#have a wonderful rest of your day!!

[lifemod17]

hit me with your favorite "d" songs!!

Hello sweet Em!! Happy timezones 🥰🥰

Die Mf Die - Dope (always gets played when I'm in a mood to flip a table)

Deserve you - Michl (if you wanna float, this is a beautiful song)

Dress - Charlotte Sands (I love when women ✨)

Discombobulated - Eminem (one of his underrated songs off of the Music To Be Murdered By album!)

Doo Wop (That Thing) - Lauryn Hill (if you like this song, you are so cool to me and i wanna vibe out with you!!)

[fox-and-the-hound]

Drew this in July: me & my bf 💕

[justplaggin]

he KNOWS

[ohitslen]

College (uni??) AU catering to my own interests as it should always be hehe :)

[froggtogs]

get pranked

[lunathecrackhead]

Stop fighting‼️

I just wanted to redraw something🤷‍♀️

I’m also running out of titles

Also have a random reaction image that I created.

[mushroomjar]

I don't like the way you guys talk about Palestinians asking for donations. I don't like it.

I had to see someone make MULTIPLE posts bitching and moaning about how people need to stop sending them asks asking for them to reblog their donation posts, that they'd just be blocking them from now on, and that they didn't care if they were vetted because they still found the act of sending asks to get reblogs on their donation links suspicious, even if they were in a dire situation. They even went as far as to say that they got an ask, deleted it, and then they got another ask from the same person, and accused the person of sending another ask to purposefully "get under their skin"

I don't know man, have you considered that being a victim of ongoing genocide will make you ask for help in whatever way you can? And sometimes that involves sending random blogs asks to see if they can donate or at the very least share your donation links? A Palestinian reaches out to you multiple times because they need help and your response is to whine about getting donation links in your inbox? I wish I had your problems

Also the thing about "getting the exact same ask from the exact same blog multiple times"... uh, duh? First of all, they're probably reaching out to dozens of blogs daily, do you think they're gonna type up a new paragraph for each blog they reach out to? Second of all, maybe they reached out to you multiple times because a. They really really really need the help and b. What, do you think they're gonna see your URL/blog and be like "oh! I already reached out to this blog, I'm not gonna send them another ask"? Or do you think they'll be like "this person has been reblogging other people's donation posts, maybe they'll reblog mine too"?

Like I understand being suspicious about getting sent donation links to your inbox, but literally all you have to do is check if the blog's been vetted by other bloggers? It's as easy as searching for their URL on tumblr sometimes, it literally takes less than a minute or two. And that's what bothers you? That's what you're complaining about? Find a real problem!!!

[skinnypaleangryperson]

Try very hard not to be somebody that is so simple that they are a literal walking cliche stereotype of a boring fixation and placing their entire identity around it with multiple projects daydreaming and disorders around it to give them comfort to get through a hell of a pathetic small little life, but it just seems to be in my nature.

[thunderc1an]

just wanted to get this out there since I sometimes see these types of responses whenever I post a comic

but you guys are free to interpret my work however you want Sure the comic might be about warrior cats, but you can read it as a trans allegory (as an example) if that's what floats your boat!

[pushing500]

I love how the bionic makes their overworld sprite look about 90% less pissed

That +7 "Transhumanist quite pleased" working its magic

Before the bionic eyes, their pawns just looked like they were always judging you or like something was making them especially grumpy that day (which it usually is, but that's beside the point)

After the bionics, they're still judging you they're just happy about it this time.

[misericorsalvator]

An Epitaph

Henry didn't know where he was. It was cold, freezing, but that was all he could tell, from the sharp chill that tore through his damp clothes, to the frigid air that felt like icicles in his lungs when he breathed. Even if he was someplace familiar, it would have been impossible to tell through the veil of rime in the air, the thick hoar that coated the ground. But wherever he was, he had to find shelter. soon, before his limbs grew any number that they already were and he lost the three fingers he had left on his right hand to frostbite. It took a good deal of walking, trudging through the snow, before he found something resembling sanctuary. A rocky hovel dug deep into a mountainside he hadn't even noticed was there. The crooked mountaintop loomed far overhead like a wind-swept pine tree, towering over the barren expanse and shielding the small patch of land near the cave's entrance from the worst of the snowfall. It was a narrow fit, the opening more narrow than a coffin, but it opened up into a wide chamber beyond, dark, lit only by the little light reflecting on the snow outside.

