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slimeandsadness · 24 days

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Handedness in DanAndPhilCrafts - Slime

A documentation and analysis of the hands that Dan and Phil use in the new Crafts video. Obviously some of this stuff is just due to filming and seating angles, but as with so much else about this video, I think some really interesting things can be intuited from it. Sorry if anyone has already done this!

This whole idea came from a post @lesbaurinkos pointing out that Dan - who's left handed - uses his right hand to sacrifice Phil, and comparing it to this exchange from Glitter Faces:

Phil: If you're left handed, ask a friend. Dan: Why am I left handed? Phil: Everybody makes mistakes.

This implies that there is something wrong with Dan's left handedness, and I've seen some suggest that this is what leads him to do rituals with his right. Others still say that perhaps this shows a transition of some sort, so that he is not the same person. While these are valid and interesting readings, I'd like to put forward a different theory.

Traditionally, the left hand has been seen as sinister (literally the Latin word for left, while the right was 'dexter'), so one would think that Dan's left handedness would actually be a boon for a Satanic ritual. It's a mark of otherness, of queerness, that was historically punished by a Christian society who saw it as deviant and wicked.

Indeed, it isn't just Dan who uses a hand different from his dominant one for ritualistic practice. Although we don't see Phil make the cut on Dan's hand, when he holds the knife, he holds it in his left hand.

Likewise, once it cuts to the next shot, the knife is at an angle that suggests it having been put down from his left.

Dan's wound is on his right hand, and he uses this hand for many of the ritualistic elements to come, including - while still in Crafts mode - anointing himself and Phil in slime and holding the knife while telling us that He wants it 'straight from the source'.

This might be because his left hand is out of action due to all that blue slime on it. How did that blue slime get there? First, a word on the slime itself.

The two slimes serve different purposes. Dan's slime is intended to be a vessel and Phil's will be 'fun to touch'. Thus, while the red slime is only for Him, I would argue that the blue slime is for Them. After all, creativity is nothing without friendship.

That homoerotic hand grab with Phil - which squishes together the friendship slime, the same colour as Phil's eyes, as Dan points out - represents 'friendship' as the other force alongside Him. In this hand grab, Dan's dominant hand becomes covered in slime, leaving only his non-dominant hand for ritual purposes.

Interestingly, Phil is using his left hand here (his ritual hand), perhaps a sign of their differing priorities. I won't go into too much detail here, but I've seen others make interesting posts about Phil doing things for Him, and Dan doing them for Phil. This isn't too important here, as it's Dan's deliberate choices after this about which hand to use that become particularly interesting.

Indeed, after this, Dan draws the sigils on the walls with his right hand, and he also walks into the room to complete the sacrifice holding the knife in his right hand. If his right hand is his ritual hand, this makes sense.

However, and I haven't seen anyone mention this yet, he leaves the room with it in his left hand.

I think this is fascinating, since - as with the cut in Dan's hand - we don't see what happens between these two shots. We hear Phil scream and assume Dan has stabbed him as planned, but we don't get to see which hand he actually wields the knife with. Going with my above thesis, perhaps this is because it is muddy and unknowable to what extent Dan is doing this for Him (the right hand) and to what extent he's doing it for Phil (the left).

We can also view this in contrast with the hand cut from earlier, where the discarded knife indicates that Phil completed the whole thing with his left (ritual) hand.

Dan also has a bloody handprint on his shirt, presumably from Phil in his final moments, and it's a right hand print. This is Phil's 'friendship' hand. Despite Phil's ultimate devotion to Him, during the moment of his greatest sacrifice, it is the deep intimacy of this act between the two of them that is most important.

In the final ritual scene, Dan begins by holding the knife in his right hand (his ritual hand).

However, he then holds it in both hands, just as he holds Phil's heart in both hands a moment later. Both ritual and friendship are working together here, and he continues for the rest of the scene to use both hands to anoint them in Phil's heart's blood.

In the final shot, they are stood in their usual formation (Dan on stage right, Phil on stage left) and they each hold an item of ritualistic significance in their non-dominant, ritual hand. Dan holds Phil's heart in his right hand; Phil holds the knife in his left. What they each hold in their dominant hands is each other.

As a few others have pointed out, the rope of Baphomet behind them also evokes imagery of handfasting. That suggests that this is not just a summoning of Baphomet, but also a marriage ceremony of sorts. They are bound not just to Baphomet, but to each other.

A lot of this is, of course, because of their standard way round of sitting, so that their dominant hands are always between them, but it is fascinating that they made the choice to continue with this motif even once they were roaming free.

