#should I have posted each separately?

[geopsych]

Went looking for wildflowers while I was at the lake and I was not disappointed. The first 4 pictures are of rue anemone. I saw many thousands carpeting whole sections! What you see in those wider shots but more and more of it. Amazing. Trout lilies grew among them but are just starting to bloom. Back in the thicker woods I saw some dwarf ginseng, most of them still in bud, and in the thick moss along the road just a few bluets were opening up.

Wood anemones were only in bud. Pink lady slippers are just sprouts a few inches out of the ground. It was so good to be back among those friends again. I always wonder if I’ll make it to this time of year and now here we are! \o/

[waitineedaname]

not romantic or platonic but a secret third thing (bonded pair)

[plulp]

hey guys. remy design

[problemnyatic]

You have to choose love. I'm sorry, I know. I know it hurts. I know you're upset, you deserve to be outraged. Your pain is real and deeply unjust. But you have to. You have to choose love.

There's too much hurt in the world. Too much bitterness. The powerful have built an inconciecable machine that turns all human suffering into unimaginable wealth, and it us hurting all of us. It has taught us to hurt each other.

We can't let it continue. We can't keep lashing out at each other. We can't keep making enemies of our siblings in pain. We have to choose love. We have to.

We have to forgive each other. Not entirely, we don't have to forget our pain, but we have to forgive enough to see each other as more alike than separate. We have to forgive each other for being taught to cause hurt.

I'm not your enemy. You aren't mine. There are people poisoning our planet en masse, killing our mother earth, erasing whole cultures, stripping human rights to keep us disempowered. We can't let ourselves become each other's enemies, even when we hurt each other.

Your pain is real. You deserve better. We all do. But we'll only achieve better if we save our ire for the real bigger fish. We can't keep fighting over the details, we all already agree on the most important part: we deserve better.

Language will always be muddy, we won't all speak the same meaning into the same words. We're gonna step on each other's toes, hurt each other deeply, even when we mean to be gentle. We're going to make mistakes along the way, we'll be misguided. But we have to forgive. We have to choose love.

I know this is preachy, I know this is vague, I know this is corny. I know. I'm just.. scared. I'm terrified. Every day I see so many like-minded people on here who would sooner tell one another to kill themselves than agree to fight for our common causes because of deeply held presumptions of character built on superficial things. I see people declaring anyone who finds joy in the wrong things, the wrong labels, to be as good as an abuser, as the very people who've put the boot on our necks in the first place.

I see so many people see the state of our world, the abysmal status quo, and respond by pouring a deep righteous passion into delineating who of us is a worthy enough aly and who is effectively a walking incarnation of their ideological enemy.

We'll never be able to achieve the unity we need to take our rights back if we're so quick to make teams and choose sides. I know, I know that a lot of these things actually matter, I'm not trying to dismiss the significance of any of these things.

What I'm saying is that, despite these conflicts, we need to swallow our differences and choose to love each other enough to focus not on the ways in which we are divided, but on our unity in oppression. Every LGBT person is threatened by any of us having our rights taken, we are a family. Every internet user, proship, antiship, vanilla, kinky, artist, lurker, all of us are threatened by attacks on privacy, by the advancement of censorship of any kind.

We can sort out our grudges when there's time. But I can't help but think too much is too dire for us to let ourselves choose to fight each other as enemies when we're all in such similar need of better.

We need humility in the face of error. We need to let go of the fear of being wrong, of having believed the wrong things, fought for the wrong causes, of having hurt other people. We need to release our guilt, for no amount of it will ever heal a wound inflicted, reverse an error made. We need to see even our enemies as human, even the worst of us as human. We need to remember that we, and others, can always make a choice.

Everything is so, so goddamn scary. It's hard to know what to believe, and who to trust, and who and what and where is safe. And I think that the answer has to be love. We have to love recklessly, we have to be kind no matter what. We have to trust ourselves to change, to be capable of change, of being accepted for changing, we have to trust each other to mean well, to accept us when we try to improve. We have to give second chances, we have to seek the humanity behind each other's actions, and seek to connect with it.

I love you. I want to make a better world with you. Even if we believe different things, I want your life to be easy. I want food in your fridge, I want joy to be an old friend you can always count on being in your daily life. I want rest for you. I want sleep to come easy, I want you to feel safe. I want you warm in the cold, and cool in the heat. I love you.

[maulfucker]

This song is making me want to start yet another fic to never finish,, "Tell me... Where is your hideout? Who are we running from? I'm starting to think that you were right, and now I'm afraid of letting go of your hand...." Maul giving up on his Mandalore plan and deciding to just stalk Kenobi to tell him about his vision. Staying illegally in Obi-Wan's room because I love putting these guys in situations (and because Maul would NOT leave him alone until Obi-Wan actually accepted Maul is right, which he won't). Following Obi-Wan to Utapau and helping him escape after the clones attack, feeling equal parts vindicated and enraged (because he was proved right but Sidious still won). Them being on the run together....

[widowshill]

happy aro week to everyone who celebrates. give your local aro a hundred dollars to compensate for their suffering (me).

[bigkickguy]

wip - trying to doodle my rarepair on the beach and i can't stop trying to make emo ideas happen so im spitting out here to get it out of my head eustace and isaac could be cute !! just let them have their peace and quiet!! I'm starting to rotating them in my mind !!

[anxiously-sidequesting]

In inspiration of that Whoopsy-Daisy wiki Ice Fail Moment™🤪, please reblog and/or tag with your personal Ice School/Magic/Wizard headcanons or stories because I know fuck all about Ice wizards and y'all need some love ot seems like

[kayzero]

ohhhh, i only ship them with the protagonist because i have an issue separating myself from the perspective character. i don’t like them together necessarily, i just like Her and i think i’m Them. i gotcha.

