Hey! How are you? 💛 wanna write about comforting Levi after a nightmare or an expedition gone sideways? I’m a sucker for hurt/comfort 🥺
Late night (hurt/comfort) thoughts #110:
It was too fast. It came too fast from your right. An abnormal titan grabbed your horse and you almost fell off. Panicking, you grabbed the wrong smoke gun from the bag hanging on your horse. You shot it on the titan instead. It angered the titan and it squeezed your horse too hard your horse's neck broke in its fist. By then, you grabbed the right colour and fired it onto the sky. The loud bang angered the titan and it threw the horse into a lake nearby, with you along on the horse.
You felt a strong grip around your neck and oxygen was cut off. Gasping for air but mouthful of water gushed into your throat instead. Fear started to kick in as you pulled on the horse lead rope around your neck. You tried to yank it free but your horse was dead and it was sinking fast, and you were sinking with him. Your lungs burnt with pain as water filled your lungs instead of the air they craved.
You watched as you sank further away from the light. All you could think of was Levi. You could see him waking up next to you. The way his brows tightened before he opened his eyes, and how they lit up as his whispered a 'morning, love' with his sleepy deep voice. It was your day off but Levi was used to waking up early so you laid together just grinning sheepishly at each other and waiting for the sun to rise.
You felt heavy and slowly your eyes closed...
.
When Levi heard the first shot of smoke gun, he was looking frantically at the direction it came from. He memorised your position in the scouting formation and he, although desperately hoping it wasn't you, certain it was you. And then he heard the second gun shot. Before he could see the black smoke, he was already riding toward you after yelling at his team to carry forward. He knew Erwin's orders in not engaging in any titans unless necessary. You were his necessity.
He cursed under his breath how far you were stationed away from him. He knew your ability to fend for yourself, he trained you enough to know you can fend for yourself and even protect others. He only agreed to having you being stationed alone because you were not in the furthest out. But accidents happened.
When he reached the smoke location, the couple of scouts behind you had caught up to your position and was attacking the abnormal titan.
"Stand back!" Levi yelled at them as he leaped from his horse and sliced the left cheek of the titan. Turning its head, Levi flew above it and sliced its nape. The titan was down within seconds.
"Where is y/n?! Where is y/n?!" He yelled at the stunned scouts. They shook and said they never saw you.
No, Levi thought, no, this can't be.
He scanned around, taking every drop of blood on the grass in and analysing. He saw a pool of blood a few meters away from the titan's steaming body and the empty guns your fired. The blood then dripped towards his left, each drop further to one another as it went. Following the blood trail, he saw a deep red in the middle of a lake. Without a second of hesitation, he jumped into the lake.
Pushing the dark water behind him, he swam deeper and deeper. Please please please please please, he prayed. He was too afraid to find out what was under the lake. His heart sank as soon as he saw a glitter among the darkness. Your mother's necklace. He swam harder and your ghostly face appeared before him. Grabbing the back of your neck, he felt the ropes immediately. He tried to pull at it but he saw your headless horse. He pulled out his knife from his back pocket and cut the rope, dragging you to the surface as soon as the rope snapped.
Dropping you onto the grass, Levi blew air into your mouth and pushed his palms onto your chest. "Breathe, y/n! Breathe! Please, breathe!" Levi begged. After 30 compressions, he blew into your mouth again. Pumping on your chest, your face blurred as his eyes were filled with lake water and tears. After another 30 compressions, he blew into your mouth again, this time he cried out in desperation.
"No, no, please, y/n, please," Levi started sobbing, "no, come back.. Come back to me, y/n.."
Just then your body jerked forward and you vomited a mouthful of water. Your throat burned as you coughed the last bitter water out of your lungs. You were squeezed between Levi's arms and you felt him shaking. You lifted your arm weakly and rested on his back. The field was silent except for Levi's wailing.
.
That night at camp, lying in the same sleeping bag, Levi held you underneath him as if he was trying to physically shield you from all harms. This was the first time Levi openly held you for so long. He couldn't stop caressing your hair and touching your heart, convincing himself you came back to him.
Tilting your head, you kissed his cheek softly. He snuggled closer, pushing his cheek to your forehead.
Inhaling your hair, Levi then exhaled in relief. He asked for the millionth time, "promise me you will never ever leave me."
Turning your face to fit on his neck, you whispered, "I promise," for the millionth time.