Panic stabbed at him suddenly. That chamber felt familiar, though he couldn't recall from where. The rockface of the walls was smooth, man-made, and the stalactites hanging from the domed ceiling above were unnatural, all the same length, jagged and sharpened to fine points. But he had no time to waste on the unnerving interior. The weather outside was getting worse, the wind howling like wolves on a hunt, and soon his shelter would be just as cold and dangerous as the outside. He had to think, find a way to keep the warmth in. Henry returned to the entrance. He twisted around in the narrow space as best he could and began piling up snow with his numb hands, stacking it, pressing it into shape, mouthing breathless curses to himself, until he had built a solid wall halfway up to his neck. It should last. He didn't know for how long, but at least for now, until he could catch his breath. It had to last.

Henry slumped against the wall of the cave. The barrier he had built offered some protection, but he could still feel the cold creeping in, seeping through the gaps and cracks in the snow. A damp chill gnawed at his bones, freezing the air in his lungs. He knew he had to keep moving, to do something, anything, to stay warm and awake. He couldn’t afford to fall asleep. Not here. Not now. But his limbs were leaden and his body creaked in protest with every movement. His teeth chattered as he tried to think, tried to remember where he was and how he had gotten there. The harder he tried, however, the more his thoughts seemed to slip away, like sand through his fingers. Panic clawed at his chest once more as he looked around the cavern. The walls seemed to close in, the smooth stone shimmering with a thin layer of rime frost. The ceiling above with the unnaturally sharp stalactites, loomed over him like a mouth full of fangs. He had to get out.

Henry pushed himself off the wall, his legs shaking beneath him. The snow was piling up faster now, further in through the entrance than the wall he had built, and he frantically began to shovel it away with his hands, trying to clear a path through the narrow gap. He shovelled harder, floundered, grappled til his fingers were too numb to move, but for every tiny hopeful opening he made, more snow took its place, as if the storm outside was determined to bury him alive. The cold was unbearable now, seeping into his very soul. Outside, the wind roared, a feral sound that echoed through the cavern and made the air thick with cold. Each breath now was a knife to the chest, each inhale burning his lungs. The snow crawled closer, blocking the entrance fully, and began to cover the cave floor inch by painful inch, forcing the hunter back step by painful step.

Henry's mind was reeling. He stumbled further into the cave, away from the encroaching cold, the bones of his legs creaking in protest. The deeper he went, the more the walls seemed to close in on him, the smooth rock pressing down, suffocating. The quiet there was unnerving, an oppressive stillness that made him painfully aware of his own laboured breathing and the pounding of his heart. The silence of the grave. For what felt like an hour, he pushed himself forward against the stone walls, cowering under the stalactites which were now low enough to graze the top of his head. No matter how far he went, the snow followed close behind, blocking the way back. Henry's movements grew slower, more sluggish, until he could no longer outrun it, and that white frost began piling up around his boots. He felt the fight leave him, his breathing weakened, his heartbeat slowed.

Then, from the corner of his eye, he saw it—a single snowflake, delicate and perfect, drifting down from the ceiling above. His breath caught in his throat as he watched it fall, impossibly slow, through solid rock. It glowed faintly in the dim light and Henry’s eyes followed its descent, almost hypnotized, until it landed softly on the ground. On something dark, something that wasn’t stone. He crouched down, his stiff knees cracking in protest, and wiped away the snow, his fingers brushing against a cold, unyielding surface.

A hand.

His hand.