[collieii]

back on my wolfwood bullshit! i'm using a lot of the same ideas from my other post so i'll try not to repeat myself, but as i said, a major theme of wolfwood's arc is autonomy and freedom, and the idea that having freedom to choose also comes with the responsibility to act and make good choices.

throughout trimax, wolfwood is in a strange position. he's beholden to higher powers - the eye of michael, knives, even vash in a way, while also simultaneously having a lot of freedom to act, particularly in the moment. the things that control him are more like swords of damocles - present, inevitable, but not immediate. he's constantly struggling to figure out what he should do - take knives out, kill vash, and more generally, things like his profession as assassin. he's very torn about the choices he makes (or doesn't make) and the life he lives because he's dissatisfied with his position, and there isn't an easy way out.

there are a lot of parallels between midvalley and wolfwood. midvalley, similar to wolfwood, was forced into a place he really didn't want to be in. he's hyperaware of the danger of his situation, knows he's expendable to knives, and that knives has so much power - how can anyone escape it? so he has to ask himself - how is he going to spend the time that he has? should he risk his life or play it safe? we know what he decides - he's likely to die either way, so he might as well try to get his way, release himself from knives' control.

midvalley pretty easily identifies wolfwood as someone who is allied with vash, who has no true loyalty to knives. he says they have no reason to fight - midvalley and hoppered have officially moved against knives and made their choice. is wolfwood going to resolve himself, follow what he truly believes - in vash, against knives? or will he keep playing the game of someone who doesn't have their mind made up, still working under knives thumb? (midvalley has always called wolfwood chapel, right up until this moment - he's breaking through the pretenses, acknowledging that he knows what wolfwood really is).

(using the overhaul translation here bc it's much clearer!) midvalley basically says that wolfwood does have power, but at that point in the story, he's mostly just going along with what's safe, as opposed to midvalley and hoppered. midvalley is aware that wolfwood might have similar goals to him. as someone who, like wolfwood, fears knives and what he can do, midvalley criticizes wolfwood's passivity or inability to fight for what he wants.

still, we see that when midvalley does act against knives he dies. immediately. both him and hoppered made their choice, and it didn't end well for them. maybe they knew it'd be that way. still, it's a poignant reminder to wolfwood about the power of choice, and the risks that come with it. he has to confront what other people are willing to risk and ask himself if he can do the same.

then we get to volume 8. wolfwood, who spends so much of the story agonizing over his choices, is finally resolved. he goes against knives and frees vash. he chooses not to kill unless absolutely necessary. his autonomy is realized at the price of his life. and that's the equation he has to figure - save myself, and damn everyone i care about? be dissatisfied with myself, my life? or save what he loves, do what he wants, and risk himself? wolfwood is keenly aware of his own morality. he has so much he wants to protect, and he can't do that if he's dead. i think one of the reasons he's able to take a stand against knives is because of his relationship with vash - he knows that there's someone with similar goals and values who will fight to protect humanity after he's gone. he goes out having taken care of chapel and livio, and trusting that vash will handle knives. he can die peacefully knowing he's assured the safety of his family.

by volume 10, wolfwood is showing everyone who he is and what he stands for, for better or worse. he was willing to fight - and willing to die - to do what he believed was right. trimax shows, again, and again, that there's often no easy answer, no easy way to live, no easy choice to make. that's sort of the idea that's communicated with the bird imagery - a life of freedom is a life of struggle. it's not a new idea, ofc. but we see with wolfwood - the right thing and the safe thing are often not the same. what are we willing to do? how far will we go? what will we sacrifice? and what will leave us most satisfied at the end?

[shiroselia]

Fair Warning: This post is very rambly. Super fucking long. And has a bunch of paragraphs about topics that to be quite frank deserve their own post. This is me TLDRing like 7 different essays because I have a lot to say and can't shut the fuck up but this is despite it all still a tumblr post.

The fact that SSO exists at all in the year 2023 is not an achievement in and of itself.

That's the TLDR to this post I'm about to write because that's basically what I think, but there is a longer discussion to have here. And I think it's a discussion worth having because despite it all we still live in a world where gender makes people irrationally fucking mad, and so therefore here I am to talk shit about a horse game which I have called mediocre all day.

Well, if you don't want to read this entire thing, here's all you need to know:

If Animal Crossing in the year of 2020 can define the first year of the pandemic for basically half the internet, then SSE can optimise their game a little better in the year 2023.

And here's wonderwall: (But before wonderwall, obvious disclaimer that I'm just one cis not-het woman Swede who has opinions about things, I'm not going to solve centuries of oppression on my fucking tumblr dashboard. Neither are SSE gonna solve it, nor immortalise it, with their mediocre MMO, we all know this we are smart, let's go.)

To SSO's credit, I think it's nice that SSE has wholly embraced the fact that they are a very feminine game primarily played by and targeted towards young girls, despite it all we still need more of that, and it's cool that they're trying the most. (Just wish they wouldn't completely throw their especially above average transmasc audience under the bus for  this but that is genuinely not my post to make as I am not transmasc and this post isn't about that, but all I'm saying is that SSE aren't flawless and I was here for both 2011 and 2022 so I happen to know when they literally lie about why this game was created in the first place.)

However,

There is a difference between "We want to bring quality to this audience which usually doesn't get quality" and "Because we're the only ones targeting this audience we don't need to worry about quality". Settling for the latter, especially today, isn't actually that progressive nor is it helping anyone, especially if we're talking about the game's general quality.

So, I know that talking about like, what is a "good" game or whatever will always be a wall to wall conversation, because everyone has different ideas of what good means. (see: Some people going "I enjoy this so it's good" and some going "I enjoy this but it Isn't good" at Dorian's poll) This isn't a problem at all it's simply how the human experience works. However, if we're talking about the good as in "objective" quality, then I think we need to remember something.

It's not 2011 anymore, and being a girls game, standalone, isn't an achievement anymore. We expect some fucking effort by now.

We don't live in a world where you as an 8 year old kid have to pick between playing COD or playing SSO exclusively (a choice made in 2011 by me as an 8 year old for reference, I literally was there, don't worry). We have a lot wider a selection of games to choose from, and we live in an industry which has also gotten a Lot better at actually celebrating less traditionally masculine games.

For example, Animal Crossing and Stardew Valley, to name two examples, would probably be pretty dismissed in 2011, had they released then, because they're games that in general are seen as more feminine. (Slower, cute aesthetics, about farming, has cute little guys in them in AC's case.) But nowadays, they're some of the most popular games around, and they're games that most people, regardless of gender, have played. And obviously people still make fun of them, but it isn't cool to make fun of them anymore. Y'all remember when everyone and their mother was playing New Horizons as it came out during the perfect time for everyone to play it just as the pandemic started? And that's a really feminine game if we want to divide games into feminine and masculine, which we at the end of the day will do because humans are obsessed with binary opposition. And it still defined a whole year for a whole bunch of people!