~ Thank you thank you thank you so so much for sending in a request. I feel so much better after I wrote this and I can't wait to write more during the weekends! I do enjoy writing hurt/comfort fics too and I almost forgot that feeling. Thank you so much for bringing it back, I do hope you enjoy it ~
wait, is this angst? or hurt? or both? but definitely comfort :)
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because sometimes there are invisible tests and invisible rules and you're just supposed to ... know the rule. someone you thought of as a friend asks you for book recommendations, so you give her a list of like 30 books, each with a brief blurb and why you like it. later, you find out she screenshotted the list and send it out to a group chat with the note: what an absolute freak can you believe this. you saw the responses: emojis where people are rolling over laughing. too much and obsessive and actually kind of creepy in the comments. you thought you'd been doing the right thing. she'd asked, right? an invisible rule: this is what happens when you get too excited.
you aren't supposed to laugh at your own jokes, so you don't, but then you're too serious. you're not supposed to be too loud, but then people say you're too quiet. you aren't supposed to get passionate about things, but then you're shy, boring. you aren't supposed to talk too much, but then people are mad when you're not good at replying.
you fold yourself into a prettier paper crane. since you never know what is "selfish" and what is "charity," you give yourself over, fully. you'd rather be empty and over-generous - you'd rather eat your own boundaries than have even one person believe that you're mean. since you don't know what the thing is that will make them hate you, you simply scrub yourself clean of any form of roughness. if you are perfect and smiling and funny, they can love you. if you are always there for them and never admit what's happening and never mention your past and never make them uncomfortable - you can make up for it. you can earn it.
don't fuck up. they're all testing you, always. they're tolerating you. whatever secret club happened, over a summer somewhere - during some activity you didn't get to attend - everyone else just... figured it out. like they got some kind of award or examination that allowed them to know how-to-be-normal. how to fit. and for the rest of your life, you've been playing catch-up. you've been trying to prove that - haha! you get it! that the joke they're telling, the people they are, the manual they got- yeah, you've totally read it.
if you can just divide yourself in two - the lovable one, and the one that is you - you can do this. you can walk the line. they can laugh and accept you. if you are always-balanced, never burdensome, a delight to have in class, champagne and glittering and never gawky or florescent or god-forbid cringe: you can get away with it.
you stare at your therapist, whom you can make jokes with, and who laughs at your jokes, because you are so fucking good at people-pleasing. you smile at her, and she asks you how you're doing, and you automatically say i'm good, thanks, how are you? while the answer swims somewhere in your little lizard brain:
how long have you been doing this now? mastering the art of your body and mind like you're piloting a puppet. has it worked? what do you mean that all you feel is... just exhausted. pick yourself up, the tightrope has no net. after all, you're cheating, somehow, but nobody seems to know you actually flunked the test. it's working!
aren't you happy yet?
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happy new year Ego!!! Just wanted to let you know that I absolutely adore your twst fanart and the tags are just an absolute pleasure to read! You are my greatest inspiration for my personal twst art and I just wanted to thank you for your wonderful masterpieces <333 if possible, may I ask what are some of your headcanons for the diasomnia family? If not for diasomnia then any other characters are fine as well!
thank you, and happy new year! 💚💜💚 that is amazing to hear; it's always a little bewildering but super flattering that other people like my silly little doodles so much!
I don't think I really have any really solid headcanons and also canon keeps validating me left and right (FLUFFY DOMESTIC DIAFAM IS REAL). mostly just kind of...impressions and general thoughts, if that makes sense! lately though I've been kind of obsessed with thinking about Lilia's hair, and specifically when/why he ended up cutting it. (l-look, we're bouncing around the timeline and I gotta make decisions about these things when I draw, it's relevant) (I mean I would probably be weirdly fixated on this anyway, but.)
I think I've settled on the idea that he kept it long until he went to NRC, partly because 1) I like drawing The Ponytail, and 2) I think he thought of NRC as a chance to reinvent himself a bit! he gets to go and be a wacky carefree teenager for a few years and have fun! (officially he's there to keep an eye on Son #1, but how much trouble could he get into, really.) so he gave himself a Cool Teen Haircut to go with his fresh new Cool Teen Persona!
also maybe he had some reflection on his hair's troubled past with three kids...
...and had to weigh his vanity versus the fact that he was going off to be around hundreds of kids on a daily basis, and. the choice suddenly seemed obvious.
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For the Laicion nation (aka, me and three other people)
I had this illustration commissioned (a big thank you to @lunehowls) for my werewolf AU Laicion fic (still a WIP).
The general pitch is as follows :
AU in which Laios never got to meet his sister again, putting his life on a whole other path, a more desperate one. A military deserter with barely a coin to his name, Laios hitches a ride on a boat to one of the elven continents, where he learns about magical tattoos that binds one’s soul to a wolf’s, effectively making them artificial werewolves. Illegal magic be damned, this feels like the answer to… everything.
