of the massive burns, the suit protected them from the worst of it and it was really only their back that got hurt severely. While the smaller burns along their neck and arms healed fine, much of their back burns scarred and took a lot of time and effort to heal.

So. Obviously Shale got in massive trouble.

Such trouble that not only did they move their launch date back (both for recovery reasons and punishment reasons) significantly, but the others considered forcing Shale out of the space program. In the end, Shale was allowed to stay a recruit as long as they 1) Did not try that again 2) Agreed not to sneak around again 3) Helped repair the suit they'd broken and 4) Spent some time after healing not being in the program (think getting suspended). While in this suspension period, Shale got to watch Schist launch off, still fantasizing about that being them.

Shortly after Schist was Bismuth, and as Shale's own launch date approached they were eager. Tin launched a few days before their own, and so Shale spent a lot of time reassuring them that it'd be fine and they'd do great things. Eventually, it was finally Shale's turn. After camping with Slate (and having an amazing conversation about 'Why did you do the stupid thing' - 'Why did you let me do the stupid thing'), they set off for their ambition: The Interloper. They were determined to find out where it came from.

This ambition proved harder than they'd thought, but it didn't deter Shale from their goal. They became an avid studier of ghost matter by extension of their Interloper studies, and theorized a lot about what happened to the core of the asteroid and it's origins. They also spent some time studying how to make ships designed for deep space, hoping that the frozen Nomai ship they found on the asteroid could hold the answer for that.

Some time later, Tin sent everyone frantic radio messages to come back to Timber Hearth and that they'd discovered something new. Tin desperately tried to explain how they'd found a new hidden spinning disk thing, but as time passed with Tin being unable to provide real evidence, Hearthians began dismissing their claims. Shale was one of the last to give up on Tin's ideas, but eventually waved them off as mad like everyone else. They feel bad for Tin and their situation, but don't disagree with their grounding and truly believe their friend went a little crazy.

After that, some time passed, and then we hit the events of the game. They did radio Hatchling plenty of reassuring words before their launch, though!

[oldguardleatherdog]

The September 11th roleplay consulting post: a gift that keeps on giving.

Hey faithful folks and followers, friends old and new, it's late in the kennel and I've got an early class and should be in bed but wanted to drop a note about the 9/11 roleplay post where I offered to be a consultant for a Discord server reenactment that's picked up more than 100,000 notes since my addition last August.

Seven months down the road, it continues to draw comments and reactions that pop up from time to time in my mentions. A few are designed to work my nerve, of course, but the vast majority are a balm to my spirit. Most are variations of "he had me in the first half ngl", keyboard smashes abound, many make me laugh out loud, and I truly wish Tumblr allowed reactions or direct replies to tags because so many ask me how I'm doing, want to know more (and I still get direct messages about it, which I encourage), and express respect and warmth that makes my heart just want to burst.

I get a lot of grief across social media as a queer activist, especially these days, and my initial foray into Tumblr was marred by a 10,000-person brigading of a stoner post I made that was picked up by some 20-year-old in Scotland of all places who thought it sport to make fun of a 60-year-old pup player with AIDS ("I wish he died in 9/11" is a memorable comment, and I'm afraid I'll never forgive a certain were--something who joined in) followed by a mass reporting that wiped out my queer resource blog (and you can be sure I haven't stopped trying to get it restored)... but the reactions to my toss-off dark humor post as a September 11th Survivor have wiped that slate clean, and my time here is a joy and a blessing and always, always well-spent and worthwhile.

For the record: I'm doing fine. My PTSD is well-treated and rarely troubles me, my performance art and music career has never been more active and vital, and I'm working as a director for a trans rescue organization (www.rainbowpassage.org, please give us a look and spread the word), on the front lines of queer activism where I have always belonged.

I have a beautiful family whom I cherish, my Master and I will celebrate our first wedding anniversary in a week and my 62nd birthday the next day (15 years together on 4/20!), and I treasure each and every one of you. Thank you for reading my various barks and howls, for being a part of my Tumblr journey, and for your presence in my life.

Best woofs always, Animal aka pup bruzr

[cerastes]

It’s great that IS4 will have better distributed and more “fun” oriented intensifiers (called ‘Natures’ in this case, until they release an official term, if they change it). Waves in IS3 were, to be frank, rather shoddily implemented, starting with the way Arts damage gets kneecapped horribly bad. In IS4, it’s instead a general, smaller Damage Reduction for both Phys and Arts.

The Hope handicap in IS3 was the reason a good amount of people didn’t really even try or stuck to People Skills squad: it was too early, too much

3* non-reserves cost 1 Hope. That immediately changes how IS is played at a fundamental level: Kroos 3* is a great addition to any team because of her innate good damage, spinach compatibility, and 0 cost… But is she worth that precious 1 Hope when your 6* mainliners will cost a whooping 7 Hope? Suddenly that Reserve Sniper seems a whole lot better at 0 cost. It’s a pretty big ask at Waves 4: Even if you only consider Waves 7 as the max difficulty for the purposes of scoring, that’s still way early to throw such a huge change into the mix. Nature 6 seems more apt, and note it only affects 4* and up. I think it’s a step in the right direction; at Waves 4, using Reserves is fine, but at Waves 13 and up, by the time enemies receive their Floor 2 buffs, that’s already a stat heft the Reserves will struggle to compete with, and they have no Skill to even the field. Yes, Waves 8 and above is flexing and testing your own limits, but this can and should also be fun, and getting Hope-starved so badly is a huge turn off to a lot of people, so they use People Skills squad. Then they get bored because using anything but People Skills squad on Waves 4 and above means dealing with the Hope drought.

I also would like if they made Natures more apparent in the UI tbh. This is definitely not an HG blunder, but a concerning amount of people didn’t know (maybe don’t know) that there’s a ladder of difficulties in IS3, because AK players hate reading or are allergic to tutorial text or some other phenomenon, so I had plenty of anons saying IS3 was easier than IS2 and in the same ask asking what these Waves I spoke of were.

All in all, I hope IS4 ends up feeling better than IS3. I do like IS3, but it was a bit of a letdown, to be dorothy frank. I think the Seaborn aesthetic was not really used to its fullest (maps are boring slates of light blue with a pretty boring bgm). It was fun grinding out the Week 1 Waves 15 clear, but after that, it didn’t grab me nearly as hard as IS2 did with it’s excellent aesthetic and replayability.

When it comes to bosses and minibosses: IS3 minibosses are kiiiinda mid. IS2’s Golem and Jetman are fun, the Clown was scary depending on your build, the… Shooty dude was mid, and IS3 midbosses feel like him for the most part.

I like Highmore Boss more than Phantom Boss, I think Highmore is a really good boss and map. Last Knight is the single most miserable boss to fight in the game and very boring even when you know what to do, and somehow worse than Big Sad Lock. Ishar-mla is fine, not bad, not very good, just fine, which is a bit of a letdown for me, considering Mouthpiece is one of my favorite bosses in the game. Jury’s still out on Boss #4, hope it’s good, Playwright isn’t phenomenal but he’s good.

My thoughts on the state of IS3. Though these are various criticisms I have for it, I do wish to note: it’s still a fun mode, and I think a great learning experience: balancing a roguelike or roguelite is not easy and it wasn’t as good as I wanted it to be, but it’s still a fun game mode.