And obviously you might say that it's unfair to compare little ol' SSO to these games. And it is. If we're comparing them as games on a technical equal ground. But we're not. I'm exemplifying that games that are more feminine/played by a lot of women don't have to suck.

So by, conciously or subconciously, implying that SSO Can't be as good as other games or Shouldn't Be Expected To Be simply because women's games just Are worse, you're dismissing the fact that feminine games Do succeed, especially recently. Not only on the market, but as entertainment. And no matter what game you make, no matter what damn resources you have, you better make sure that your audience can fucking play it with the specs you yourself recommend. Because letting a company get away with settling for mediocrity further normalises girls' games not needing to be as good because they're already so shit that someone even trying is good enough. Which in 2023, is Not good enough. Even young girls deserve not to shill out tens of thousands, which they Do Not Have, for super PCs just because SSE forgot to optimise their open world game.

Lastly, all I'm saying is that if we're going to say "Yes, SSO is good." Don't follow it up with "Compared to women's games from 2005 that are so dead nobody remembers them anymore." Because SSO is a game that exists in 2023, and at some point we have to acknowledge that. And if this game wants to survive another decade, I think the first people who need to move away from 2011, is its audience.

Women’s games don’t have to suck. And implying that they do says more about you than it does about the game. Especially if your idea of “good standard” for women’s games. are almost 20 years old. At some point, we All have to move into the present times. Even if your game of choice is a little behind.

[crengarrion]

fuck it, we roll.

my bat bag fits two pens, two polar bear shaped note pads, cat paw shaped page divider stickers, a box of cat shaped paperclips, a handmade bag with shark print containing handmade wooden eating utensils and a metal straw, a tiny box of cat stickers, hand sanitizer, two narcan rescue kits, and a glucose monitor.

descriptions under cut and in alt text! i also provide links to products under there

nine images of a wheelchair and its decorations. the photographs are taken inside a bedroom.

image one: an all black quickie two wheelchair, from the front, with no arm rests. affixed to each clothing guard is a black leather strap with carabiner clips and smartdrive control buttons. the backrest has an "all delete wrestling" aew tank top sewn around it. the foot rests are swung under the chair.

image two: an all black quickie two wheelchair, from the left side. there are orange wheelbrightz brand LED string lights wrapped around the spokes of the left wheel. the lights are looped in a pattern that resembles a sakura flower. the foot rests are swung under the chair.

image three: a collage of two images. the left image is a photograph of the left bar connecting to the wheelchair's push bar, which has a sticker of a grey cat, one paw ahead as it walks.

the right image is a photograph of the right bar connecting to the push bar, which has a sticker of an orange cat paw with brown paw pads next to a grey cat paw with pink paw pads; the paws are raised in celebration. beneath the paws sticker is a pro union sticker, which has a white background. in black is a circle with white text reading "the world's best rat trap" on top, and "solidarity of labor" on the bottom. inside the circle is a black cat with a right paw on its chest. underneath is a qr code leading to the one big union website.

image four: a collage of two images. the left image is a photograph of the left side of the black smartdrive under the wheelchair, attached to the axels. there is a green, rectangular sticker on the side that looks like a one dollar bill, but reads "world championship wrestling", "wcw where the big boys play," "wcw monday nitro," and "one big boy buck." in the centre is a mascot of a tiger wearing sunglasses.

to the upper right of the big boy buck, covering the permobil logo under the smartdrive's power button, is a sticker of a grey cat facing a black cat with hearts over their heads. the right image is a photograph of the right side of the smartdrive. you can still see the cats in love sticker in the middle and, to the lower right, another union sticker. it is a white rectangle with black text reading "feel stuck between your boss, landlord, and the government? join the one big union. a better world is possible." underneath is a qr code for the one big union's website.

image five: a collage of two images. the left image is a photograph of the wheelchair's back left side, focused on the curved bar holding the pushbar. hanging from the curved bar, near the top of the backrest, is a wayne industries lanyard from the dc comics series batman. hanging from the recliner lock is a 1990s wwf survivor series keychain; "survivor" is written in red text and "series" in blue. an orange and brown cover has been knit around the recliner's hydrolic canister, and three pins are visible. the first pin is a spooky siamese cat with ghosts around it. the second pin is a black cat holding a knife. the third pin is a tiny, stylized skull.

the right image in the collage is a photograph of the same area, but taken from behind the wheelchair. under the survivor series keychain is another keychain. it is a plastic pouch full of air, with a blue and light red floral design and "demon dog treats" at the top. a similar design is at the bottom, but it reads "100% purebred," and jakken from inuyasha is visible in the lower right. inside the demon dog treat keychain is a chibi art of sesshomaru from inuyasha. he is sitting down, and surrounded by purple and white confetti. underneath, affixed to the orange and brown hydrolic cover, are two pins. the first pin is a white circle with black text reading "i have seen the future," reference to the limetown podcast. the second in is barbara gordon as batgirl, from dc comics.

to the right of the pins and beneath the keychains is another keychain. this keychain hangs from the leather strap securing a bag to the back of the wheelchair. the keychain is in the shape of a theatre ticket stub, and is made of cream coloured metal with a dark red trim. it is merchandise for the book series skulduggery pleasant. at the top of the keychain, it reads "opened in 1927." in the middle, it reads "hibernian cinema," with an outline of a cinema above the text. the bottom red trim has black dots that look like perforations and, beneath the black dots, it reads "admit one."

image six: a collage of two images, similar to the previous collage. both images are photographs of the curved bar supporting the wheelchair's push bar on the right side of the chair, opposite the previous photographs. the right image is taken from behind the wheelchair, and shows a black, hotel-style keychain hanging from the recliner's lock; it is rhombus shaped with rounded edges. this keychain has thin white stripes at the top and bottom, and it has red blood splatters. in the centre is a drawing of a wrestling ring with white ropes and a red apron. beneath the wrestling ring it reads "2300 arena," "2300 s swanson st, philadelphia, pa 19148." underneath that are the words "live hardcore wrestling" in a circle around a circle of barbed wire.

