emerson || 21 || he/him/his ||
autistic, physically, and mentally ill || comic and concept artist, the weirdest fanfic author you've ever seen, social science student, future history professor || creepypasta, emh, marble hornets, legend of zelda, jujutsu kaisen, south park ||
hmm, another question then if thatβs alright! Does this mean the two would ever get back together when theyβre older (iβm thinking like the βwhere do you see yourself in 10 yearsβ post)? Or was the breakup so messy that they kinda ruined eachother for eachother π Maybe you havenβt thought that far into the future, but it just makes me curious, I love to see all the new developments π
In all honesty, I have no clue!
The '10 years in the future' thing relates to the hypothetical (VERY HYPOTHETICAL) last season on Creep Control. The reason I'm very wary talking about it is because I'm still working out the major details. I'm not a planner when it comes to writing, I'm very good at bullshitting my way through a story, but when it comes to major projects, I outline very minimally just to keep myself on track.
Basically, Creep Control after a certain point is a gigantic shrug of the shoulders. I have major points to hit, but the final season of Creep Control is still lost in a sea of "what if" scenarios.
It would be nice to see Ben and Cody get back together! As adults, they're definetely more stable, and they're not dealing with the weight of a series of unfortunate events. The only issue is with the last season, comes the last terrible round of unfortunate events. It really depends on how they're going to deal and cope with it, now being 30 instead of 20 year old kids.
They broke up in the worst way possible and they both went their separate ways. No contact, no way of knowing if the other was still alive, and no way of knowing what the other was doing. After a while, the sting disappeared and they remembered the other as 'that one guy I dated during college'.
When they come back together, it's very unexpected and uncomfortable. But they have to get to know the person that exists now, instead of the one from ten years ago. Surprisingly, they mesh surprisingly well, but that's most likely because they had a lot of time to cool down XD
Holy balls, it's been a while since I actually TYPED-
There's been something bugging me for the past couple of months that centers around the art and fandom on this blog. More specifically, my FNAF art/au.
I'm not sure if anyone has noticed, but FNAF is no longer one of the things listed in my bio as one of the pieces of media I enjoy. Because I don't enjoy it anymore.
The reason I bring this up isn't just to make a personal gripe of mine public, but to explain that I highly doubt I'm going to make anymore content for it and to ask the question of: do other FNAF fans or FNAF fans past feel the same way?
The FNAF 2 movie really nailed this feeling home. After I watched it in theaters with friends of mine, no one could cheer me up. For the next five hours, I was in a perpetual state of frustration, dissatisfaction, mild disgust, and sadness. The movie wasn't hilariously bad, or strange enough to laugh at, it was just... terrible.
And it made a gross amount of money.
Everything Everywhere All at Once (one of my personal favorite movies) grossed $143.4 million world wide in the box office.
Meanwhile, Five Nights at Freddy's 2 grossed $239.6 million world wide.
I may be comparing apples to oranges, or I have terribly high expectations for a movie that's not catered to my age demographic (along with some other problems that I may not be taking into consideration), but this isn't something I want to formally debate.
I'm very tired of expecting something from this franchise that is never going to come. I get terribly angry whenever FNAF is brought up in everyday discussions. I've scared my friends with how mad the whole thing makes me (I am not an angry person).
Continuing to create things that I put hours of research and skill into, for a franchise that isn't giving anything back to me (a decent story) is exhausting. Hypothetically, I could write my own with Hurricane, but I don't do things out of spite. I do it for the love of the game, for my love of the piece of media or the fandom (in the case of Creep Control).
FNAF has hit a very shallow and materialistic point in its lifespan.
If you enjoy it, then good on you, I won't yuck your yum. People should find joy in whatever they damn well please in this day and age, within reason. I'm not gonna order you around. I'm some kid on the Internet that fell out of love with it. I'm not going to ignore that the modern era of FNAF brings people a lot of joy. To ignore that, would be disrespectful to a younger version of me and the friends I have now.
In summary, don't expect any FNAF art from me anytime soon. It's not good for me to keep hacking away at something that makes me feel like Sisyphus.
