#it's almost ready too

[nocturnalazure]

I swear to the Maker, I'm gonna post a new update before the end of the year even if I were to die doing it.

[inkskinned]

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?

[saturnniidae]

[wishfulsketching]

Just doodling more because I can't handle s2.

[lover-of-mine]

[buglaur]

shots from messing with my reshade and decorating the pub

[sskk-manifesto]

Bungou Stray Dogs: Dead Apple and how “ability users” (opposite to “normal people”) learning to accept themselves through the acceptance of their own abilities is a queer metaphor of acceptance of own's sexual orientation and gender: an essay by me

[tiredsurvivoronmain]

Am I tripping or does Wesker and Chris fire in synch for a moment?

[inklore]

y’all don’t understand how much i love being a whore.

[mrsfitzgerald]

richard & paul | tour'23 | part I ♡

[pushing500]

Waiting for Melissa's healing ability to recharge gives Mechi plenty of time to mull over how much he enjoys (and misses) having a "twin" around.

Aaaaany day now, Melissa. We're all waiting on you.

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[robo-dino-puppy]

there is a LOT of stuff out of bounds in the meridian area of the map! i wanted to compare some spots that exist in both games, but it's kinda long so there are timestamps if you want to skip around - the estate near the end is the most interesting imo :)

the map was clearly copy/pasted but there are updated and missing textures (and ones that weren't updated that say they need to be haha) - was this the start of the rumored hzd remaster? or are the assets just ones that happen to exist in both games and were carried over because we get close to them in the "legal" area of the spire? and it's a small itty bitty thing that will be in a future video, but there's something i came across that definitely doesn't exist anywhere in hfw's map that i remember... (spoiler: it's banuk T_T)

(why are all the handholds missing texture??? that's what i really want to know lol)

[coridallasmultipass]

HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO MY BESTEST WIDDLE SNAKEY WAKEY.

I can't believe my son is 18!! I estimated a birth date for him to be about a month before I got him in fall of 2006, since he was such a widdle month-old baby sneky. I always try to get a good birthday pic of him - especially after he eats and gets the good yawns in.

Pretty soon, he'll be off to snake college, for snakes. Dunno how we're gonna afford those ssssnudent loans.

Image description below the cut:

First photo is an albino corn snake (species name: Pantherophis guttatus) peeking out from behind a fake flower on a rocky hide (a house inside the tank where reptiles can feel secure and hidden). The snake is flicking his tongue out. Only his head is visible in the photo. Caption on the photo reads: Demo's 18th birthday. August 9, 2024.

Next photo is the same snake, but in a clear, close-up, detail photo. Each scale is clearly defined. He has red eyes and pink cheeks, and pale white patterns on an off-white body. The scales on his head are shaped to follow the different planes of his face. The scales on his neck (and body, not shown) are uniform and scallop-shaped.

The next three photos are sequential. The same snake appears with his mouth barely open. Then, his mouth is wide open in a yawn. His cheeks look so smooshy. His head is shaped the way a snap hairclip opens, curved upwards, and it's funny and cute. His mouth has ridges inside, but no teeth or fangs are visible (because his teeth are too tiny to be photographed politely, and he does not have any fangs). The last photo in the sequence has the snake with his mouth still open, but the top of his head is a normal shape again as he begins to end the yawn.

[n0bluev]

I always render the face first (its not even fair...)

[ballad-of-elgado]

Been a little busy messing with texture editing…

It was originally gonna be more ashy grey with some blue but accidentally used too much purple and then liked it too much to fix it. So I kept going and maaaan…. I’m so happy with him so far. Plus he’s kinda ace flag colors so that works out even more

[jamiesfootball]

Augusnippets Day 18

Prompt: self administered medicine

cw: drug use, injuries, implied/referenced child abuse

Summary:

Roy flipped through the pages. Stopping at a blank one, he held the pen at the ready. “What do you want me to write down?" Jamie chewed on his lip. Roy was on the verge of repeating himself when he said quietly, “Summer 2009. Broken arm.”

Here on AO3

Once Roy got Jamie settled on the sofa, he diverted to the kitchen to grab the necessary supplies. Pill bottle from his bag and a glass of water, and because Roy was supposed to be trying to ‘embrace his instincts when it came to showing people he cared’, a sandwich appeared alongside the water. So did two mugs of tea.

Roy stared down at the tray and grimaced at how low he had sunk. Jamie was supposed to eat something with the painkillers, sure, but the Roy of before would’ve been content throwing a protein bar at his head and sending him home in an Uber. Instead he’d brought him back to his own house and broken out the good bread – the stuff that definitely wasn’t part of the nutrition plan.

He took a deep breath and braced himself for some mocking.

