#cant decide if i like it better with or without the lens flare

[stormarts]

that love is like a star (it’s gone, we just see it shining)

[fixing-bad-comic-art]

Sorry if this comes off as rude, but I don’t know much about blindness that isn’t complete blindness. Does being legally blind make it hard to make art? My distance vision is pretty awful but I’m not legally blind and I guess I imagine it as seeing everything the way I see very far away things, which I’d think would make detecting and creating lines difficult and stuff like that

so, visual deficits arnt one thing, the type of blindness you are describing is called myopia, its what happens when the lens of your cornea isnt focussing light on your retina correctly. myopia is usually one of the easiest forms of visual deficit to fix because all you need to fix it is a pair of glasses, which is why even people with very severe myopia are not considered legally blind, their vision can still correct to 20/200 (a person with normal vision can read the same sign 200 feet away, while the blind person needs to be 20 feet away to read it) or better.

I do have myopia(and still glaucoma), but a very mild form, im 20/50 in both eyes without my glasses.

My blindness was caused by chronic uveitis. which is an autoimmune condition where my immune system will decide to put a bunch of inflammation in the vitreous(the gooshy bit in the center) of my eyes. for me this is like having a dirty white tshirt pulled over my eyes, everything is very murky and unclear with details being nonexistent, but i can still usually tell dark from light. My uveitis is actually usually pretty easy to treat, some eyedrops and steroids take care of it within a few months if its a light flair and or the doc caught it early enough.

whats a lot harder to treat is the severe retinal damage caused by the uveitis. Im legally blind even when im not in the middle of a flair because my vision is permanently screwed up. Essentially part of my retinas are so scarred that ive lost vision in those areas. and what i do have left is very finicky, im extremely light-sensitive to the point of not being able to navigate in direct sun because everything is just too washed out, but my eyes cant pick up light below a certain brightness, so i have no ability to navigate if its even slightly to dark either. I cant drive because my eyes have effectively turned up the contrast, light flares from other cars fully wash out my vision and signs with reflective paint look like camera flashes.

but what i can see is perfectly clear most of the time.

tldr: my retinas keep trying to fall off. and thats also why i haven't been doing a lot of edits recently, one of my retinas is actively falling off do to a tumor caused by the uveitis, its getting lasered back in place on friday. expect buisness as usual to resume the following sunday,

edited bc im a dumbass, myopia not glaucoma

[z0urcherri]

Ok, Burnout Paradise isn't BAD. Don't get me wrong, it shows that EA knows how to make a good game. A lot of passion got put into this one, you can tell by the environment design and the amount of events integrated with each other even if you do them out-of-order and i mean the car detail????? is outstanding Compounded by the fact this is the ONE high-def game that doesn't brick your PC and doesn't try to look too realistic with a bunch of lens flare and motion blur. It knows its good enough without it. But it's not without its flaws and things it really should have had from day one i mean...well first of all, i'm kinda disappointed this didn't have an advanced photo mode given its emphasis on getting good shots of you during super jumps Secondly, the controls are still really really rough. Even though it says certain cars handle better than others, they all feel alike in how they drift (idk maybe its a combination of the weird road layouts and that but its hard to tell) and also i get lost alot. Stupidly alot. I keep thinking one route will take me one way but then i'm on a fucking highway with no offramps until i reach the very end of it like how did that happen Also i'm really surprised they decided to allow motorcycles. Like. As soon as i saw it was an option i had to see if i could pulp my driver but yknow. No, you cant. They just kinda disappear off the bike, presumably having been thrown off if you wreck. Anyway those are my thoughts on this 2008 title

[thehiddenlawyer]

Stranger Than Kindness Chapter 13 (The Six Thatchers, II)

See if you can spot the bit of Christopher I sprinkled in there!

Enjoy!! Ao3

The morning of the baptism, they made a show of Mrs. Hudson and Sherlock picking Molly up in a cab before heading to the church together. He blinked at her outfit, languidly running his eyes over her body with the aching familiarity of a long-time lover, raising a brow at the red turban woven through her hair. But he declined to comment, pursing his lips as he sat between her and Mrs. Hudson in the back, his fingers brushing against her bare leg at every given opportunity but his eyes never straying from his phone screen for long.