I wonder if anyone else feels this way too.
For now, my Hurricane comic isn't going to be deleted, it's going to be archived. Honestly, this has felt like a long time coming and I've felt my affection for the franchise slowly crumble away over the years.
And to the ones that found me through my FNAF fanart, thanks for sticking around! Hopefully you've somewhat enjoyed my creepypasta art, and I look forward to making whatever manifests itself in the future.
Summary: HABIT, in the body of a flight technician, has to escort something with no name across the Atlantic Ocean into snowy war-torn Europe to locate a missing "personal asset".
Fandoms : Slender Man Mythos, Everyman HYBRID
Characters : HABIT & Slender Man, w/ Minor Original Characters
Relationships : HABIT/Slender Man
Tags : Pre-Canon, Pre-Relationship, Adventure, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, World War II, Period-Typical Racism, Canon Related, Canon-Typical Violence, Forced Proximity, First Meetings, Hate to Love, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Past Trauma, Major Character Injury, Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, Slender Man is a Woman, It/Its Pronouns and She/Her Pronouns for Slender Man, Slender Man is Blind, Slender Man Has a Human Form, HABIT Has a Different Vessel
Chapter Six : Immortal Punishment
Word Count : 3.9K : Reading Time : 19 Minutes
Something embarrassing to admit was that HABIT and Sticks weren't too different. It hated to dwell on that fact, but it was hard to ignore, especially with a man's blood dripping from its chin. Iron and a sickening thickness hung on its tongue and teeth. With every attempt to swallow it down, something then threatened to rise. A choke and a sob fought past its lips. Blood soaked hands attempted to wipe at the mess on its face, but it was only dragged into gruesome shapes. Accentuating the gore of what had occurred.
Unfortunately, this room it had found itself in was well lit. It could see the form of the man on the floor, bitten through veins of the neck still flowing red. Its eyes tried to focus on the color, and the color alone. It believed red to be the most beautiful color it was capable of seeing. Most others were dull because of its terrible vision. The world blended together into an ill yellow or green, but red⦠Red stood out, and if it could see the color, could any other color in the world really matter?
Sticks' fogged vision met the ceiling. What about this world mattered? Did it matter to HABIT that he left it at the fence? It had only turned for a second and that beast disappeared into the dark. After that, the decision to go and fulfill some of its needs was an easy one to make.
Ten minutes was all it took to find a suitable meal after HABIT left. A communications building sat on the opposite side of the base. The doors were simply bypassed. Black wingtips guided against the short-fiber carpet of the winding, dark halls quite easily. It slipped off its gloves, then its glasses to tuck them into the breast pocket of its vest.
The man slumped against the desk in the central room listened to a radio broadcast, ready and waiting for anything to come though the headset. A notepad next to him was filled with tic-tac-toe games he had been playing against himself. Best out of nine; he started another grid. His brow furrowed and the pencil paused on the paper. The crackling in his headset slowly grew more severe. Then terrible feedback exploded in his ears.
The communicator yelped, quickly throwing the headset to the desk. The audio continued to throw a fit as he fiddled with the controls of the broadcast. Nothing was working. A soft swear left his mouth and he started to search for the mechanism to power off the machine. But the radio powered down before he could find it. The singular light to the room shuttered.
His eyes slowly lifted. His breath hitched. A subconscious instinct to listen deeper into complete silence burst to life. A shadow hung in the corner of the room. The corner of his eye caught it. The communicator's head whipped around. He was only alive long enough to catch a tall man in a suit, wearing a hat, sharing the empty room with him. Teeth then lodged past skin and ripped at his throat.
How terrible. And how embarrassing.
It leaned back against the wall. It had been standing there for a while. Sticks had to cover its mouth to control its gag reflex. Its eyes attempted to focus on the mass against the ground, not because it wanted to, but out of shame. If it shamed itself terribly enough, maybe this viciousness would leave it. A foolish, childish passing thought to hold onto. Once it rationalized the thought, it let it go. What a curse upon it.