to the bottom left of the ecw keychain is another metal skulduggery pleasant keychain. it is also hotel-style and shaped like a rhombus with rounded edges, and it is dark blue. in lighter blue is an outline of a hotel, and the white text underneath it reads "the midnight hotel." below that, in smaller text is "anton shudder, proprietor." in even smaller text at the bottom and written in a circle is "sanctioned by the sanctuary." an outline of a skull is in the centre of the circle.

to the right of the midnight hotel keychain and beneath the ecw keychain is the right side hydrolic canister, which has an orange and brown knitted cover. affixed to the cover are two pins. the top one is a circular pin reading "transsexual, transgender, transgressive, genderqueer, two-spirited." the second one is a menacing jack-o-lantern with the androgynous flag, which is blue, grey, and pink.

the right image in the collage is a photograph taken to the right of the previous image. three pins and a charm in the shape of bats is affixed to the knitted hydrolic cover. the first pin's top text reads "black panther army," and the bottom text reads "panther power." in the middle is a panther. the second pin is red and, in black text, reads "i am an enemy of the state." the third pin is white with the flag of palestine, and text that reads "end the occupation now!"

image seven: a photograph of the back of the wheelchair. the push bar is detatched from the left side and hangs from the right bar, and many of the previously described keychains and pins are visible. between them, affixed to the shirt covering the back rest, are three patches and two pins. underneath those is a black, leather fanny back in the shape of a bat. the patches and pins will be described in the next image descriptions.

image eight: a photograph of the left side of the back rest, taken from behind the wheelchair. two patches and a pin are visible. the left most patch is an image of the wrestler rowdy roddy piper, and he is smiling with his pointer fingers pushed into his cheeks. he wears a white t-shirt with an angry panther head. written at the bottom of the patch, in yellow and red text, is "sooner or later, everybody pays the piper!"

to the right of the roddy piper patch is a pin. the pin is acryllic, in the shape of the 1990s wwf in your house logo. the font is fun and cartoony. at the top of the logo is the old wwf logo in yellow on a blue background. "in" is pink, "your" is yellow, "house" is blue.

to the right of the pin is another patch, it is black with white text reading "cero miedo". the c in cero is formed by a skeletal hand making the letter c with its fingers, and the m in miedo is formed by a skeletal hand making the letter m. this patch is merchandise for the luchadore penta el zero miedo.

image nine: a photo taken to the right of the previous image. it depicts the right hand side of the wheelchair's backrest, which has two pins and one patch affixed to it. the first pin is a bat holding an asexual pride flag in its feet; the asexual flag is black, grey, white, and purple. to the right of the ace bat pin is a patch of the wrestler, sabu. he is pointing up, towards the ceiling, and wears a white, loose gutrah (head scarf) and gold agal (head band) on his head. written at the bottom, in red, bloody, text is "the homicidal, suicidal, genocidal, death-defying maniac."

to the right of the sabu patch is a small, golden pin in the shape of the 1990s wcw heavyweight belt. spray painted over the usual design in the middle of the belt are the letters "nWo."

- end image descriptions.

links to available products:

clips

aew shirts

wheelbrightz

big boy buck and nWo belt pin - the pin was designed by marj

survivor series keychain, in your house pin, and ECW arena keychain

sesshomaru dog treat keychain

rowdy roddy piper, cero miedo, and sabu patch

asexual bat pin

androgyne jack-o'-lantern pin

gaza, trans, and anarchy pins

both of the union stickers were provided free by the one big union headquarters in western new york; the skulduggery pleasant keychains were obtained via kickstarter; the spooky siamese cat with ghost pin was free at hot topic; the wayne industries lanyard was purchased at five below; the black panthers pin was purchased at a street fair stand operated by burning books book store in buffalo, new york.

[thethingything]

I understand the need for proof of identity when trying to access your medical records but it is fucking infuriating that I can't access certain shit because we don't have photo ID.

I made a request for our records from the hospital visit this time last year and we heard nothing about it for ages because we didn't provide photo ID and they've just emailed us saying we have 2 weeks to respond before they just dispose of the records

[thetomorrowshow]

poisoned rats in a pot of grain - ch. 11

Masterlist - Previous - Next

i'm stan and i was wrong

ok so i KNOW i said that last chapter would be the penultimate one but alas. here we are at ch 11/12. I SWEAR NEXT ONE WILL BE THE LAST ONE IF NOT YOU CAN HUNT ME FOR SPORT

cw: food, flashbacks, panic attacks, injury

~

Jimmy’s not sure what to think when he’s sitting in Major’s car once again, this time without a mask (and Major took his off as well as soon as they got into the car, pulling his hair up into a beanie to hide the blue, but Jimmy tries not to stare too much). It’s been over a year, he realizes, since they were last in these places.

Like last time, the clothes he wears aren’t his—but at this point, they might as well be. An oversized grey hoodie with the drawstrings removed. Blue sweatpants. Socks with the little grippies. A trash bag of similar clothing is in the backseat.

When he met with Major three days ago, he hadn’t expected this. He’d expected yelling, a jail cell with his name on it, thirty-to-life in prison.

Not a home. And a . . . a friend? Can he call Major a friend?

His head hurts. He’ll take a headache any day over that early, sluggish phase of his anxiety medication, though. The phase had left him feeling disconnected from his body, as if he was merely an observer from above. He didn’t like that. At least he can fully process everything going on right now.

Major turns on the radio and Jimmy practically jumps out of his skin when some country-pop song starts blaring from the speakers. Major turns it down with a muttered apology, then the car jolts back and they’re moving.

Jimmy runs his hands along the seatbelt, grounding himself bit by bit. The car starting to move had felt a little too much like a van pulling out of a garage, but not so similar that Jimmy felt anything more than a deep sense of dread. He breathes in, holds it for a moment, then lets it out. He’s safe. He’s with Major, and Major took care of him that one time so long ago when he’d tried to escape and had been such a bad pet—

In. Hold. Out. He’s safe. His fingers tap along the seatbelt. In his lap is a nice, new journal, and a pack of unopened markers. Josh had given them to him this morning after their last session. If his thoughts get too loud, he can crack open the journal and put some of them out of his head.