His breath caught in his throat. He was looking at himself, at his own lifeless body, crumpled and broken, half-buried in the snow. The wounds were horrific—deep gashes and punctures that were draining the life out of him-- and the realization hit him like a sledgehammer.

This wasn't real.

The snow, the cold, it was all in his head, growing blurry as his brain ran out of oxygen. And the cavern wasn’t just familiar—it was the place he was dying, right now, in the real world. The place where his body was lying, bleeding out into the cold ground, his blood darkening the stone ground.

For a third time, panic surged through him, but it was laced with a deep, bone-weary exhaustion. The wind howled louder, and now Henry could make out voices, battle cries, screeching and yowling in twisted satisfaction. The snow now poured into the cave through the solid ceiling above, burying everything in its path. He wanted to claw his way out, to escape this nightmare, but his limbs wouldn’t respond. The snow was too thick, too heavy, pressing down on him from all sides. As his vision began to blur, the walls of the cave pulsed, breathing with a life of their own, in tandem with his own slowed breaths. The snow continued to fall, endlessly, burying him, until all he could see was white. And then, from the heart of the storm, he saw a figure—a tall, imposing silhouette that moved with unnatural grace, cutting through the blizzard as if it were nothing. Henry tried to focus, but his mind was slipping, the edges of his consciousness fraying like old cloth.

His final thoughts drifted to Bran. A deep guilt welled up inside him. He wouldn’t make it home for Christmas this year. He wouldn’t see his boy’s face light up when he opened his presents, wouldn’t hear his laughter echoing through the house. Regret gnawed at him, leaving a bitter taste in his mouth. In his last moments, as the darkness closed in, Henry barely registered the sharp pain in his chest—a bite, cold and searing, as if winter itself had latched onto his heart, and his eyes froze over with unshed tears until the world faded and he breathed his last.

In a long-forgotten catacomb in Wales, as the last drop of Henry's blood soaked into the humid ground, something ancient stirred. Beneath the layers of earth and stone, within the crypt that had long been forgotten, a pair of eyes snapped open. After centuries of entombment, something awoke. The blood of the dying hunter seeped into its consciousness, filling it with the remnants of Henry's life, his memories, his regrets. And once the blood had ran dry, the ancient knight rose from his tomb, his eyes burning with a cold, unholy fire.

He tore through the killers, the blood-thirsty beasts who had chased their prey to the ancient tomb, splattering the walls with their undead blood that burnt to ash, until none were left. Then, he looked down at the broken body of the hunter who had unwittingly become his saviour. With a grim sense of purpose, the knight knelt beside Henry’s lifeless form. He whispered words in a dialect long dead, a prayer, perhaps, or a vow. Then, with a reverence reserved for fallen comrades, the knight lifted the hunter’s body and carried him deeper into the crypt, where heroes were once laid to rest, where the knight's own tomb stood, broken apart from within. The hunter was gone, his spirit entwined with the ancient knight’s own, but his legacy would live on, honoured by one of the very creatures he had once sought to destroy.

The knight sealed the tomb with a final, solemn gesture, then left the catacombs behind and stepped out into the warm summer night, into a world which had long outlived him.

[skunkes]

if life is categorized by Before Loss and After Loss then I exist in the before but with a countdown to the after. and the countdown is always always present and debilitating. the loss will be debilitating too but i cant help myself. i will always suffer twice.

[blametheeditor]

I need more tiny James in my life. He’s very holdable.

Agreed, he is very holdable! I think we both need more tiny James, it's good for the soul!

Content Warnings: Cursing. Trapping someone against their will. Addressing someone as ‘it’. Mentions of infestations.

And bad for Scott’s health

________________________

Scott doesn’t so much as blink when he spots something dart across the desk out of the corner of his eye. 

If he was looking over reports at Fazbear Entertainment Center, he might’ve been a little more concerned. That location is newly built and hasn’t even existed for a full year. It shouldn’t be possible for any kind of infestation to run rampant in the walls. Not when wooden beams aren’t so rotten they’ll turn to dust the moment air hits them, and the walls are properly insulated to keep moisture from seeping in. 