Consuming living flesh made the use of its exhausting abilities easier for a day or so, if it didn't run itself ragged. Then, it slept. Once it woke, it only had a few hours before hunger completely consumed it. Hunger drove it to bad behavior something fearsome.
Not a state it preferred to be caught it. Especially not by the likes of HABIT. It would rather swim a dozen seas than have that bug treat it like an equal. A shine on the man's disembodied arm caught its blurry eyes. A golden ring on his finger caught the overhead light just right. A shudder left its mouth, which was caught in a battle of hunger and disgust.
HABIT could never compare to it.
It stepped forward and knelt down, head tilting. Sticks squinted to try and make out the death mask that remained of the man's face. Blood slid on his cheeks where its thumbs rubbed. It leaned close, its breath bouncing off his skin.
"I am grateful for you. Terribly, terriblyβ¦" It paused to ease its shaking breathing. "Grateful."
It went to rise, but paused and went ridged. Again, the yellow light in the room flickered. The clothes it wore shrank to its form, showing off every rib and every curve of its stretching muscles. Its growing limbs bunched together.
Its flesh rose in several places until a bark-like texture was created. Its hair was pushed by the growth of a black shell beginning to form down its back. Features of its face slowly melted, and smoothed. Claws rose through its long fingers. Sticks froze in this state for a moment. This monstrous, deformed, faceless state.
A gasp sucked through a mouth that quickly reformed along with the rest of the body. Human features resumed their placement, its black hair fell back over its forehead, and clothes leapt forth. It looked as it did, just before feeding. Sticks' face, clothes, hands, and teeth were clean of blood. A hand made sure that no sappy residue remained. No, the regenerative form took care to absorb whatever was left of its meal.
It spared the man on the floor one last look before it disappeared from the room. Black branches broke through the carpeted floor to grab at the body, starting to pull it to the hell they came from.
A shiver ran down its back when its face met the cold. The tip of its shoe dug into the ground while it pulled its gloves back on, finding strange straight lines in the concrete. Wind made its eyes scrunch, so the glasses found their way back to its face. A rumbling went through the ground. A vehicle was approaching. It backpedaled to avoid getting struck by it (the feeling of metal colliding with its legs was not pleasant. It found this fact after a few weeks of trekking alone). Apparently, that was the wrong thing to do.
"Put your hands up!" It was screamed at by a man accompanying the car. The lights attached to the front of the machine made any person difficult to see. "Hands up!" His voice cracked. This boy seemed serious.
Another voice joined. "Put your fucking hands up or we'll shoot!" Well, the severity of the situation seemed to be lost on it, but with these two men sounded as serious as they did, it hesitantly raised its hands to its shoulders. "Higher!" Was demanded of it.
Was it supposed to appear unarmed or controllable? It raised its hands to its ears with a sigh. A thunder of footsteps followed its compliance. Men scattered from the vehicle like rats, Sticks now able to follow their silhouettes past the headlights. Four approached it, three sprinting for a large building in the distance. The four didn't even ask before grabbing at its arms and under its coat.
It tore itself away from gloved hands, the sounds of adjusted weapons following. The end of one of the rifle barrels tapped its rib, to which it suggested it away with a finger. "Excuse me, boys." Sticks adjusted its clothes. "Is there a problem?" A beat of silence followed its question.
"Hands on your head!" The one in the back yelled.
"Would you like the opportunity to answer my question?" When the rifle was pressed into it again, the barrel was grabbed in its giant hand and was aimed to the concrete. "Or would you not?" The boy on the opposite side of the gun struggled for control of his weapon. "I can respect a request. However, a threat and a request are not one in the same, and you should know this." It tilted its head down, dark eyes peering over the sunglasses.
Be at ease.
The men in uniform, one by one, lowered their rifles, eyes wide with slack mouths. A dazed hypnotized look. Slowly, it slid the glove off its free hand with its teeth and pressed its two fingers to the front boy's forehead. A drawn out breath left its lips.
"Sleep."