Major might think he’s weird. Barely ten minutes out of the mental hospital, and he already can’t handle himself. But Josh would tell him he’s had a very traumatic past year (and life), and that it’s okay to use coping mechanisms in public.

“Still want to stop at McDonald’s?” Major asks over the low music, and Jimmy can’t help that his eyes jump to his face.

Not that Jimmy’s seen very many unmasked heroes, but those he has seen he’s always been slightly disappointed with. Major is entirely different. Major is. . . .

Well.

Without even looking in the side mirror, Jimmy knows he’s turning a bit red. He hasn’t had any viable romantic candidates in a year, who can blame him? Major’s pretty, that’s it. It’s just—it’s a natural reaction to get flustered in the presence of a hot person. It doesn’t mean anything.

“I was gonna stop and get myself a chicken sandwich anyway, so it’s not like it’s out of the way. Anything you’ve been craving?”

He’s not sure how he can repay Major. His apartment and all of his belongings are likely gone, along with his money. But Major’s offering, and it seems safe to accept. . . .

He opens his mouth, but no sound comes out. He wants to tell Major that just a hamburger is fine, that he is hungry, that he’s been craving fast food, but he can’t. He stares determinedly at the dashboard, willing his voice to work. His entire body is run through with tension, waiting . . . waiting for some undefinable other shoe to drop.

He hates it.

Major doesn’t seem bothered by his lack of response, just whistles a little to himself as he pulls into a McDonald’s drivethru. He grimaces at the line. It’s early afternoon, Jimmy realizes with a glance at the clock display. Lunch rush.

Lunch rushes are things. He forgot about that. There’s so many cars and people here. Jimmy shifts uncomfortably, slumps down a bit in his seat. That’s a lot of people seeing his face. He doesn’t like that. He really doesn’t like that. And he’s in the passenger seat, which means that he’s on the outside of the drivethru line and the front windows of a car are never tinted as darkly as the back ones and just anyone could look in and see him—

What can you do to fix this? Josh seems to ask in his head. What’s a simple thing that will help calm you down?

He can cover his face. His shirt? It’ll look a little silly, but not too bad. He glances over at Major, sees him idly looking out the window while tapping his hands on the steering wheel. Jimmy pulls the collar of his hoodie up until it covers his nose, hoping to quell the jitters in his stomach.

It helps tremendously and he lets out a breath he hadn’t known he’d been holding. Major does happen to look over, but he doesn’t comment on it.

“I’ll order me a chicken sandwich, and you a burger, and both of us fries. Sound good?”

That’s . . . oddly considerate, isn’t it? Jimmy nods, looks over to meet Major’s eyes, sending him what he hopes is a sufficient smile with his mouth covered. Major apparently understands and smiles back.

“Right. That’ll come with ketchup, onions, and pickles, I think. Is that all good?”

It sounds fine, so Jimmy nods again, and soon enough there’s a burger and fries in his lap and a cup of water in his hand and he’s not entirely sure where to put it or whether he can eat in Major’s car. Major has pulled back onto the road, his own sandwich unwrapped and held in one hand, so Jimmy assumes it’s okay and sets the water between his knees before unwrapping his burger.

“My name’s Scott, by the way,” Major says between bites, and Jimmy, burger halfway to his mouth, freezes. Does Major expect him to say his own name, now? Because words aren’t exactly his strong suit right now.

As if he can read Jimmy’s mind, Major continues, “And I know that at the hospital, they were calling you TJ for some reason? But I . . . I know your real name, I think. Do you want me to call you your real name?”

He’s not sure why Major—or, Scott—would know his real name, but after taking stock of himself, he realizes that he actually wouldn’t mind being Jimmy. No secret identities, nothing misconstrued about his role. Just Jimmy.

It’s dangerous, he knows. But his name is his and his to give out where he wants to, and he wants to be called his name for once. Before his nerves can get the better of him, he nods.

Scott’s smiling a little when he speaks. “Okay. Hi, Jimmy. It’s nice to properly meet you.”

-

Jimmy makes it about thirty minutes in Major’s house before having a panic attack.

Josh had told him that even with his medication, the sudden change of environments would probably trigger emotional distress. So Jimmy’s sort of expecting something to go down—and down it goes, while he’s sitting in the middle of a bedroom that is so familiar it almost hurts to look at. It’s the same room he’d woken in that one time so long ago. He hadn’t thought he would remember it very well. Now that he’s here, though, he remembers everything about it, down to the color of the carpet, and it’s far too much to cope with.

His clothes are still in the trash bag, his new journal on the bed. There’s a desk in the corner, chair pushed up into it. He’s not sure what to do with that. One side of the room has both a closet and a set of drawers, which is somehow both thoughtful and utterly overwhelming because Jimmy only has three shirts and two pairs of sweatpants, one of which is reserved for sleep.

But what really sends him spiraling is the brand new phone in his hand, already unlocked and set up with Major—labeled Scott—as the only contact.

He doesn’t know what to do. There’s an app on the phone that leads to the internet, and Jimmy hasn’t been connected to this form of the outside world in months.

There’s a new phone in his hand. There’s a charging cable already plugged into the wall.

There’s an outlet in the wall that’s never going to blow out when he plugs his phone in. A phone that won’t spontaneously catch fire. A messaging app that won’t glitch out and send highly inappropriate texts to his contacts.

His tears aren’t of joy, like he’d expected. He’s not happy. He cries because everything is wrong, everything’s changed and it’s so very hard to cope with change after days—after years—of maintaining a routine.

So once Jimmy’s done hyperventilating over all the things that are new, once he’s done bawling about how nothing makes sense, he curls up in the corner of the room against the bedframe and stares at the wall until Major—Scott—calls his name. Then he rises, shoves the phone into his hoodie pocket, and leaves to join the superhero for dinner.

-

Scott really wants Jimmy to leave his room more often, and he’s not even subtle about it.

And sure, maybe lying on the floor staring at the wall for hours at a time isn’t the best thing, especially when he occasionally misses his medication because of just how deep he’s sunken into that mindset. Scott had laid down a ground rule of eating at least one meal a day together, and some days that’s the only time Jimmy can manage to drag himself up to face the world outside his bedroom.