When they arrived at the church, she had to consciously draw away from him, realizing that their bodies were so used to the other’s proximity that they naturally canted towards each other, heads nearly touching even though he wasn’t paying attention to his surroundings. Their body’s betrayed them, wanting the world to know that they were more than anyone suspected, that they wanted to become so much more, striving to create a new life together, a new being that would be part her, part him. She stood by his arm, feeling the warmth of his skin through his jacket even as she listened to the words spoken so reverently over her goddaughter, nudging him, and rolling his eyes at his insolence, her cheeks bursting as she fought to suppress her laughter when his phone’s Siri function went off.

It was a disaster trying to get him to stand still long enough for the photographer to take their picture with their goddaughter. “Honestly,” she hissed, glancing up at him, “Rosie’s better at picture than you!”

He glanced at her, seeing that she was quite serious about the pictures and finally stashed his phone away, petulantly rolling his eyes, “fine, I’ll give my attention to these horrendous pictures as a bunch of so-called adults wearing their Sunday best stand around a squalling, crying, extremely tired infant who’s just been manhandled and nearly drowned by a stranger chanting strange incantations to an imaginary god, ignoring the fact that the infant neither cares nor understands the pictures she is being forced to partake in, and she just wants to go back to the comfort of her mother’s arms and her milk.”

She didn’t say anything for a few moments, barely registering the fact that she had nearly slipped her arm through his as they sat in the pew, her cheek against his shoulder. Sitting up straighter, she looked into his beautiful eyes with a raised brow and soft voice, “you do remember that I’m Catholic, right?”

“Roman Catholic,” he corrected her, like he always did.

Molly grinned, touching the back of his hand with her fingertips, the light touch enough to remind him of her love when they weren’t in the privacy of their home, “our baby will be baptized too, with godparents, and even a party afterwards.”

His eyes flared slightly as he looked at her, “our baby,” he repeated solemnly, the smile on his lips indescribable, “our baby.”

Mary’s voice broke through their bubble, Molly looked up to see her friend’s shrewd eyes watching them, “I want a picture of Rosie with just Molly and Sherlock,” Mary looked at Mrs. Hudson, “you don’t mind do you, Mrs. Hudson?”

“Of course not!” Mrs. Hudson grinned.

Rosie was fussy, having been passed around parents and family members for pictures, getting tired of the changing, often unfamiliar faces. Sherlock was rolling his eyes as they walked to the front of the church, Mary handing the crying bundle to Sherlock. Molly grinned as Rosie instantly quieted in her godfather’s arms, something in Molly’s womb shivered to life as she watched Sherlock easily carrying the infant in the crook of his arm, talking to her as if she understood him, the smile on his face radiant.

She listened for a moment, laughing at his words, “oh I know little one, I know,” he sympathized, “these ridiculous grown-ups and their rituals, combined with their inarticulable need to memorialize everything,” he grinned at her, “when you’re older, I’ll teach you to cause enough mischief that situations like this will become either extinct or at least bearable.” She realized she was rubbing her stomach as she watched the two, heard Rosie’s gurgling and cooing at Sherlock’s attention, the little girl clearly pleased with her godfather.

Molly stood next to them, Sherlock holding their goddaughter between them, Molly arms wrapped around his waist, her fingers over his under Rosie’s warm body. She smiled into the camera lens, surrounded by her love’s familiar cologne and her goddaughter’s sweet scent, wondering just how much Mary had seen, how much she had understood.

The party at John and Mary’s after the baptism was a small affair for the closest friends and family, the day surprisingly sunny with nearly everyone deciding to take advantage of the weather by going in the Watson’s yard with their drinks. Molly remained inside, more comfortable standing behind the kitchen counter, lost in her thoughts as she sipped her glass of water, unaware of her own thoughts. Mary breezed into the kitchen unexpectedly, pulling Molly from her daydreams, “what are you doing standing here all by yourself?” Mary demanded. 

Molly chuckled, setting her glass down, “I guess I’m feeling a little introverted right now, I’m sorry.”

Mary waved her hand, fussing around the kitchen, “I totally understand,” she assured her, “so how long have you and Sherlock been together?”

Molly nearly spat her water out, but she wasn’t necessarily surprised. The surprise came more from the fact that it had taken Mary this long to put two and two together. She cleared her throat, grabbing a napkin to wipe at the water that had dribbled down her chin and onto her chest, “uh,” she cleared her throat, “I don’t know honestly,” she laughed slightly, “I want to say our entire lives but my math would seem a little off at that.”