A moment passed for the command to process through their ears, then like rag dolls, the four fell to the ground. Sticks groaned softly and held its head. Seemed as though it was to overexert itself tonight. Coughing erupted from its chest after it reapplied its glove. While it halfway suffocated itself on its inner arm, a gun fired across the runway. Something lodged in its shoulder with a sharp, terrible pain.
It barely had time to react before a flurry of those same sharp explosions across the field and in its body overwhelmed it. Sticks felt like it was oozing, as if half of its body was about to spill out of its skin. It took a step back, but its leg buckled. Less than gracefully, it fell to the runway.
Where was HABIT?
Staff Sergeant Greene walked with two riflemen to the fallen body of their prime suspect. He didn't like shooting holes in a man who deserved to be brought to justice, but it was difficult to ignore the fallen bodies of four other members of his squad. Three of his men had been killed inside the most eastern hangar, and he had sent four more in full confidence that they could detain one man. Apparently, he underestimated that man.
Greene looked over the dead body of the tall man while the fallen were cared for. He didn't have any weapons on him, from what Greene could see. His fingers lifted the trench coat to find no gun or knife, so he unbuttoned the suit jacket. A red vest laid just under it, the pockets of both not bearing any answers.
"Sarge!" One of the riflemen made Greene raise his head. "They're still breathing, they're just unconscious!" He glanced over his soldiers. Alive, just knocked out. Greene hummed, squinting down at the dead and bleeding body. He slipped off the dark glasses to look over his face. A middle aged man with giant, blind eyes, who had died too quickly to close them. The outfit was the main detail throwing him off. What was such a well-dressed man doing in the middle of the biggest military airfield on the East coast?
His hands started to pat the body down, just to be thorough. Any weapon, any personal item, any identification, anything would be useful in finding an ounce of information. Greene's hands dragged over the man's sides, the man's stomach, and then the chest. His brow furrowed. Curiosity quickly got the best of him as he peeled back the vest.
This wasn't a man.
He glanced back up at the body's face to reevaluate it, but he found an eye staring at him. The sound of metal falling against the cement made Greene's eyes shoot sideways. A used bullet laid on the runway, steaming. Then another sounded and appeared. Then another. Then Greene caught a bullet sliding out of the body onto the ground. That eye was still looking at him.
"Remove yourself from me." It commanded through teeth.
Sergeant Greene leapt backward with a yelp. He could see the runway lights through its body in some places as it sat up and stood. Black blood soaked the cement that it had no issue leaving. Just as Greene couldn't believe it, neither could the riflemen. One took aim directly at its head. It rolled out its shoulders, then turned to spit blood that seeped into its teeth.
Sticks wasn't about to tolerate anymore guns.
The gloves on its hands seeped into its skin, and it extended one forward. With a swipe of its fingers, a sharp crack came from the man aiming his rifle, his head almost twisted all the way around. It heard the click of a second firearm, turning in time to stare down the boy holding it. The bullet that shot never met its body. Instead, it found a warm place to call home in between the shoulders of the man that fired it.
Sticks turned its attention to the staff sergeant once the first rifleman was dead and the second was collapsed against the ground, screaming in pain. Greene was struggling with his belt for his sidearm, but froze when it approached him, bullet wounds completely healed. It appeared to have incredible disgust for him.
He held out a hand. "Please! Please, please, please!" His hands came together, as did his knees, and he started to bow before it. It tilted its head at the display. Greene was sobbing into the concrete, "Please, don'tβ¦"
Its hands clasped. "Be specific."
"Please don't kill me."
"Interesting. All of the men that you have sent my direction have fallen, but only one of them is dead. Would you rather I spare you and steal the lives of the rest of them?"
"No!" He curled up against the ground, tucking his head between his knees.
"Then be specific." It called its glasses to its hand, slipping them back over its eyes.
He continued pleading for a moment, shaking praying hands at it. This was starting to sound like desperation and Sticks had known desperate men, and they all enacted on the same terrible routine. It was going to run out of energy before too long, so this couldn't drag out any further. It motioned its hand up, then on the arch down, HABIT's hunting knife appeared in its fingers. Keeping it close was precautionary in either the event that its hold on the parasite gave out, or in situations like this one.