This is my final thesis, then, that throughout the video they both use their non-dominant hands for acts of ritualistic significance, while their dominant hands become important for their relationship. This is especially true for Dan, whose devotion often seems split between Him and Phil. Dan's left handedness could additionally act as a metaphor for queerness, so it's especially notable the way that this hand is reserved only for Phil.

Basically:

#dan and phil #danandphilcrafts #dan and phil crafts #dnp #phan #mine #this wasn't going to be an analysis originally #I was just going to log the ways they use each of their hands since I'd seen discussions of it #then I realised I had Thoughts #now mayhap I should get on with writing the two actual marked essays I desperately need to start on #also I hope you're pleased with the meme at the end #I'm really proud of it

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represent-asian · 1 year

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Feeling naughty tonight 😈

#me #gay #gay bear #gay hairy #gay cub #my first super spicy picture #i'm really proud of it #mine #my face

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wanderingmind867 · 3 months

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As I've said before, I'm committed to reading the first 63 Daredevil Comics (if only because I feel like I should since I downloaded them all). I've read Issues #1-21, and Issues #42-57. I've just started Issue #58. I plan to go back for Issues #22-41 later. I'm also not going any further because I like the dynamic of the three main characters (Matt, Foggy and Karen). But I do think I could write down where I'd have preferred the story to have gone after Issue #63. Because I do know what I would have liked to have seem happen. Here's my pitch for my alternate continuation of Daredevil after Issue #63:

I'd do a storyline that would tie everything up in a fairly neat bow, while of course allowing for new adventures all throughout the 70s and 80s. First, I hate how Matt never told Foggy his identity after telling Karen about it. So I'd fix that in my story. I'd also try and explore Matt's mental state. Because this man has three identities (Matt Murdock, Mike Murdock and Daredevil) and he's faked his death twice. There's clearly some deep instability there. Any one thing could probably push him over the edge. So I'd have Karen leave, and have that segue into Matt having a breakdown.

From here, I'd do one big story about Daredevil's greatest foes teaming up to defeat him. And unlike Daredevil Annual #1, my team won't include the matador or the leapfrog (unless they're there in cameo form). My team of villains will include The Owl, Samuel Saxon, Stilt-Man, The Gladiator and maybe someone else (not sure who). I could also use this as an excuse to introduce Kingpin into the Daredevil comics. Maybe he gets involved somehow?

Anyway, the story would either end with Matt, Foggy and Karen together again, or with Karen leaving for a while but promising she will return. She can't stay away from the office forever, after all. Anyways, it would end triumphant and optimistic. And them we could use it as a segue into new stories, since this storyline tied up everything from the past 60-70 issues.

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atonalginger · 5 months

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Starborn Saga Update

I'm so excited to share it!

Rating: Explicit Warnings for graphic violence, explicit language

#atonalginger writes #Starborn Saga #starfield spoilers #starfield fanfiction #Sam Coe #man I'm having so much nervous fun editing and uploading this #I'm really proud of it #thanks for reading!

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starspray · 2 months

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BTS for what your life is?

BTS: I’ll write a DVD commentary about my personal favorite passage from [that fic]

What Your Life Is was so much fun to write! I'd never done anything with Harad before and it was a lot of fun to do some worldbuilding there, and to figure out all the OCs--who they were, what their relationship to one another was, etc. I have a fair amount of notes that never made it into the fic, that I jotted down before I knew where the story itself was going to go.

It's a TRSB fic, for @independence1776's gorgeous moodboard. Fun fact, IIRC said moodboard was made with me in mind because I'd made a joke about having written Maglor being more or less forcefully befriended by smaller and hairier creatures (hobbits twice and Roverandom once) several years in a row for TRSB. I was extremely excited to snag it during claims!

It's very hard to pick a favorite passage but I'm very fond of this one:

"Father also wanted to ask if he can bring the family here before the storm season begins in earnest," said Mathos. "He does not feel it is safe anymore for anyone known to do business with Elves. And he promises to bring extra supplies." "Yes, of course," said Maglor. "You would all be welcome. I'll go tomorrow—" "You can't go!" Nanaia protested. "Haven't you been listening to what Mathos is saying?" Iset demanded at the same time. "I don't plan to draw attention to myself," Maglor said. "Besides, if what Barca told me is true, they all think I walk around dripping blood everywhere." "Huan will draw attention, and you know that he won't be left behind," said Iset. "He drew very little attention when we were there just a few weeks ago," said Maglor, "and I can change both his and my appearance if I must." "You said you couldn't, last time," said Iset. "I cannot shrink him down to the size of a cat," said Maglor, "but I can give him the seeming of—oh, I don't know, a pony or something. If I must. Huan can take care of himself, and I can of course change my own appearance." When Iset still looked skeptical he added, "I have sung the Lay of Leithian for you before. Do you remember Felagund's arts? If he could make himself look like an orc, I can certainly change my hair color." "You are not Felagund," Iset said, in the same tone that Vanna used to scold the twins when they tried to imitate the great heroes of their favorite tales. "No, I am not," Maglor agreed, only barely resisting the urge to roll his eyes. "I am the one who taught him. It just takes more time and effort than I care to expend on a routine shopping trip. This will be different." "You aren't going to go to the temple, are you?" Mathos exclaimed. "Maglor, you can't!" "Everyone around here seems very sure of what I can and cannot do," Maglor said. "I have walked this world for more than three Ages of the Sun, remember, and faced far more serious dangers than a few Men in dark robes who believe they can bring Morgoth back from the Void with a few chants."