Chuckling, Mary stood across the counter from her, “ever since he got shot?” Trying to hide her smile, wondering how the other woman would react if she knew that Molly knew all about her past life, that Mary had shot Sherlock… “Before that,” she answered, “uhm, around the time he was uh, pretending to be dead.”

“Wow,” Mary breathed, “I’d suspected something was going on but—wait! Wow. Janine? Oh my God, and Tom?”

Molly squirmed, “that was a…rough patch,” she cleared her throat.

“Why are you keeping it a secret? I don’t even think John knows.”

“No one knows,” she confirmed, “Mycroft may suspect because he—” she waved away the words before she gave so many secrets away, “but yeah, we—we don’t want people…knowing.”

“Why though?” Mary persisted.

Shrugging, Molly looked at the clear surface of her glass of water, thinking the blue tint of the glass and the yellowish counter created a color similar to Sherlock’s eyes. The thought that she might currently be carrying his child floated through her mind, warming her, and she prayed their baby would have his eyes and his cheekbones and his lips, and while she was it, she wished their baby would have his hair and intelligence too, his sharp wits and heart capable of so much love and bravery. “I don’t know,” she murmured in answer to Mary, “it’s just nice to be together without anyone else’s interference or input, whether good bad or indifferent. It’s—it’s better being each other’s secret,” she cleared her throat, “and I think—I think he worries about me—”

“About you being used against him,” Mary finished, her voice soft, a slight frown forming between her eyes as if recalling her own struggles, the sacrifices she’d been ready to make for her loved ones.

“Yes,” Molly said weakly.

“You don’t mind?” Mary asked with a raised brow, “I mean, everyone is just assuming you’ve been pining for Tom and Sherlock, stuck in a rut.”

Molly chuckled softly, feeling strange to hear the perceptions about her out loud. She knew what she came off as, a young woman in her prime on the fast track to becoming a spinster with a house full of cats, socially awkward and inept at dating or keeping a lover, with a hopeless, school girl crush on a man that barely ever acknowledged her presence. But she knew the truth, their truth, and it was her salve, the secret smile on her lips was for her and her lover to relish, “not really,” she answered Mary, “I like that he’s—he’s my secret.”

That moment, the object of her thoughts walked in. The day had been warm enough that even he had taken off his navy-blue jacket, rolling up the sleeves of his pristine, light blue shirt. Molly’s appreciatively watched the way the blue material stretched to the brink across his shoulders and chest, that poor button straining against his broad chest, making her fingers itch to stroke the warm skin underneath, his forearms thick and busting with muscles he had recently gained. With a single glance at her and Mary, he knew the proverbial cat was out of the back, his shoulders dropping as he rolled his eyes, “you’re getting slow Mary, I thought you would have figured it out ages ago.”

Mary laughed a fake, teasing laugh, “considering the two of you are never in the same room long enough for anyone to notice anything,” she raised an eyebrow, “I figured all this out without much proof. I can get some credit.”

He walked around the counter, coming to stand next to Molly. He didn’t touch her, didn’t wrap his arm around her waist or even glance at her, he just stood next to her, letting their bodies betray them as they always did, angled towards each other. “Mary—”

Mary’s expression softened as she held up her hand, “I know Sherlock, I know,” she glanced at Molly, “your secret is safe with me.”

Sherlock took Molly home not long after that, feeding everyone some believable excuse about their early departure together. Molly reluctantly gave Rosie to her father, pressing a kiss to her goddaughter’s soft forehead, smiling at the little girl’s strong grip around her finger. “Now, now young Miss Watson,” Sherlock murmured, mimicking Molly as he kissed Rosie’s forehead, “you must let go of your godmother’s finger. She has to get back home to attend to some important work, you’ll understand better when you’re older.”

“You are not taking my daughter to a crime scene, Sherlock,” John Watson joked but Mary’s smile was all-too-knowing, waving at them as he climbed into the cab after Molly.

They sat together, their fingers intertwined, hidden from the cabbie’s view beneath the folds of Sherlock’s great coat. The drive to her flat was silent, no words necessary, and his phone stayed in his pocket the entire ride as he looked out at London with a slight frown, rubbing his chin with his long middle finger, deep in thought. He followed her into the flat, letting her close the door before he pressed her back against it, bending down to kiss her slowly, tasting her as he filled his hands with her softness, kneading her flesh with knowing, familiar fingers as he drew soft moans from her.