As it turns out, he’s at Freddy Fazbear’s, a location that’s over 20 years old and has its fair share of issues, including being overrun by rodents and pests alike every other year. At least the rats and roaches made some kind of agreement they’ll switch off who gets the run of the place. 

Scott was hoping they’ll get a break this year considering he hasn’t caught a single glimpse of antennas peeking out from under cabinets or dark shapes scattering for cover when a light is flipped on. It turns out they’ve only gotten smarter, giving him a false sense of security so he wouldn’t have pest control on speed dial until they arrived. 

They may have won this round as a collective, but he isn’t anything but experienced with one on one encounters. And as luck would have it, he had yet to get a refill of coffee.

Scott’s concentration on the financials before him isn’t broken as he reaches for his empty mug. With practiced movements, he picks it up before turning it over in his hand as he circles a line to remind him to check in against what the manager reported. Only when his trap is ready does he finally glance in the direction he saw the fleeting form disappear. 

It seems to sense his intentions, because the moment he looks at the phone is the moment it runs to find better over. If it had been on the floor or even ran over his shoe, he wouldn’t have bothered giving it so much as a second thought. It decided to invade his desk, however, in the middle of him needing to have this done by noon for Afton to review. 

So Scott effortlessly thunks his mug over the roach. Turns back to the desk at hand, satisfied there won’t be anymore distractions. 

He was a bit too quick to celebrate. Because even though nothing will be catching his eye as it scuttles over the desk, something is trying its best to get him in trouble with Afton. This time in the form of a distinct though very soft clanging sound. It’s not loud enough for him to immediately discern what is it or where it’s coming from, but it sits right on the edge of his hearing where it will drive him mad if it doesn’t stop. 

Scott sighs in frustration. Tosses his pen away before leaning back in the chair as he stretches. Once his joints have popped back into place, he finds himself turning toward the East hallway. His gaze becomes longing, wanting to do nothing more than walk into the kitchen to get another cup of coffee. 

That’s when he realizes he can’t hear the noise anymore. 

Confused, the man leans toward the desk. Feels his brow furrow as the clanging is once again within earshot. 

What the hell?

Realizing it’s coming from the desk, Scott carefully gathers up his papers to set aside. Gives a cursory look over the surface to confirm there’s nothing out of the ordinary. He then begins to open up the drawers to see if something’s rattling around. Pauses when the noise stops after the headache inducing squeal of metal scrapping echoes through the office. 

Looking down in the drawer, he doesn’t see anything that could be the culprit, proceeding to close it again before waiting. 

It’s silent. And then the noise starts again, this time distinct erratic compared to the rhythmic tempo from before. 

A chill runs down Scott’s spine. Because it can’t just be a coincidence the sound stopped when he made one, not when his actions seemed to have directly effected whatever is causing the clanging. 

Ready to pack everything up and say to hell with Afton, his eyes land on the fan. And suddenly Scott feels like a complete idiot not having thought of checking that first. It’s about just as old as the building and honestly a miracle the thing hasn’t broken before this. 

Scott flips the switch with a long sigh. Rubs his face tiredly as he turns back to his papers, snagging his pen to continue the monotonous task of reading numbers. 

Except the clanging doesn’t stop once the blades are still. If anything, it’s gotten louder, and quicker as if rejuvenated. And now, the man can almost hear something muffled added to it. 

His eyes lock on his overturned mug. Freezes as it finally clicks there’s something hitting the ceramic. 

...roaches can’t do that. 

Scott will admit fear begins to take root, unsure what exactly he managed to catch. He hadn’t exactly check to make sure it was a roach, just jumped to the assumption it was one. What else could it be? 

He stares at the unassuming mug for a long moment. It’s enough time for whatever the hell it is to start faltering, the odd sound that might as well be his death toll slowing until it finally stops. The silence is loud in his ears. 