But there was no mocking to be found. Jamie was the same as he’d been since they’d left the doctors. With his face screwed up in pain, he dug the heel of his hand into the muscle above his knee, trying desperately to massage the pain away. Roy was familiar with the struggle. Knee injuries could be a bitch like that, the big nerves and tendons squeezed tightly between ligaments and bones. Rupture any part of the system and the rest became collateral, the inevitable victims of being too close to the scene of the crime. The pain was for sharing, and in spite of the localised anaesthetic, even smaller, inconsequential actions found a way of compounding into a larger toll.

Suddenly the sandwich didn’t seem like a bad idea. Even if it didn’t stay down, Jamie would need the energy. He certainly wasn’t going to want to eat when the numbing agents wore off.

“Here,” said Roy, setting the tray on the table. He grabbed the painkillers and shook out two pills. “Take these and a few bites of the sandwich, then you can pass out. There’s also tea.”

He tipped the pills into Jamie’s hand. Handed him the glass of water. Jamie swallowed the pills in one gulp, and a strange look crossed his face. Roy considered grabbing the waste bin, but the expression passed just as quickly as it came, and then Jamie waved for the sandwich to move closer.

Roy waited for Jamie to take a few bites before he finally sat down. He settled back on the sofa with a cup of tea in hand and switched on the TV.

That should’ve been that.

Halfway through an episode of Murdoch Mysteries, Roy was sure that Jamie should have passed out by now.

He’d stopped rubbing at his thigh a bit ago. Hours of pained tension had melted away, leaving him boneless against the cushions. He’d also fallen for the lure of the strategically thrown blanket over the back of the soft and was now cocooned in fleece up to his chin. The pale tint of nausea had faded — though Roy still had the waste bin nearby just in case — and the half sandwich he’d eaten had brought some colour back. He’d be the very picture of cosy if it weren’t for the knot of confusion screwed up tight between his stupid, styled eyebrows.

For someone who’d just taken a fairly high dose of painkillers, he was stubbornly holding on to consciousness, and worse than that he only seemed to be growing more agitated the more they kicked in.

After a few more minutes of restless shifting, Jamie broke the silence to ask, “Can… can you… grab something for me?”

At least the medicine was working, if the slurred words were any indication.

“Sure,” said Roy. “What do you need? The bin’s right there,” he reminded him.

He did not want to help Jamie with the bin.

The knot of confusion turned into a knot of annoyance. “Not sick, ‘s… need my bag. Could you… the notebook in it… can you?”

Roy got up. This week’s tiny bag came in a burnt orange and teal striped combo that made Roy’s eyes water. By comparison, the notebook he found inside was small and nondescript: a simple black flip-over with a Richmond-branded pen tucked through the spirals.

It took two attempts for Jamie to take hold of the notebook. His movements were clumsy, his hands shaking as he struggled to untangle the pen.

Once again, Roy was struck with the stupid urge to take care of people.

He exhaled. “Here, give me that. I can write whatever it is down for you.”

Jamie hesitated. After a moment, he held the notebook up, his expression schooled in feign disinterest. Roy took it back, and Jamie listed unsteadily after it like a fish tugged forward on a hook. Roy had to brace by the shoulder to keep him from tipping over.

He flipped through the pages. Stopping at a blank one, he held the pen at the ready. “What do you want me to write down?”

Jamie chewed his lip. Roy was on the verge of repeating himself when he said quietly, “Summer 2009. Broken arm.”

Roy froze. In the raging quiet, he carefully transcribed the words, the pen creaking under the pressure.

“It’s for Dr Sharon,” Jamie explained.

Roy swallowed back a painful lump in his throat and shook his head. “You don’t have to tell me.”

“I know, but in case I forget. I want… I need to…,” Jamie trailed off, argument lost. He stared at Roy with a wretchedly sad expression.

Roy capped the pen. It wasn’t like he would need to write this down to remember it later. Despite the short list of facts he’d been given, Roy hardly needed a calculator to figure out why Jamie might need to tell Sharon about a broken arm.

For a man Roy had only ever seen once, for about three minutes, James Tartt Sr left a visceral impression – and nothing he’d learned since then had weakened it.

He gestured for Jamie to get on with it then.

Jamie pushed himself upright against the cushions. He shook his head, scrunching up his face and blinking hard like he was trying to wake himself up. When he spoke, he sounded more clear-headed, but the words came out chopped, a staccato listing of facts that gave the impression that somewhere underneath a dog whistle screeched at full volume.

“It’s for learning my boundaries. Idea is to write down memories from when I was a kid, stuff that didn’t make any sense or that I don’t…can’t remember. Then I’m supposed to see if there’s a pattern. Especially if it involved…if I were angry or scared or anything like that.”