It felt the validity of the blade against the plane of a finger, listening to the man's shallow breathing go soft. Seemed as though he made a decision. The man's hair was pulled and the knife driven through his eye before he could free his pistol, the hammer already thrown back. Sticks dropped the body, starting to walk off the runway while its tongue drifted over the flat side of the blade.
It stopped when it heard boots beating against the pavement, but a sigh of relief left its body. HABIT had received its call. He slowed, looking over the bodies of men puddled together, taking amusement in the man screaming for his mother. After a moment of swiveling his head back and forth, from the carnage to Sticks, his lip quirked up. "Did you do all this?"
"I trust that you disappeared for a good reason?" Its finger slid on the spine of the blade, then licked the blood from it.
He glanced at its motion. "β¦Is that my knife?"
"Is it?" With a simple turn of its hand, the blade disappeared into thin air. HABIT curled his lip, but he didn't try to argue this time. There wouldn't be any point to that because it wouldn't answer him.
"We can't just leave the bodies here, they'll lock down the base." HABIT gestured before them. "Nothing will be able to leave when that happens."
"How many men did you murder?"
"Six."
It sighed. "Fine. Leave that to me. Find our transport in the meantime. This may take me a while."
"What are you going to do?" HABIT adjusted the rifle on his shoulder.
"The mess you made will disappear." It left his side, removing its coat to free up its arms. The trench coat was then tossed to HABIT, who fumbled with it.
"It's not just my mess!"
"Go, HABIT." It sat with crossed legs, folding its hands together. "And only return when I call you."
"I'm not a dog," The parasite muttered, but he turned anyway. He hung its coat over his arm, then broke into a sprint.
Sticks took a deep, relaxing breath, closing its eyes behind its glasses. This wasn't going to be pleasant. The process of casting bodies into the space between this world and the one before it had inconsistencies. Especially when it felt as weak as it did now. Tedious was a good English word for the process. Sticks stretched its long arms over its head and across its body before digging the tips of its cold fingers into the concrete.
That poor man it had consumed was easy to discard through the floor of the dimension, because it was only one and it knew its energy allowed for only one at a time. From the two it fell and the half dozen that HABIT butchered, that meant it had to make eight men with lives, personalities, and families cease to exist. They would be missing and no one would ever find them.
A quick prayer for forgiveness was whispered between it and the December night, but it doubted any decent god would ever excuse this monstrous behavior. But it had made a habit of doing so long before it was faced with such impossible situations. Sticks lingered on the memories of asking forgiveness for less serious offenses, before it threw them away.
HABIT had finished creating an opening for the two of them to slip into when he felt the cement under his feet give a violent, distant shake. Bomb? If it were a bomb, then there should've been an explosion. Instead, the air held a pained scream that echoed around the airfield. HABIT resisted his curiosity⦠for around five seconds, and then he looked out the doors of the hangar.
The cement of the runways was split up to where Sticks was stood, stance wide. Its graceful hands shook with intensity, curving and holding, like a orchestral conductor commanding a slow and intense piece of music. And it was commanding dark roots that had burst from the seams of the runway.
They grabbed at the two dead men, coiling and twisting in an ugly way. Meanwhile, to HABIT's shock and terror, the soldiers he shot were walking out the doors of the hangar. Their feet dragged, dead and empty, in a double line. Even in their state, the boys still could recall their training. When they reached a certain circumference of Sticks, their bodies simply fell through the floor. As if they hit the deep end of a pool.
With one last, final gesture from Sticks, the coiled branches did the same, the giant cracks slowly came together seamlessly, and it collapsed to its knees. HABIT watched it spit up black with a violent heave. It crawled forward on its hands to brace against the runway, body visibly shaking, even from where HABIT was standing. The sleeping bodies (included the one previously screaming) were completely undisturbed.
His jaw was slack and he slid back into the hangar. One of the doors shuddered from his back being placed against it. Even with its fall and less than imposing aftermath, HABIT had to admit: that was the most impressive display of control he had ever seen. There was a question destroying his brain, though.