Maglor has just learned that the Sons of Elrond were looking for him before disappearing, and both fortunately and unfortunately for him he is surrounded by people who would very much like him not to endanger himself, but who also have been living with him in peace and (relative) safety for a long time, so they don't really know precisely what he's capable of. I love a Maglor who is both competent and confident--he's not very happy about this turn of events, but he's not going to shy away from doing what he has to, especially if Elrond's kids are involved.

I also really like the idea of Maglor having taught Finrod both music and magic back in Valinor, though I haven't done anything else with it.

What I liked most about writing this fic was now unsolitary Maglor is, in a pretty big departure from how he's typically written (and how I typically write him) post-Silm--it was part of Indy's premise with the moodboard, and it was so much fun to write a big complicated household/found family for Maglor to be a part and nominal head of. And I got to make OCs galore! There are a grand total of four canon characters present in this almost 20k word fic, and I think it's great.

#thanks for the ask!#so happy to talk about this fic #i'm really proud of it #meme response

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bari-the-witch · 1 year

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Thinking about putting "Can read smut with a completely straight face in public" on my resume in the future.

#steddie #hellcheer #destiel #fanfic #i'm really proud of it

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sekwar · 3 months

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Concerned with so many things you forget who you really are

This land used to house many gods. They themselves believed only gods occupied this land and not ordinary folk, because civilians had a little bit of godhood inside them: the power to create and destroy. That was all they needed. Usually they would not disturb these gods unless their aid was needed, or if a god asked them. How kind. Life was simple back then, and the people and the gods existed in near-perfect equilibrium. Perfection couldn’t exist, and everyone made sure it was not achieved. Now this may seem strange, but it was a belief everyone held. If you thought that something was “perfect” in every way, you would immediately notice there would always be room for improvement. Things changed, and the gods helped the people adapt.

As time went on, and the land evolved and progressed, so did the gods. Their abilities became more powerful, and they were desperate to hold it all back and only use them when necessary. They would convene in dwellings, discussing the day’s plans like any family. New buildings were erected. The civilians sought out new forms of entertainment. So did the gods. There was so much to do… too much. So when the time had come to converse about what to do next, they began to wonder about the very nature of the world around them. The people’s curiosity needed to be quenched. The ability to take various things and examine them, breaking them down into their essential elements, was only reserved for the gods. They had enough power to make it happen. The right god could perform these miracles in front of everyone’s eyes.

The Lioness took a leaf, sliced it in two, then pressed down on it a little. Collecting the juices, they put it in a crucible, and the heat of a flame from below brought it to a vigourous boil. Collecting the gas in a cup, they held it aloft for all to see. It was colourless, but it smelled of vinegar and pine.

“Behold, the wonders of the natural world, manipulated before your very eyes! The soul of this leaf may have been taken due to my hand, but there is more we can do with. Now, who shall light this vile cloud?” the lioness announced. No god was willing to do this, because they had an inkling of what would happen. This changed when the god with a serpent for a head stood up and ambled his way to the front to take the splint laying before them. He ran it across the ground, starting a flame, then as it made contact with the gas, a small explosion rang out. The audience applauded. They had finally seen someone brave enough to perform the experiment. This was what he wanted to do.

Zagan was a god of many forms, a chimera. Multiple parts to the whole. He had learned “the art” himself and wanted to use it to his advantage. The practice of alchemy had been a longstanding interest for many of the gods, since the Age of Wonder began. Once the word had spread, most of them were trying to outwit each other in a kamikaze race to create the Masterwork. Zagan was not interested in such pointless competitions. He wanted to learn through experimentation and trial and error, as any well-educated alchemist should. Retorts, firestarters, aludels, athanors, and other clay tools were scattered around his dwelling space, all of which he used. Not one piece of equipment was left to fracture in the sun, as the clay got stronger with repeated application. He constantly repeated the same processes, wanting to see how all the substances would react. The rack of substances and chemicals was his pride and joy.