It’s not that he’s not eating—he’s certainly not very good at eating, but whenever he has the strength to to slip out of his room and fix himself some lunch or breakfast, he grabs a couple of non-perishables and stocks them away in the set of drawers. If Major notices, he doesn’t say anything. And when Jimmy’s stuck in the recesses of his own mind, he’s always got a sleeve of crackers or a can of soup to keep his strength up. It’s certainly more than he’d eaten before.

About two weeks in, he has his first therapy session with Nora, who is a very nice woman but frowns when he mentions that staying in his room just feels safer. He knows what’s going to happen while he’s there. He knows that everything there, while new and disconcerting, is more familiar than anywhere else (including this downtown office, so far away, with the stiff sofa and the sequined pillows) and therefore more tolerable.

He doesn’t mention that while he’s in his room, his mind slips into a deadened state where all he can do is stare at the wall and hope that no one will come to hurt him.

He does mention that every time Scott knocks on the door, he immediately shoots to his knees and bows his head, months of conditioning refusing to relinquish its grasp.

Nora suggests two things: one, leave the room more often. Spend time in other parts of the house, engage in leaving the house maybe once a week. Jimmy doesn’t like that suggestion at all—it sounds terrifying and like a recipe for disaster.

Her second suggestion is to leave the door to his bedroom open, and really, why hadn’t Jimmy thought of that?

It makes perfect sense. He can’t be taken by surprise when Major knocks if there’s no need to knock. So even though it’s nerve-wracking and possibly one of the hardest things he’s ever done (anyone could see him, anyone could come in and hurt him), Jimmy starts leaving the door wide open.

And then he’s embarrassed about the way he occupies himself in his room, so he starts holding on to his phone while he stares at the wall, a video pulled up and ready to play in case Scott passes the doorway.

And then he just starts actually watching the video pulled up.

He still doesn’t have a reason to regularly leave the room, but he starts watching a long series of videos purely by accident and ends up getting sucked into the series, taking more and more time out of his staring-at-the-wall time and redistributing it to other things. It’s almost like just engaging with the content of the series gives him energy to do more.

And by some happenstance, Scott mentions that he has a home gym over dinner one night.

Jimmy’s never been able to properly work out. He used to go running, and he picked up more than a few hand-to-hand fight tricks in his time both as a hero and a villain, but an actual gym he’d deemed too dangerous for his spontaneous volatility. And suddenly, with his powers no longer as random as they had once been, he has the freedom to do whatever he wants. Somehow, he hadn’t already put that together.

It’s a little overwhelming, if he’s honest. When he mentions it in passing to Scott (as casually as he can, though he spent days building up to it and he’s inwardly shaking in terror), Scott only looks sad for a moment before offering to start small—use the home gym for as much physical activity as he’s cleared for, try to spend more time out of his room each week. It’s just like what Nora recommended, and while Scott isn't a certified counselor, he is probably the smartest person Jimmy knows.

He’s also the kindest person Jimmy knows—he doesn’t know too many people, to be fair (his social circle consists of his conservator and his therapist and that’s it), but that doesn’t mean that Scott isn’t the first person to seem to genuinely like him in . . . well, forever. Jimmy knows, after several weeks of nothing but patience and encouragement and reassurances that there isn’t another shoe about to drop, that Scott only has his best interests in mind. He trusts him on this.

So he starts working out. He starts joining Scott for movie nights. He starts helping out with chores here and there, and that’s perhaps the most surprising thing—Jimmy finds he likes doing chores. He feels like he’s actually helping out, repaying Scott’s hospitality in little ways—and it reminds him of the time Before, when he and Lizzie would clean the bathroom together or switch out the laundry. It ain’t much, but it’s honest work, and he hasn’t had the opportunity to do anything like it in years.

He has panic attacks, of course. He has flashbacks. One morning he lies in bed, too terrified to move because he’s back on that table and faceless scientists are operating on him and Xornoth has a gloved hand in his hair.

He can feel Scott’s touch on his arm, he can hear what he’s saying, but all he can do is whimper when Xornoth demands, “Eyes on me, little bird.”

“Jimmy, can you look at me?”

He can’t, he really can’t, because Xornoth just told him where to look and he can’t disobey his master’s orders.

Scott’s thumb is making circles on his wrist, and Scott himself is saying things like “Wake up, please” and “It’s just a nightmare, you’re okay, you’re safe”.

Scott’s never lied to him before.

So despite the threat of Xornoth right in front of him, the next time Scott asks Jimmy to look at him, Jimmy opens his eyes and sees Scott and not Xornoth.

And though he can still feel the IV in his arm, the touch of too many rubber gloves and a too-familiar hand carding through his hair, Jimmy knows it’s not real.

Scott holds out his hand, and with a herculean effort, Jimmy takes it.

Scott smiles, and it’s enough to break the flashback’s hold completely.

Jimmy, haltingly, smiles back.

It’s after that flashback that Jimmy knows he can trust Scott. That had been one he wouldn’t have been able to break out of by himself, one that would have swallowed his voice for days. Scott had interrupted it before it had really ascertained its hold on him.

Sure, he’d trusted Scott before. He’s trusted Scott for a long time—ever since he first put his life into Scott’s hands. But this is different. It’s like an entirely different type of trust, because Jimmy now trusts Scott as not just a caretaker, but as . . . as a friend.

He knows for certain now that Scott isn’t taking care of him out of some moral obligation. Scott genuinely cares about him. He’d suspected, of course, but he hadn’t been able to know for sure.

Jimmy finds himself shy for the rest of the day, avoiding eye contact and speaking nary a word. The dynamic has changed, somehow, and he’s pretty sure it’s in a good way.

Even good change, however, is change, and he’s exhausted and anxious about anything that might go wrong. He goes to bed early, finds comfort in the security of laying on the floor and staring at the wall until he drifts off.

-

Jimmy ventures out into the world again for the first time five weeks into his stay with Scott.

It’s not a long trip, nor a dangerous one, but Scott drives him down to a city park and they walk together, Jimmy with a medical-style face mask on and Scott with his bright blue hair tucked into a beanie.

They bring vegetable peelings and scraps to throw at ducks—which is confusing to Jimmy, but Scott had said something about bread being unhealthy for them which is whatever—and on a bridge, over the duck pond, they talk.

Scott starts. Scott talks about college, about his friends, about how he became a superhero—and with that, his misadventures in dating.