He stared vacantly at the tray where it still lay on the coffee table. Most of the sandwich was gone; the glass, empty. Only a half-drunk mug of tea and the bottle of pills remained.

A half-formed suspicion slithered into Roy’s gut, nesting into a quiet ache.

“All right,” Roy nodded encouragingly. The atmosphere in the room had turned into a fragile thing, hairline fractures ready to crack if he stepped too hard. “That makes sense.”

Jamie’s head dipped against his chest. “When I was twelve or thirteen or whatever, I don’t remember which, I broke my arm. Nothing that serious, I was just being dumb at training. Bet the team ten quid I could do a backflip on the first try.”

Roy snorted. The pressure in his chest released so abruptly he felt almost dizzy with it. “So you were always a cartwheeling troublemaker?”

“Yeah.” A small grin quirked at the corner of his mouth. “Yeah, I really took to the gymnastics part of training. D’you know I can do a full splits?”

Roy scoffed, amused. “Fuck off.”

“Well, I could do it when I was seventeen. Could probably still manage it if I warmed up properly.”

The smile faded. “But I broke my arm, yeah? And mummy was essentially working two jobs at the time because she’d finally decided she wanted to stop waitressing. She’d started taking night classes, so I didn’t see her all that much. And dad was in his superdad phase, and he’d said he was cutting back on the drinking, so it was usually him that picked me up from training anyways. So when I broke my arm, that’s who they called to come get me.”

Jamie swerved from thought to thought, some of them not quite connecting but all of them on a horrible forward trajectory. It was like staring at a bus crash that Roy knew was coming. He just couldn’t see the death toll yet.

“I remember the hospital in pieces.” Jamie started to massage his thigh again; absently, like he didn’t realise he was doing it. “I remember them letting me pick the colour for my cast – City blue, of course. Had to prove to my old man I was still as dedicated as ever. It worked, too. In fact, in fact he wasn’t even mad I broke my arm that time,” Jamie said wonderingly. “He thought it was funny. Not like I need an arm to play football, right?”

Fucking Christ.

The smile slipped from Jamie’s face. He rubbed his thigh harder. “I remember… the doctors sent me home with some pills? I remember them telling me my arm would probably hurt for a week or two, and after that I could switch to paracetamol if it still hurt. But I remember seeing the pills. We went back to my dad’s flat. He gave me the pills, crushed ‘em up in my tea for me to help hide the taste. But that’s where it gets–“

He let out a ragged breath, his eyes screwing up tightly.

“Roy,” he whined. “Roy, this is the same stuff they gave me back then, but I don’t remember it feeling this way.”

“What do you remember?” Roy asked, trying to sound calm even as panic, dull and rusted, throbbed in his chest. It happened over ten years ago. They’d just come from the hospital. Jamie was alive in front of him. None of that stopped the foreboding from growing like a seed.

Twelve. He would’ve been twelve. That was a fucking kid.

Jamie shook his head. “I don’t know. But they didn’t taste chalky. They didn’t do this.” He gestured weakly at himself. “It didn’t make me numb. Didn’t make me tired. I had a headache the whole time, and my arm hurt so bad I kept being sick. I kept waiting for the pills to kick in. The stuff they gave me in hospital, that seemed to work fine. But when I got home the pain just kept getting worse. I couldn’t even get to sleep. Everything hurt.”

The more Roy heard, the more an ugly thought began to take shape in his head.

“Next day my mum comes to pick me up, and I tell her I don’t think the medication is working like it’s supposed to. She takes me back to the hospital; they figure I must have thrown it up in the night. They give me something there, and I fall asleep. I don’t remember anything after that. I don’t even remember going home. Next memory I’ve got is showing my cast off to the team and arguing with the coaches that I should still be allowed to train ‘cause who needs an arm to play football anyways?”

His hands lifted in a shrug, the blanket flapping up and down as if to say, ‘there you go.’

“That it?” asked Roy. He wanted to confirm he had all the pieces before he said anything.

“Yeah,” said Jamie, falling limp against the sofa. “That’s it.”

“Can I ask something?”

Jamie shrugged. Whatever reserves of energy he’d had, they were gone now, completely burned through with nothing left to stoke the fire in his wake.

But Roy still had an ember, and it pulsed hot and angry in his chest.

“What did your dad say?” he demanded. “When you were up all night, sick from pain and unable to sleep? What did he fucking say to that?”

“He didn’t say anything,” said Jamie. “He was asleep the whole time. I tried to wake him up during the night, but it didn’t work. Out like a light straight through ‘til mummy picked me up the next afternoon. I couldn’t wake him up.”

And there it was.

“Oh.”

Jamie snorted, a hysterically unfunny noise, wet and clogged and full of pain and disappointment and numb, numb resignation.

“Yeah,” he agreed. ”Oh.”