“Zagan, I admire your determination to achieve the Masterwork. Me and the rest of the gods bestow unto you the essences of nature itself, which will be important in your studies. Good luck, and may we bless you forever more.” The ox handed him the containers.

He didn’t care about the finality. He just wanted to see where he could take it. Every day he was fully invested in what he could make out of thin air, out of the materials he had, out of himself. He hoped to make something that the gods would find beneficial, but nobody knows what’s really beneficial to a god. Instead, he went the other way, choosing to get more risky and extreme with his Gesamtkunstwerk, searching for more volatile chemicals; things the rack couldn’t possibly hold. With each explosion and controlled fire, he veered into a hidden side of himself he previously didn’t care about. But now was the time to fully embrace it. He pushed elements past their point of criticality, violently evaporating what minerals he had and producing ominous glowing hues in the night. Whenever he went out, a wide smile was plastered on his curved face, as he told the people how proud he was of whatever he was doing. Whenever they asked what it was, he only used vague terms. Alchemy wasn’t something bound by a rulebook, rather it was something that held its own interpretation for whoever practiced it. Unfortunately for Zagan, this may have meant destroying his surroundings, or even his own body. He didn’t care. His mind was already lost in the process.

“Nigredo, albedo, citrinitas, rubedo! Watch me do my dirty work, for all shall tremble in fear! I am Zagan, the master alchemist of the world! Nobody will stop me until I’ve done what I had to do!” he skipped across the land, maniacally humming to himself. At this time, he was giving demonstrations of what he was capable of, giving short demonstrations to people of various forms of transmutation. He hoped to inspire people to take up the craft, because it would provide them with a lifetime of amazement and discovery. What the people didn’t know was that he had reached a very advanced level, too advanced. The shows he put on were only experiments the people could understand. Years of work had caused him to harness elements the people shouldn’t have been aware of. Zagan was once a simple alchemist, but now he might be able to harness the power of immortality, curing all diseases, or invoking the Midas Touch. Harnessing the total perfection of body and mind was a quintessential goal for him, and the serpent would not be satisfied until he could get to the prize.

When he accidentally left a gold coin in a chemical bath, it turned to copper, a useless metal, only applied to the less important parts of things. At least, that’s what he believed. While carefully trying to siphon out the liquid to no avail, he bit the bullet and dipped his hands in the vat. More smoke, so pleasing to the eye. When it all cleared up, he was too scared to touch anything, not even his own flesh.

Someone in the land now holds the power of total transmutation. What a dangerous game to be playing with oneself. He is willing to risk the disruption of equality and potentially get everyone he meets to turn against him in a final spectacular display of deliquescence. How could anyone have noticed the fiery fumes coming from the hut? Were they too busy to care? Perhaps luck was on Zagan’s side. Luck didn’t matter, only the art of dissecting nature.

One day, when he woke up, he found his hand touching another gold coin. Uncovering it revealed that it, too, had turned to copper. He touched a third coin, and the same reaction happened. He snapped back to his senses for a few seconds and realized what he had done. He just turned a currency used for all manner of things into a worthless counterfeit. If he could only turn it back to gold… there's no use in reversing this change now. His hands were shaking. They were virtually non-functional, but they were easy to hide in his robes. He needed a walk to take his mind off of things anyway. He tried to keep his eyes on the village and not look down at his hands. Nobody seemed to notice. This isn’t luck, he thought. It’s my own undoing. The gift I got is a tool of destruction and not creation. I’ve been grateful up to this point… but I don’t know if this will entertain and intrigue me any longer. I don’t know what to do about this… Zagan had to dispose of this powerful mess he made, but how?

He purchased another chemical from the shop. The shopkeeper didn’t notice the value went down in seconds.

For the next couple of days, all Zagan could do was stare at the equipment he had used for years. He couldn’t experiment anymore. He no longer wanted to do this. If he gave the rack back to the lioness, he thought they would look down upon him and consider him wasted potential. They passed by his hut yesterday! What was he thinking?! He paced around his soon-to-be crumbling laboratory when he came across the credo of affirmation of life that he, and some of his friends, had written down themselves. It was stashed underneath a pile of food he had kept with him. Each god who participated wrote the same line over each other’s handwriting so as to unify the tract. Looking past the grape stains and runny ink, he mumbled it to himself.