"Why didn't you want me to watch?" HABIT asked from the front seats of a Jeep ready to be transported. They settled into the cargo bay of the transport plane, albeit slowly. Sticks was still suffering from muscle weakness after exerting itself. He had already asked about the fates of the sleeping soldiers, to which it just muttered something about them 'forgetting the day'. It didn't seem much for conversation at the moment. It was very focused on muttering a hymn to itself in the pitch black.
HABIT turned over in the Jeep, shining one of the flashlights he collected on it. It winced. "Hey, can you hear me?"
Sticks sat by the door, its legs folded, hands rested palm-side up on its knees. It was pale and sweat dripped off its face.
"Yes," It bit a response before continuing.
"Why?"
Its went quiet and its stiff posture sagged, head dropping. Sticks took a breath and fought its gloves off. "Don't start this now. And turn that thing off, it hurts my head."
HABIT scowled, then he grinned, swinging the light back and forth out of its eyes. "Is it a condition of your⦠time powers?" A short cackle escaped him.
"You are an immature little bug," It snapped. Then it struggled off its suit jacket while it continued, "No curiosity. Just cruelty. Always looking for an opportunity to make a joke of something. No wonder why you're alone." The jacket made a soft sound as it collided with something else in the cargo bay.
HABIT just stared at it sitting in the dark. He jerked the light at it again, to which it gave an ugly snarl, "HABIT!"
He scoffed, something to brush off the remark. HABIT then lit up his own face. "I'm not alone! I have people around me all the time. I lead very active social lives."
"Connection and presence are not the same thing."
"Well, what would you know?" HABIT barked at it. The top of the plane echoed with his voice. Soles of wingtip shoes dragged against the grated floor as it pulled its knees to its chest. A terrible grin formed on his face, and he whipped the flashlight back around. "You're alone. You're so alone that you had to drag something like meβa beast, humanity's great abominationβinto your mess because there isn't anyone or anything to help you." He put his boots on the dash of the vehicle. "Is that the secret to great, almighty power, Sticks? To be forgotten? To be a god with no disciples? A king with no subjects? To be so worthless that your creator didn't bother so much as to utter a name?"
It said nothing for a moment. HABIT clicked the light off in finality, settling back down to sulk for the night.
"You can't hide from me. Even from inside there," It muttered.
"Inside where?"
"Your head." It settled against the cold metal floor, laying there on its back for a moment. "I know what's inside it."
"You don't know anything."
It sighed, tilting its head to think. "A part of my mark is that we have an exchange. You give me what you know and I gift you life. No mortal injury may find you. That means I can't escape your thoughts. Your feelings."
"I don't like it."
"I know. I don't either. Your mind, HABIT, is frayed into so many strands. It's too much to really process in one moment. It feels like waves."
HABIT's eyes, which had previously been scanning the floor of the vehicle hopelessly in the dark, finally lifted. "You can feel it?"
"I feel your pain. And your humor. And your hate." It started to mumble, like it was something it hated to admit. HABIT's lip stiffened and his head shook. "It's not your fault you are what you are."
A quick shot of pain went through HABIT's chest. Something between rage and confusion boiled at the back of his throat. How dare you. But it couldn't shove past his teeth for whatever reason. Must have been the result of some other strange magic it placed upon him. It had to be. "Stop." Was all he could muster.
I had a lot of fun writing this chapter :3 Between the first chapter I wrote, and this one, I feel like there have been massive improvements in my writing style
I have not written this much since I was in middle school, posting terrible fanfic when I was 11 and 12
Flash-forward ten years and I'm still writing strange fanfic, but I'm having a lot of fun doing it :D Hopefully my ability to draw returns soon so I can draw out some of the scenes because I swear to god, I need to SEE them fucking around
I just wanted to gush :3 This fic has reached 21K words and I'm ultra proud of myself for keeping a (not so strict) weekly schedule, which mostly will change once school starts back up for me again
Holy balls, it's been a while since I actually TYPED-
There's been something bugging me for the past couple of months that centers around the art and fandom on this blog. More specifically, my FNAF art/au.