Curiosity wins over the fear of potentially getting bit by something poisonous or releasing one of Afton’s deadly creations into the world. Besides, he’s already caught it once. If it somehow manages to escape, it’s clearly no match for a ceramic mug. 

Scott reaches over the desk, carefully grabbing the bottom of the mug with his fingertips. Slowly, carefully, he then lifts it at an angle about half an inch. Not enough space for something to squirm its way out, but enough so he can finally hear the odd sound clearly. 

“Cawthon, it’s me, Stiller!” 

Scott’s mouth drops open at the same time the mug thumps back into place. His hand doesn’t move as he’s left to sit in complete shock. Because that wasn’t, it couldn’t have been, it’s not possible. 

He did not just hear James’ voice come from underneath the mug. 

James Stiller is a young man who Scott essentially forced Afton to hire as an on call doctor. James Stiller stands about the same height as him. James Stiller could never be mistaken for a roach. 

Scott takes a deep breath. Silently prays that after 20 years he isn’t finally loosing his sanity. Lifts the mug up completely to reveal James, the one man crouched with one hand clutching a fishing hook and the other raised defensively. 

“James?” the man demands, though it sounds more like a plea than anything. 

Miniscule brown eyes rapidly blink before squinting up at him. As if he was in complete darkness just before. Which means this his real, his mind isn’t playing tricks on him, he trapped the doctor under a mug. 

“Hey, boss,” James greets. Sends a wary look above him before offering a hesitant smile. “Almost had me worried that’s how you normally punish those who interrupt you.” 

“Oh God no,” Scott breathes, horrified at the thought of knowingly trapping James like that. Trapping anyone. “I am so sorry, I swear I had no idea you were...” 

He trails off as the last few minutes finally sink in. Not just the part where the assumed roach turned out not to be one, the part about the fact it turned out to be James. Even though that should be impossible. 

There’s no way to deny it, however. The person standing before him is James. And there the phone stands directly beside the man, the receiver three times his size. 

“You’re tiny.” 

“And you’re giant.” 

Scott sputters. “James this is serious. I trapped you with a mug for God’s sake!” 

The doctor hesitates, looking tense. After a moment, he gestures above him. “I can explain. Though, I would prefer if the mug isn’t involved.” 

He hadn’t noticed he never set the mug down after the big reveal, meaning it’s been hovering over James’ head, capable of sealing him away in darkness at any moment. Scott is more than happy to set it down. Right side up so it can’t simply be grabbed to trap James again. 

Turns to the doctor to look him up and down. “Are you hurt?” 

“I’m fine, didn’t even run into the side of it,” James reassures. He seems to think something over before lowering his arms, the fishing hook glinting in the dim lighting as it’s tapped against his leg. “You know, usually people try to catch me with a jar.” 

“They what?” Scott demands, appalled at the thought of someone knowingly trapping James. And while a mug is certainly despicable, a jar seems ten times more malicious, especially with the sole purpose of catching someone. 

“It’s human nature,” the doctor shrugs. “I go against every scientific law of energy and matter conservation, not to mention it’s a bit fascinating to find a living person that’s no taller than you’re finger.” 

Scott suddenly feels sick. “I swear I had no idea what you were. I just assumed you were a roach.” 

Despite how small the man’s face is, the expression of pure amusement is easily recognized.  “Left your reading glasses at home, Cawthon?” 

“It was a glance.” 

James only gives a wry smile before it morphs into something more thoughtful. “So, you had no plans for me specifically?” 

That’s when it finally clicks. As the shock from finding a handheld James slowly fades away, Scott begins to peace everything together. From the doctor commenting about being caught before, to the fishing hook having what looks to be a thread tied around it, to the expectation the mug was used to trap him for a reason. 

James wasn’t shrunk and somehow made his way onto the desk. Being only a few inches tall is normal to him. 

God, what did he stumble into? 