If I was unborn // I would have nothing to be grateful for // I would have never seen companionship // I would never have wept // I would have never celebrated // I would never have eaten // I would have never held what I have made aloft // I would have no stories to tell // I would have never slept // I would have never spoken // I would have never

The last line was in Zagan’s writing alone. He must have had an idea for one more line on his way home but didn’t come up with it before the idea dissolved in his mind. He rolled up the scroll in his hands, staring at the paper. The life he had now was nothing like what the tract had destined to bring him and the others. Or even all the gods. “So I betrayed all the promises we had made… I’ve… I… ah… aaahhhhhh…” He was rendered incapable of any comprehensible emotion.

Then his string finally snapped.

He got the largest bowl he could find, set it down over a flame, crushed the scroll in his hands and threw it in. He then took every material off the rack, pouring them in, until the hissing and bubbling was enough to attract a few witnesses. The entire mixture caught fire. Zagan had made the wonder of wonders, in the age where people were searching for the ultimate state of all things. All rational thought drained away, replaced by a nonexistent language lapping off of his forked tongue. His eyes widened. He knew what he had to do. He leaned back and threw himself into the bowl, causing the entire laboratory to explode. The fireball that emerged was unusually colourful, with hints of pink, purple and green within the commonplace orange and yellow. It looked almost divine. Only a higher power could do this. From his eyes, he saw the room spinning, and everything melting away before his eyes. His mind cycled through every possible form one could have, and automatically it embraced them all at once. It killed him. It brought him back. He didn’t just make the Masterwork, he became it. The Masterwork is not a culmination of the elements processed in the right order, nor is it the eventual state of the lead to gold act. It is not the philosopher’s stone. It is not spiritual completion. The Masterwork is an abomination. It is something that should be avoided no matter what people say about it. Zagan had ruined centuries of seeking and turned himself into the opposite of what it was meant to be. He had become a deceiver, and he wouldn’t do a damn thing to stop it. He was too deep into this irreversible change. This is not the Magnum Opus. This is the Malum Opus, the Terribile Opus. HORRENDUM OPUS IN ANNUS HORRIBILIS.

I would have never destroyed myself

In the weeks that followed, chaos erupted. A jackal had replaced someone’s gold with copper. A pig had mastered persuading others into bribing him, taking items with a swift hand and replacing them with something of much less importance. An eagle turned up to a vendor’s stall full of silver creations, and with a sudden gesture they all melted down into hazardous mercury. The shopkeeper yelled, “The town is in disarray! A gang has disturbed the peace!” By that point the mouse had fled. There was no gang; it was all the work of one man. All he had to do was cup his face in his hands and concentrate, and his whole body would shift into the form of his choosing. O, what wonders he was producing! Zagan, you deceiver! By night he would revert back to his serpent form and look at all the damage he had done. He had so much power in his hands, and instead of being a sickly coward and holding back, he went all out and did everything he could to ensure his legacy! He would become a successful swindler and even recruit a real gang to carry out his acts! He’ll be a superstar! He chuckled to himself. This was the life he wanted. The next day, a bull wandered out into the fields, and the lioness was there. They had recognized the robes Zagan was wearing before he got himself into his role as deceiver, for no two gods can have the same patterns adorned on them. This was to provide a sense of distinctiveness within the community. They immediately began pursuit of him, and he was blissfully unaware that the one who inspired him to pursue the art of arts was the one who would ruin his life.

As Zagan was being held by his robe and the civilians gathered round to see the cause of the commotion, the lioness made the most relieving announcement in a while. “Dear friends, this traitor you see before you has meddled with the basic elements of nature for much too long! I set him off on a journey of understanding the prima materia and what he can do with it, and eventually, he used his abilities to turn to a life of crime and deceit! NOT ONCE have I thought he could commit such… alchemical SACRILEGE! Do you have any idea what’s about to happen to you, undeserving god?”

Zagan completely dodged the question. “I have no regrets for what I have done. I am happy with how far I’ve come, and the processes I had to achieve to get there. I humbly apologize to anyone who has been affected by my destruction. I simply wanted to put my skills to use. But do not let their intense ire land you all in trouble. Attack the problem with new zeal, and overcome it! Rebuild! Restore from the earth!”

He was interrupted by a roar. “Suffice it to say you have caused complete destruction of various properties, forced crops to mutate and bear dangerous fruits, and most of all, you turned the whole land against you! We have no choice but to remove you from this place you used to call home, and end your life if need be.” They let go of his pathetic hood. “Turn to face me.” He did so. “I forbid you from entering this land or any land nearby. May the light shining from your eyes never return, and your mind be purged of these heinous teachings!”