“Wait, you dated a villain?” Jimmy asks incredulously. “And you almost joined him?”

“I was a stupid college kid,” Scott defends, though he’s laughing. “I made dumb choices back then.”

“Oh, and you never make any these days.”

“Exactly,” Scott declares pompously. “I’m known for my impeccable decision-making skills.”

Jimmy chucks a potato peel into the water, watches the ducks and turtles fight over it. “Was it a good decision when you let me into your house last year?”

Scott goes silent, looks down. “Yeah,” he says after a moment, fiddling with the railing. “One of my best ones.”

Jimmy blushes. Not quite what he’d been expecting, but he’s not going to say no to a bit of a confidence boost. “Really?” he asks quietly.

Scott doesn’t answer, though. “Was that really where you lived?” he changes the subject. “Where I dropped you off that one time? Because . . . well, after you went missing . . . again . . . I—I kind of went looking for you. And the landlord of the building I dropped you off at didn’t recognize the description I gave.”

“Oh, no. I had you drop me off a few streets away, I think,” Jimmy replies, casting his mind back. A lot of his memories from then—the brief period between captivities—are fairly blurred and unstable. “But yeah. I lived in that neighborhood. Nothing special, I know.”

It hadn’t been anything special. It never had been, not as long as he’d lived on his own.

“I sort of thought you had a decent bit of money,” admits Scott, tossing a scrap to the ducks. “I mean, you were always robbing banks and rich citizens.”

Jimmy scoffs. “Okay, firstly, I have zero credit score. There was no way I could get anywhere nicer than the shadiest of apartments without getting arrested for having suspicious amounts of physical money. Secondly, I lost a lot of that money. And third of all, most of the time stealing from actual people was an accident—I usually just shoplifted from Walmart or whatever.”

It’s quiet between them, then, and Jimmy stares out over the pond, sees turtles lined up on a log a little ways out. He turns to ask Scott if he thinks he can throw far enough to get food to those turtles, only to find Scott staring at him, slackjawed.

“Wh-what is it?” Jimmy asks nervously. Scott blinks several times, straightens.

“I—lost how? And what do you mean, stealing on accident? That was—that was an insane amount of money that you took, what happened to it all?”

Before Jimmy can answer, Scott continues. “Lost, like—like you blew it all at a casino? Or—”

“Gosh, no!” Jimmy bursts out incredulously. “Me? In a casino? Are you joking?”

Scott has the decency to look embarrassed, at least, the tips of his ears turning pink. “I—all right, then, how?”

“I . . . I just lost it.” Jimmy shrugs, flicks a piece of carrot into the water. “Depends, really. Once on the pier my wallet fell out of my pocket and rolled into the ocean, where a fish swallowed it. Once I dropped it all down a drain. One time a roll of bills caught fire in my hands.”

“No way.”

Jimmy rubs the back of his neck, fingers rolling over the scar there. “Yeah. It never worked out for me. I think I mostly just kept doing it because . . . I guess I wanted someone to stop me.”

Scott doesn’t respond for a long while. When he does, his voice is quiet. “I’m sorry. I should’ve noticed.”

“That wasn’t your responsibility. We were enemies, Scott.”

They stand there in silence a minute more, then Scott hands Jimmy what’s left of the bag of scraps, and Jimmy upends it, shaking about half a bag’s worth of vegetable peelings into the water. Ignoring the frenzy below, he and Scott set off for home—which Jimmy is privately grateful for. He didn’t want to say anything, but he’s been growing more and more anxious that even with the medical mask, someone would recognize him.

“So,” Scott says once they’re back on the proper trail, heading in the direction of the parking lot. “Stealing from rich people on accident?”

Jimmy groans, but he’s smiling. He really, really likes this. He likes the way Scott talks to him, like an equal, not like something delicate that could break at any moment. He likes the way he teases. He likes hanging out with him.

“Look, what you have to understand first is that most of the time, I had no clue what I was doing, I was just trying to not hurt anyone. Got that?”

“You disabled the alarms on Joey Graceffa’s house before sneaking in, Jimmy. We have camera footage of it. You’re telling me that was an accident?”

“Entirely.”

-

Scott had asked him, back in his first week here, when he would be feeling up to meeting with Lizzie.

Apparently that day is today, around two months into his stay at Scott’s house. He’s anxious—too anxious to be in his room all morning, instead sitting around in the kitchen or the living room and just generally getting in Scott’s way. The man has become his main source of comfort and is probably the only person he truly trusts in the world—even Nora doesn’t see him at his worst, those moments only for Scott.

Scott had taken the day off without even asking Jimmy if he wanted that, which warms his heart every time he remembers it. Scott curls up on the couch and puts on a commentary video to watch, which Jimmy can’t help but become absorbed in. He doesn’t even know the movie the commentator is reviewing, but it seems terrible and the commentator is witty. It doesn’t put his anxiety to rest, but he manages to become distracted right up until Scott checks his phone and lets him know that Lizzie is on her way.

Then he runs, bolting from the couch to his room in a matter of seconds. He hides behind his bed, trying to breathe. In, hold, out. His hands are shaking. His entire body is shaking. This isn’t good. He doesn’t feel good.

Long minutes pass. His ribs hurt. His ribs burn. One of them is broken, it’s surely broken, it was kicked in and snapped he can feel it—

His scrabbling hands pull up his new blue sweater (he’d tried to dress nice for seeing his sister again) and he prods at his side. Nothing. It’s normal.

Flashback. Okay. He’s fine. Somehow, over his panicked not-breathing, he hears the front door open. That was—okay. Perfect. He loves that for himself. He’d expected maybe twenty minutes of time to calm himself in his room, maybe longer, but apparently his bad luck was still in effect even when it literally couldn’t be.

Another few minutes before there’s a soft knock on his door.

“Jimmy? Can I come in?”

Jimmy can’t quite make his voice work (please not today, not when he actually has to talk), so he shifts around until he can extract his phone from his back pocket and texts Scott an answer in the affirmative.

A moment later, his door creaks open. “Jimmy? Are you—hey, there.”

Jimmy looks up through watery eyes (when did he start crying?) to see Scott kneeling beside him. Scott doesn’t say anything at first, just settles in against the bed and holds out a hand.

Jimmy takes it.

Despite himself, he feels his heart jump.