I'm not sure if anyone has noticed, but FNAF is no longer one of the things listed in my bio as one of the pieces of media I enjoy. Because I don't enjoy it anymore.
The reason I bring this up isn't just to make a personal gripe of mine public, but to explain that I highly doubt I'm going to make anymore content for it and to ask the question of: do other FNAF fans or FNAF fans past feel the same way?
The FNAF 2 movie really nailed this feeling home. After I watched it in theaters with friends of mine, no one could cheer me up. For the next five hours, I was in a perpetual state of frustration, dissatisfaction, mild disgust, and sadness. The movie wasn't hilariously bad, or strange enough to laugh at, it was just... terrible.
And it made a gross amount of money.
Everything Everywhere All at Once (one of my personal favorite movies) grossed $143.4 million world wide in the box office.
Meanwhile, Five Nights at Freddy's 2 grossed $239.6 million world wide.
I may be comparing apples to oranges, or I have terribly high expectations for a movie that's not catered to my age demographic (along with some other problems that I may not be taking into consideration), but this isn't something I want to formally debate.
I'm very tired of expecting something from this franchise that is never going to come. I get terribly angry whenever FNAF is brought up in everyday discussions. I've scared my friends with how mad the whole thing makes me (I am not an angry person).
Continuing to create things that I put hours of research and skill into, for a franchise that isn't giving anything back to me (a decent story) is exhausting. Hypothetically, I could write my own with Hurricane, but I don't do things out of spite. I do it for the love of the game, for my love of the piece of media or the fandom (in the case of Creep Control).
FNAF has hit a very shallow and materialistic point in its lifespan.
If you enjoy it, then good on you, I won't yuck your yum. People should find joy in whatever they damn well please in this day and age, within reason. I'm not gonna order you around. I'm some kid on the Internet that fell out of love with it. I'm not going to ignore that the modern era of FNAF brings people a lot of joy. To ignore that, would be disrespectful to a younger version of me and the friends I have now.
In summary, don't expect any FNAF art from me anytime soon. It's not good for me to keep hacking away at something that makes me feel like Sisyphus.
I wonder if anyone else feels this way too.
For now, my Hurricane comic isn't going to be deleted, it's going to be archived. Honestly, this has felt like a long time coming and I've felt my affection for the franchise slowly crumble away over the years.
And to the ones that found me through my FNAF fanart, thanks for sticking around! Hopefully you've somewhat enjoyed my creepypasta art, and I look forward to making whatever manifests itself in the future.
"The North Star found no beginning as one unobtainable speck in the night sky.
Since the Dawn of the First World, the North Star has been the ultimate tool to accomplish the impossible.
It is now a rumor among Ancients. A whisper in what is now Darkness.
Terrible dominions used the almighty power of the North Star for the creation of a kingdom built upon Chaos and brought on the destruction of the First World.
The North Star cannot fall into imperfection.
Life will surely die."
-excerpt from The Canon of the North Star.
ESCORT
Summary: HABIT, in the body of a flight technician, has to escort something with no name across the Atlantic Ocean into snowy war-torn Europe to locate a missing "personal asset".