“NononononoWAIT-”

They pressed their thumbs on his temples, and using two fingers they split his head open, jarringly exposing his brain to the morning air. With both hands they prodded the areas of his brain they thought contained the malevolent bits in an attempt for him to forget all he had learned. When they sewed him back up, they made no effort to hide the stitches. Too much work, they explained. They quickly realized not even his presence would make things better. So they indulged in a little alchemy of their own. Raising their hands above his head, drops of white-hot iron ore fell around him and hit the ground. A hole opened up in the dry earth, crumbling away as Zagan lost his footing and tumbled down into the unknown depths. Hopefully, they thought, he emerges on the other side of the world as a completely different person. They knew godhood wasn’t something he would be good with after all.

Zagan woke up surrounded by shrubbery and trees which completely covered the sky. There were no signposts telling him where he was, and no voices in the distance. “This was what I needed,” he thought. “Death. Perfect. I’m gonna have a great time here. What good is being a god anyways?! I can’t even go back to practicing alchemy and trying something different…” He couldn’t remember how it all worked anymore. He knew what it was, but the lioness had eradicated almost all the steps needed for basic transmutation. Looks like he’ll have to start again. He doesn’t even know which way to go. Being stuck in the middle of a jungle with no discerning qualities isn’t the best way to enter this realm.

“I guess I’ll have to go the direction I’m facing… doesn’t that always get you somewhere?” he mumbled to himself. And so he set off trodding across this new place. Start running, and keep running until acted on by an outside force.

#sekwar's writing #writers on tumblr #cult of the lamb #cult of the lamb oc #bishops of the old faith #zagan #i wrote this last year and it's about time i posted it here!#i'm really proud of it #so many twists and turns #i gotta do more story stuff in the future

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kaijutegu · 2 years

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I didn't see my dad on Father's Day because I'm seeing him in a few hours. This meant I had extra time to work on his card.

#reptile #crocodilian #gharial #my art #i'm really proud of it

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icezansky · 3 months

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staring balefully at my open word docs that i haven't typed a single word into all day

#i'm too fucking hungover for this lmao #but i only wrote a couple hundred words yesterday thinking 'ill have all day tomorrow to write too!'#if it's not the consequences of my own actions #ANYWAY new mystery fic being posted tomorrow #i'm really proud of it #katie text

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the-insomniac-emporium · 2 days

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I keep just staring at the Dani art. I want this framed, full size, hang it opposite of my bed so it's the first thing I see in the morning

It really somehow turned out exactly how I pictured in my head while also exceeding my expectations

#i'm really proud of it #j says things

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desi-lesbian · 2 months

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She put me in horny jail

I pulled her in

We fucked all night

🕺🏽🧍‍♂️🕺🏽🧍‍♂️🕺🏽🧍‍♂️

#poets on tumblr #mine #I'm really proud of it #i have this weird sugar rush rn

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kyrylo-kot · 1 year

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ᅠ↳˗ˏˋ 𝑤𝑎𝑖𝑡𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑓𝑜𝑟 𝑦𝑜𝑢 (𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐧𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭) ˊˎ˗ ↴ ᅠᅠ ᅠ ᅠ ᅠ 𝑖'𝑚 𝑑𝑜𝑛𝑒 𝑓𝑖𝑔ℎ𝑡𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑎𝑙𝑙 𝑛𝑖𝑔ℎ𝑡 (𝐰𝐚𝐢𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐲𝐨𝐮) ✧･ﾟ for @galoguac-but-tiny ♡♡♡

#oc #ocs #something like commission for one of my mutual #there won't be any feedback on this edit but I don't care [2]#it was a pleasure to work on them #i'm really proud of it #my psychologist told me to do something that I have never done #so I decided to do a more minimalist work than usual ahahahah

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justanamartins · 1 year

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I finally made part two of the 48km fanart-

My friend said Jade looks more like someone who would wear a bathing suit but I really wanted to paint a belly djsjshskshaj Jade belongs to @iaranaika ✨

#fanart #my art #digital sketch #aesthetic #shoujo #art #GL #yuri #48km #i'm really proud of it #🥹🥹🥹🥹#anime girl #bikini #Beach #summer

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thetomorrowshow · 2 years

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over winning (and not losing)

for @flower-husbands-week day 6: loss

yes i KNOW i already made the perfect piece for this prompt but i've been writing this for a little while now and the meme was only an afterthought. this also fills tomorrow's prompt in case i don't get done what i want to write for tomorrow!!

anyway who wants to see me hurt jimmy some more

cw: this one is really sad, brief blood, past death

It’s backbreaking work, rebuilding the wall. Jimmy doesn’t really mind it, not as much as he had the first day.

Stone bricks, he thinks. The wood had been nice, but had burned too easily. Not that he thinks the walls are in any danger of being burnt, but it’s better to be cautious than careless.

There’s still smog hanging in the air from the various incidents involving both the white castle and Dogwarts, after all. Jimmy isn’t taking any risks.