“I’ve been wanting to do this all day,” he told her, one hand reaching up to release her hair from the turban, “but I’ve been wanting to do this even more,” he murmured, his hands slipping beneath the hem of her short dress and drawing it up, bunching it around her waist as he ran his hands over her thighs. There was something in his eyes, a luminous light that left his mouth working to find the words that were lost to him, leaving him frustrated until Molly brushed her lips to his, silencing his thoughts as she slipped her small hand beneath his shirt, spreading her fingers over his chest, over his beating heart.

Eventually she pulled back with a sigh, in that profoundly beautiful silence between them, she intertwined their hands together. She led him upstairs where they filled the silence with sighs and impatient whispers, with moans that entreated the heavens and the earth for more…God, please, more…for release, prayers of pleading to whatever power in the universe had brought them together to let them disappear in the other. She pressed her forehead against his chest, gasping when he came inside her, holding himself rigidly above her as his body shook and quaked with the force of his pleasure, her lips his saving grace as he floated down to her, her arms his retreat from the world.

------ 

It was a gloomy Tuesday night but in Molly’s heart there was sunshine and rainbows, and she was tempted to start spouting poetry or even singing show tunes, if only to annoy her Sherlock. He was sitting on her countertop, his jacket long forgotten on her sofa, shirtsleeves rolled back, swinging his long legs like a schoolboy as he watched her cook dinner for them. His voice carried through her soul as he told her about the case he’d just solved, the poor young man that had died in his parents’ driveway, his remains hidden there for a week before being discovered.

“That poor kid,” she murmured, pausing to look at him, “I can’t even imagine.”

He waved his hand dismissively, “that’s not the most interesting part,” he said, dunking a ginger nut into his tea, making her smile even as he told her about the broken Thatcher bust.

“So?” she raised a brow.

“So,” he breathed, “there’s a thread loose in the world.”

Molly laughed at him, “well, before you go merrily tugging on it and unraveling the great mystery of a broken Thatcher bust, stir this sauce will you, I only have two hands. Make yourself useful.”

He hopped off the counter but instead of taking the spoon from her, he stood behind her, gripping her hips and nuzzling her neck, his breath warm, his lips wet as he pressed her back against him, “you will find that I can be incredibly useful.”

Smiling, Molly pressed her head back against his shoulder, accepting the soft kiss he pressed to her mouth, sighing in utter contentment as his hands stroked her lower belly reverently. Her mind had latched on to the horrors the parents must have gone through, the horrors they were still wallowing in their home, their beloved child taken from them at such a young age. A part of her suddenly revolted against the idea of having a child, repulsed by the idea of the anxiety she would experience on a daily basis, the constant worry for her child’s safety, their well-being, responsible for their happiness.

“There’s been something you’ve been wanting to say all evening Molly,” he growled against her lips, “out with it then,” he blinked rapidly, the muscles in his jaw ticking rhythmically and she felt his palm on her stomach increase in pressure, “oh God, are you pregnant?”

“No!” she turned in his arms, wanting to laugh at the expression on his face, “not yet,” she murmured, placing her hands on his solid chest, “I was just—I’ve been just…thinking about…you and me. And—and having a baby.”

“What about it?” “I guess I’ve been…wondering about the—the logistics?” she cleared her throat, distracting herself by watching the way the muscles in his throat worked when he swallowed, avoiding his piercing gaze.

“Yes?” he pressed her to continue.

“Would—would we tell people that you’re the…father?” her voice was small even though she had intended to sound stronger, more secure in her knowledge of their love, of the life they wanted to create together.

“I suppose we must, especially when the child bears a striking resemblance to me and carries my name,” he said with a raised brow, running his hands down her back, “and before you ask the next silly question I see in your eyes—” he stopped, lifting her chin up to look at him with his fingertips, his voice carrying the warmth of a volcano, his eyes understanding, “everyone that matters will know that you and I are together, that we have been together, that this child wasn’t an accident but a logical, next step in our relationship. I…I admit I am worried about the security of our baby, our child, but I am willing risk it all for her. Or him, when they get here. As for living arrangements,” he spoke over her, “I figured we would live here, since your flat is so much bigger than mine and give our child more room, and I would retain Baker Street as an office of sorts.”

Molly wrapped her arms around his neck, pressing her lips to his throat as they held each other in the kitchen as tears rolled down her cheeks in wonderment, amazed at him, at the way he gave himself to the idea of becoming a father.