βI will phrase this in a way that your feeble, parasitic brain may be able to understand.β HABIT made sure to inject an offended scoff before it continued, βI am in the wrong place. You will escort me from this wrong place to the right place. That will not happen quickly if I have to replace humans that decide to die every leg of the journey.β
βYeah, your Majesty, thatβs impossible.β
Fandoms : Slender Man Mythos, Everyman HYBRID
Characters : HABIT & Slender Man, w/ Minor Original Characters
Relationships : HABIT/Slender Man
Tags : Pre-Canon, Pre-Relationship, Adventure, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, World War II, Period-Typical Racism, Canon Related, Canon-Typical Violence, Forced Proximity, First Meetings, Hate to Love, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Past Trauma, Major Character Injury, Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, Slender Man is a Woman, It/Its Pronouns and She/Her Pronouns for Slender Man, Slender Man is Blind, Slender Man Has a Human Form
DURING PRIDE MONTH??? HELL YEAH!! BE WHO YOU AREEEEEEE π³οΈβππ³οΈβππ³οΈβππ³οΈβππ³οΈβππ³οΈβππ³οΈβπ FOR YOUR PRIIIIDDDEEEEEE π³οΈβππ³οΈβππ³οΈβππ³οΈβππ³οΈβππ³οΈβππ³οΈβππ³οΈβππ³οΈβππ³οΈβππ³οΈβπ
On a serious note, Iβm not sure what the last sentence entails, but I can definitely imagine π I imagine, being closed off from the open world for the most part, not having anyone who can know the REAL you besides your few co-workers who DONT try to kill you, you naturally find some sort of adoration in those you (even barely) get along with. That being said? Oh yeah. Im sorry Poindexter but I can imagine these two having a NASTY breakup π Not sure if thatβs what you invision, apologies if I seem like Iβm intruding into your own ideas, but I see these two definitely arguing crazy style. Sweet moments, sure, but deep down they donβt click fully.
TLDR; From an outsiders perspective, it seems like their relationship would be based in desperation for comfort, not so much love. Again, from an outsiders standpoint, we donβt know the full story yet πππππππππππππ
Don't ever apologize for making theories and connecting ideas :3 That's how I got this far in the first place!
And I will tell you that it's a mixture of various different things, along with only have each other to truly depend on. For one thing, their relationship is on the backburner of the overall narrative. They're main characters, sure, but by the time they start dating, the plot has well taken off, so I don't mind answering questions about it now that I'm sure they're gonna definetely be a thing.
Secondly, Ben and Cody foil each other in a lot of different ways, and one of those ways is how they experience identity.
Ben has always been very open with his genderfluidity and queerness, a factor of which being he has the privilege to explore it without a lot of backlash, along with his open and welcome exposure to the wonderful world of 'gay is okay'. It's resulted in Ben being very comfortable with that specific aspect of himself.
Cody, however, is not. It's a running gag that Cody is the most homophobic gay person you've ever seen, and for good reason. Cody is very familiar with how gay and queer people (especially queer people of color) are treated, living in Southern California until he was 12. He was raised by 2010's internet, met every type of person during his time in foster care, and figured out who to avoid so he wouldn't get unwanted attention, so he made sure to shove any ounce of same-sex attraction down. Until he met Ben.
Cody loathed how comfortable Ben was with himself for the first couple of months they were getting to know each other. Ben wears dresses, skirts, and other 'girly' clothes, has long hair, and wears makeup. Cody doesn't know how to interact with a whole lot of people, never mind an attractive boy with fashion sense.
Another conversation about Cody is, on top of being gay, he's aromantic, which (from experience) is very misunderstood. Being physically attracted to Ben is one thing, but romantic gestures are difficult for him to hand out. This doesn't bother Ben, for the most part, because he understands Cody, but it puts strain on Cody to try to decode himself.
Ben is a lot of Cody's firsts. First relationship, first serious relationship on top of that, first date, first kiss, first time, so many firsts that it loses meaning. It's stressful. And scary.
So, yes, they fight. Cody's personality is very combative, so there aren't any surprises there. The straw that breaks the camel's back, however, is that they got together at the wrong time in their lives. Between Cody's identity crisis and Ben's mental illnesses, not to mention the PLOT happening all around them, they were bound to snap apart from all the tension.
Been playing with the concept of an alternate state/alternate states when it comes to Ben, so hereβs Demon.
Demon (it/he) reflects that more sinister/trickster depiction of BEN Drowned in the fandom. It has more control over the powers the body has and has lower empathy than other aspects of Ben. It isnβt, however, malicious in any way. It is protective, rough, and playful, just looks a tad more intimidating.
Characteristics include: glowing red eyes, illusionary blood tear streaks, floats more often than not, doesn't speak unless it has to or wants to, higher power competency, cool-headed, rough and tough playfulness, crass, has an American accent compared to Ben's Australian accent, can appear underwater/drowned if he so desires, and hates Ben's hearing aids (it will take them out).