For a moment, shading his eyes as he stares off into the distance, grief wells up inside his chest.

Then he turns away. This wall isn’t going to build itself.

It’s days like these that leave Jimmy unable to move.

Days when he’s almost done.

He lies in bed alone, staring at nothing and no one and trying to think about neither of those things. The wall is almost complete, and he’s not sure what to do after it’s finished. He’d never had any big project ideas. He barely ever thought ahead enough to even know what the next day would bring.

After the wall is done, maybe he’ll finally face the headstone at the top of the hill.

Or maybe he won’t. He spent days facing this, facing that. He needs to do things to keep himself from sinking, sinking like he is now.

After the wall is done, he’ll keep working.

He hikes his backpack further up his back, takes one last look at their quiet little glade. He likes to think it’s exactly as it was always meant to be, though it’s probably not even close. He’d done his best to texture the walls, make them strong and purposeful but also beautiful. It had never been his strong suit, of course. He’s always cared more for. . . .

For a brief, breathtaking moment, Jimmy knows that everything he actually cares for is gone forever.

That reminds him, though.

So he turns back around and picks his way through the freshly-planted flowers, the ones he’d so carefully transplanted into their soil to replace those that had been trampled down by surprise visitors. He skirts around them, past the pond and to the small cave entrance where the soft sound of moos can be heard.

He ducks into the cattle pen, takes a moment to find—Daisy.

Her big, brown eyes blink slowly up at him as Jimmy presses his forehead into her nose. Her hot breath puffs onto his chin and Jimmy smiles, stays still for a moment more, then pulls away.

“Daisy, girl, today you and your friends get to go free,” he tells her, fluffing up her ears. He scratches down the bridge of her nose, then forces himself to pull away and unlatch the gate.

Then he leaves, not allowing himself a single glance back at his closest friend.

It’s a good day’s walk to the desert, but Jimmy has plenty of bread and jerky to carry him there without issue. He knows what streams to stop at for clean water, when to take breaks for his aching joints and perpetually scorched skin, what trails to follow for shortcuts.

When he emerges from the forest and finds the edge of the desert, he stops to gaze up at Monopoly Mountain and the tower atop, crumbling and collapsed.

The explosions hadn't been kind to the mountain itself, let alone the tower, but Jimmy picks through the rubble and wreckage, following the same path he'd taken last time, until he's at the top of the mountain and all the desert is laid out below him.

He sleeps that night on Monopoly Mountain, tucked in his sleeping bag in the center of a circle of blackened logs, where blood has washed from the sand but not the stones, at the base of a grave that overshadows the two far below it.

The next morning, with the red sunrise behind him, Jimmy rebuilds.

It's weeks—maybe longer—before he's finished, long grueling days of work during which the last traces of smoke on the horizon dissipate entirely. Jimmy digs up sandstone, drags logs from the forest, melts sand into glass, patches up holes wherever he can, all to rebuild Monopoly Mountain to the best of his abilities.

He doesn't let himself think while he works, and when it’s been fixed to his satisfaction he only lingers for one day of rest before filling his backpack with fresh food and setting out.

It's not quite half a day to the cottage on the hill, but there’s not too much to fix. A broken fence here, trampled crops there. The dogs that had whined here at Jimmy's last visit, searching for their owner, are long gone. The house is all the lonelier without them.

Jimmy sleeps again in his sleeping bag on the floor of the cottage, ignoring the abandoned bed. He thinks, distantly in the middle of the night, that he hears a dog howl. Or, more likely, he dreams it.

His work is done by the end of the next day, and he sleeps another night before moving on.

From house to house he goes, spending a day here, a week there. He doesn’t feel very hobbitish, these days. He’s a wanderer, lonely and alone, trying to fix what cannot be fixed but he can’t think about that so he keeps moving.

He loses track of time, and he’s not sure if he spends a month or a year at the white castle, painstakingly gathering each piece to rebuild what had been almost completely destroyed.

He’d only visited here twice before—once a long time ago, when it hadn’t been quite so grand, and once more recently. Once very recently.

The flowers he’d planted last time he was here are blooming. He takes a moment on his way out to gaze at them.

He heads for the Crastle next, and it’s just as destroyed as last time. A family of raccoons have taken up residence in the crumbled hole in the side of the Crastle, and Jimmy is inclined to let them stay. They make a good replacement for the lively past occupants.

Dogwarts is just over the hill.

He doesn’t look that way the whole time he stays at the Crastle, just as he hadn’t when repairing the cookie on the fortress overlooking it.