Scott pinches the bridge of his nose as he takes a long, deep breath. Slowly exhales as he tries to think about how he should proceed. When he’s gathered his thoughts, he looks down to find James casually leaning against the phone with his arms crossed as if it’s the wide of a building rather than something people use to make calls. 

“No,” Scott begins softly in response to James’ original question. “I didn’t and don’t have plans for you except ask you’ll be at Fazbear’s Pizzeria from 2 until 7.” 

The doctor’s eyes go wide as he stares up. Only then does Scott realize how much he must tower. God he’s a monster. “Don’t want to ask me any questions?” 

“No,” Scott growls. “I can only imagine what you use that hook for, and I would rather not know how many times you nearly break your neck in a day.” 

It’s better he doesn’t know. Or else James would be at risk of being locked away for his own safety. Never to be studied as an interesting specimen, but certainly to keep him from dying by his own stupidity. 

If Eggs is ever suddenly handheld, Scott’s locking the mechanic in a cage and throwing away the key. 

“I’ll be at Fazbear’s Pizzeria by 2,” James agrees. “Mind if I stay here until then?” 

Scott glances over at the clock, glares as 10:20 blinks at him as if to say he’s running out of time to finish looking through the financials. “As long as you don’t distract me.” 

“You won’t even know I’m here.” 

Truthfully, he should’ve known James would be distracting even if he didn’t move from his spot by the phone. But Scott is an idiot, not to mention greatly ashamed of the fact he treated someone like a pest even though it was unknowingly. He didn’t have the heart to kick the doctor out of the room. 

Maybe it would’ve been better to banish James. It certainly would have saved his heart from yet another scare when the pen he was reaching for turned out to be a living person. 

At least he had the foresight to check before he blindly grabbed. If he hadn’t, James either would’ve been snatched up carelessly or flicked across the desk. Though, he wouldn’t have needed to check if a certain shrunken man hadn’t picked the pen up so they’re standing side by side. 

Scott can only sigh in exasperation, unable to even admire the fact the pen is about twice the man’s size. “Why?” 

James shrugs, a bit too casually for someone who was almost grabbed. “Wanted to see something.” 

That earns the doctor a glare. “I’m counting this as a distraction.” 

“Means I’m doing my job.” 

“Jameson Stiller I swear to God.” 

[zecoritheweirdone]

first art post of the new year!!! granted, i don't share my art here that much anyway, but– shhh.

hehehehhhooo,, here's something i've been working on for 'bout a month,, albeit not consecutively– took a few,, very very long breaks in between working on this,, but i managed to finish it in the end! am i satisfied with it? .......ehhhh? not completely, but if this took any longer, it might not have seen the light of day, so like. ¯\_(ツ)_/¯.

anyway,, made a little poster for my favorite fic, tommyinnit's services for villains, vigilantes, and various other vagabonds, by @scorpionoesit!!! it's really really good,,, and i've always wanted to make more art for it,, so i decided– poster! at least,, that's what it's mean to resemble,,, dkdmkdmdkd.

i will freely admit,, i'm... not the biggest fan of the fan-made logo i tried to design for it,, feels a bit boring, and could definitely have used a bit more pizazz, something to make feel more like the fic itself(what does that mean? you figure that out),,,, but– again, steam was running low,, dkdnksjs. graphic design is my passion. i do also have other complaints, but i'm afraid i already punched my one-use self-critique card,, oh well,,, dkdnkxjdkd.

regardless,, even with the flaws only i can really see,, this still turned out pretty okay!! hope you enjoy it, mx. scorpio and mx. alibi!!! and i hope everyone else has a wonderful new year!!!!

[masquenoire]

Barring any new asks, I think that's the last of those 'icons only' memes and it was very fun doing them all! Thank you so much for sending them in everyone, I'm feeling more confident about activity again and will hopefully be inspired to write a bit more often from now on providing schedule eases up sometime soon!

[thegreatyin]

completely normal roommates bonding over completely normal things like *flips through notes* murdering each other and having complicated opinions on giant alien bats