In the process, he learns about the existence of an illegal fighting ring in one of the elven cities, where beastmen gladiators gather. Freshly tattooed and without anywhere else to go to, Laios decides to head there, where he meets Lycion, an elf and artificial werewolf gladiator. If they first bond over a simple shared meal, by spending time together (sharing the same room in the barracks, maybe the same bed? gasp) they find that they have a lot in common, notably a shared distaste for the body they were born in, a dysphoria partially remedied by becoming a werewolf.
They bond :)
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at some point it's just like. do they even fucking like the thing they're asking AI to make? "oh we'll just use AI for all the scripts" "we'll just use AI for art" "no worries AI can write this book" "oh, AI could easily design this"
like... it's so clear they've never stood in the middle of an art museum and felt like crying, looking at a piece that somehow cuts into your marrow even though the artist and you are separated by space and time. they've never looked at a poem - once, twice, three times - just because the words feel like a fired gun, something too-close, clanging behind your eyes. they've never gotten to the end of the movie and had to arrive, blinking, back into their body, laughing a little because they were holding their breath without realizing.
"oh AI can mimic style" "AI can mimic emotion" "AI can mimic you and your job is almost gone, kid."
... how do i explain to you - you can make AI that does a perfect job of imitating me. you could disseminate it through the entire world and make so much money, using my works and my ideas and my everything.
and i'd still keep writing.
i don't know there's a word for it. in high school, we become aware that the way we feel about our artform is a cliche - it's like breathing. over and over, artists all feel the same thing. "i write because i need to" and "my music is how i speak" and "i make art because it's either that or i stop existing." it is such a common experience, the violence and immediacy we mean behind it is like breathing to me - comes out like a useless understatement. it's a cliche because we all feel it, not because the experience isn't actually persistent. so many of us have this ... fluttering urgency behind our ribs.
i'm not doing it for the money. for a star on the ground in some city i've never visited. i am doing it because when i was seven i started taking notebooks with me on walks. i am doing it because in second grade i wrote a poem and stood up in front of my whole class to read it out while i shook with nerves. i am doing it because i spent high school scribbling all my feelings down. i am doing it for the 16 year old me and the 18 year old me and the today-me, how we can never put the pen down. you can take me down to a subatomic layer, eviscerate me - and never find the source of it; it is of me. when i was 19 i named this blog inkskinned because i was dramatic and lonely and it felt like the only thing that was actually permanently-true about me was that this is what is inside of me, that the words come up over everything, coat everything, bloom their little twilight arias into every nook and corner and alley
"we're gonna replace you". that is okay. you think that i am writing to fill a space. that someone said JOB OPENING: Writer Needed, and i wrote to answer. you think one raindrop replaces another, and i think they're both just falling. you think art has a place, that is simply arrives on walls when it is needed, that is only ever on demand, perfect, easily requested. you see "audience spending" and "marketability" and "multi-line merch opportunity"
and i see a kid drowning. i am writing to make her a boat. i am writing because what used to be a river raft has long become a fully-rigged ship. i am writing because you can fucking rip this out of my cold dead clammy hands and i will still come back as a ghost and i will still be penning poems about it.
it isn't even love. the word we use the most i think is "passion". devotion, obsession, necessity. my favorite little fact about the magic of artists - "abracadabra" means i create as i speak. we make because it sluices out of us. because we look down and our hands are somehow already busy. because it was the first thing we knew and it is our backbone and heartbreak and everything. because we have given up well-paying jobs and a "real life" and the approval of our parents. we create because - the cliche again. it's like breathing. we create because we must.
you create because you're greedy.
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[ID: A reference image for a blue version of Mickey Mouse.
Their name is Mick, and they're wearing a black hoodie with the hood down, and a sleeveless denim jacket over it. The front of the jacket is covered in many pins, like the trans pride flag, the genderfluid flag, a black patch that says "the first pride was a riot", an ambiguous shape with a red crossed out symbol over it, a watermelon, the autism creature, and a small black patch that is cut off due to the angle, reading "eat the".
The back of the jacket has the Public Domain symbol, white a lower case C on a black background that is crossed out, with ears at the top to match Mick.
They are holding a dark blue offset cane, and have band aids on their leg, nose, and one finger.
Text around her says:
-any pronouns
-soft spoken but stands up for their friends
-fucks around and finds out
-being of pure spite
Back patch should always be the public domain symbol with ears
Feel free to swap patches in the same theme or omit them for simplicity
Uses cane for balance, relieving pressure on his legs, and whacking people
Bandaids are optional and can be any color / placed anywhere (she's very clumsy)."
The very bottom of the page has the hashtag, "mickeysona".
End ID.]
lil something to celebrate the mouse entering the public domain :]
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