Jimmy can’t bring himself to patch up the hole in the wall—it’s home now, to someone else. Instead he cleans up the shattered glass and crockery that are scattered across the rotting floorboards, gathering them carefully one at a time and placing them in a canvas sack he finds in the lean-to shed. When a flower-patterned piece of a bowl inevitably slips in his hand, slashing across his palm deep enough for blood to well in the cut, he only stares.

There’s so much red.

There’s always so much Red.

He presses the shards in the soft earth leading to the entrance of the Crastle until they form a path, a collage of destruction made beautiful again under his worn boots that have a hole in the toe of the left one.

When he’s done with the Crastle, spending either weeks or an eternity making sure it won’t collapse in on the raccoons and whatever other critters might take up residence here, he finally turns toward Dogwarts.

Dogwarts’s walls still stand strong, apart from in maybe one or two places where the wall had been blown apart and then had crumbled under weather and time. Dogwarts itself is a different story.

The last time Jimmy was here, the fire had still been burning. The frames off the buildings that had once been Dogwarts fed it, as low as it had been, and Jimmy had pulled his scarf over his face as he set about his newfound responsibility.

And here he is again, eyes no longer streaming from smoke, the wooden headstones he’d painstakingly carved much cruder when the air is clear.

He doesn’t spend too much time looking at those. Instead, Jimmy sighs, checks the sun, and does what he’s been doing.

He gets to work.

Dogwarts, more than any of the other places, is eerie when empty.

Perhaps it’s because of how full of life it had once been, but where the other homes are now houses, waiting for the next occupants, Dogwarts is an empty husk. Nothing that Jimmy tries fixes that. When he finally gives up, there’s one last thing to take care of here.

The last thing he does is make proper headstones. He doesn’t remember any dates, unfortunately, but he spends weeks on each one, getting it just right for its bearer.

And when he’s finally done, and he turns toward Home, he

can’t

So instead, instead of forcing his weary feet to follow the overgrown trail back to where he lies, Jimmy turns around.

He travels back, back to the Crastle where he’d lain two wooden headstones in the backyard now so long ago and refused to look at them and he fixes them.

He hikes up to the cottage on the hill.

To the lonely grave he couldn’t figure out where to place.

To Monopoly Mountain, and the two there.

And more.

And finally, when Jimmy turns to home, hands calloused and brow heavy, he finds it the last place to go.

“I’ve laid them all to rest. In the best way I could think of. You were always more the thinker, to be fair. Some of them—I couldn’t quite be sure about some of them, like—should Etho be in Dogwarts, or at his home? And, like—I never really spoke much with Impulse, and I just. . . .”

He sighs, closes his eyes as he absently twirls some grass between his fingers.

Always fidgeting, aren’t you?

I’m sorry—I can stop, if it’s distracting—

No, it’s cute. You’re cute.

“So, yeah. I’ve done the best I can, I think, especially considering when I buried them all, it was forever ago and I didn’t even really know what I was doing. And I—well, I didn’t do a great job, so I just . . . I fixed it. I fixed everything. That’s why I’ve been gone so long.”

The silence could be interpreted as accusatory. And maybe it is. Jimmy’s not a medium, he has no clue. So he just settles in a little closer to his husband and sighs again.

As close as he can get to a husband who’s six feet under the ground.

“I’m tired, Scott. I’m really, really tired. I’ve done everything. I’ve done everything I can think to do, and it’s still just me, alone. I’m—I’m alone,” he says, and his voice cracks on the last word, emotion that he’s spent so long fighting off finally pushing its way through. “It’s been so long, and I’ve been so alone—who’s going to bury me, Scott? There’s no one else. It’s just me.” he breaks off, a sob swallowing his next words. “I’ve—I’ve lost all of you, but I can’t seem to lose myself. It was never meant to be just me—I wasn’t supposed to be alone! It was—it was supposed to be Martyn, or Gri—Grian, or anyone not me! But. . . .” He trails off with a sniff, presses his head up against Scott’s gravestone. It’s been so long since he lost Scott. It’s been so long since he lost them all.

“Whatever gods took you from me, please . . . please,” he says, and he doesn’t even know what he’s begging for. To join his husband? To have him returned?

To not be alone anymore?

To finally lose this game?

The hobbit holes could use a fresh coat of paint. The garden needs weeded. The flowers could do with some fertilizer.

There’s work to do.

Softly, gently, Jimmy kisses the headstone, right over Scott’s name—then again over the word husband.

“I’ll be back, Petal,” he murmurs. “I love you. I’ll see you again soon.”

Then he stands, dashes away the tears, and hikes down the hill back into the valley proper. Maybe he can build a monument, something for everyone, something to truly commemorate every loss. Maybe that will finally be enough.

Jimmy rolls up his sleeves and gets to work.

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