Scott sits there with him for a few moments, then says quietly, “It’s okay if you can’t meet with her today. Do you want me to tell her to come by a different time?”

And Jimmy feels a wave of gratitude and affection for Scott utterly overwhelm him, because in the past decade, nobody has ever shown this level of kindness toward him. Few people have seen him as anything good or deserving of love, and here Scott is, holding his hand and offering to change everything out of nothing but the kindness of his heart.

Just knowing that Scott is here, and that Scott is Scott, Jimmy feels okay with what he has to do. Not great, but at least capable.

After all, how bad can it be compared to living as a pet for literal months, abused at every turn to the point of barely even knowing his own name? Talking to his long-lost sister about how he killed their loving parents is going to be a walk in the park.

“My life sucks,” Jimmy realizes aloud. He lets out a bark of laughter. “Gosh, it really just has sucked, hasn’t it?”

“I . . . Jimmy, I’m. . . .”

“It’s fine. Really,” Jimmy adds, when Scott raises a brow. “I just can’t think of anything good that’s happened to me in the past decade, up until—” he cuts himself off, heat spreading to his cheeks. “Anyways. Don’t—don’t send Lizzie away. I can talk to her. I just . . . freaked out.”

With Scott’s help he stands, and with Scott’s hand still in his he finds the strength to walk (his bad hip twinges, but he’s not sure if it’s actually acting up or if the pain lingers from the brief flashback) into the nice living room.

Lizzie’s sitting there. Maskless. Street clothes.

Her fingers tap-tap-tap against her knee. Jimmy knows that feeling. That anxiety, but nowhere to run. Holding it in because there’s no other option. Staying quiet and complacent because if your master thinks for even a second that you’re moving without permission, they’ll punish you terribly and brutally.

He’s working on that.

Lizzie looks up when he enters, smiles cautiously.

Jimmy doesn’t think he can be blamed when all of his words of apology die in his throat and all he can think about is how much he missed her.

Something tips her off. He’s not sure what. But she stands, spreads her arms, asks the question quietly.

“Is it all right if I hug you?”

Jimmy throws himself into his sister’s arms and sobs.

-

Jimmy’s been living in Scott’s house for nine weeks and two days (not that he’s counting) when the man hugs him.

It’s a shock, one that sends him reeling and grasping for any reference on how to work with this. He hasn’t been hugged since . . . he hasn’t been hugged . . . in years, probably, because even before everything he’d been a fairly solitary individual. He doesn’t think he’s been hugged on a regular basis since childhood.

If Scott is a hugger, that’s probably going to change relatively shortly.

Scott pulls away quickly, likely put off by the way Jimmy freezes (because of course he can’t respond to things like a normal person, he’s a pet he acts like a pet), and holds him at arm’s length, face cycling through all sorts of feelings.

“Sorry, I really—I should’ve asked, we ought to make a list of—”

Jimmy gently deattaches his arms from Scott’s loose grip, then tries for a hug of his own. It’s awkward, and stiff, and he thinks he put his arms in the wrong place but Scott—

Scott doesn’t mind, just gasps slightly and relaxes into Jimmy’s hold, hums softly. And even though he knows he’s doing it wrong, he can’t help but feel this is unequivocally right.

Uh-oh.

Very suddenly, Jimmy’s life is shifting from a depressing series of torturous events to a romcom. Because out of nowhere, he has a crush on—on Major.

It’s so sudden that his vision seems to tilt, from this way to that, in a dizzying sequence that leaves him feeling rather ill. He barely has to wonder why Scott’s become an object of his attraction. It’s barely been more than two months and he’s already done a million incredible things.

Three days in, he’d gone over Jimmy’s medications with him and asked about allergies and favorite foods and the like, obviously trying to make Jimmy’s time here as pleasant as possible.

Whenever Jimmy expresses that he likes a food, Scott writes it down. There’s now a list in Scott’s list notebook (he makes lists so often that’s all Jimmy can think to refer to it as) with all of Jimmy’s favorite meals.

Jimmy had mentioned offhand that he went to a trampoline park once as a kid and had missed it ever since, and Scott had gone out of his way to look one up and offer to go, eyes bright.

Scott leaves the doors open ever since he noticed Jimmy doing it.

He never complains about Jimmy’s frequent panic attacks.

He’s seen Jimmy at his lowest, and continues to care about him.

Not to mention, his cyan hair is gelled up into the loveliest little curls, his eyes are a prettier blue than the noon sky, the dimple in his left cheek is placed just perfectly to offset his brilliant smile. His arms are strong and chiseled, as Jimmy’s noticed on one or two sleeveless occasions, and the one time he’d seen Scott with just a towel wrapped around his waist his mouth had actually gone dry.

How had he not noticed before now? It’s fairly obvious, in hindsight.

“We should make a list of what physical touch we’re okay with,” Scott tells him as he pulls away, and Jimmy only closes his mouth and nods and tries furiously not to blush.

He can’t have a romantic relationship right now. He’s not even interested in one. He’s trying his best every day to remember that he can even be a human, let alone a boyfriend.

He shouldn’t. But gods above, he wants to try.

[kjzx]

An important thing to remember as an artist that started out drawing characters crudely and then started learning the fundamentals, at first your art will not look nice.

At first, drawing faces and bodies in different positions will make your characters look weird, then poor perspective will make your characters look weird, and finally when all the kinda things I mentioned above will be dealt with, just the hype of finally knowing how to draw anatomy will bite you in the ass because you can do all these things, you can draw them correctly or close to that, but whether that's figure drawing knowledge gaps, or awkwards poses/composition, or just not a very harmonious combination of realism and stylization in facial features or in general, but your before and after pictures might get this look of "clear objective technical improvement but many would consider it a downgrade"

That's a very common thing. I used to be in this before/after art community, and it was so toxic it was a meme within the community that no matter how much you've improved there will be people that will say that the before is better. There's a seed of truth to these words though, what they fundamentally get wrong is this implication that you "ruined your art"

That's a big example of why you shouldn't listen to non-art people for art advice. Keep going. You're closer to your art dreams than you ever were, you just need to look into all these things like the remaining knowledge gaps or personality to your art you might've lost as you were on your anatomy grind.

Keep creating, keep looking at art that inspires you and try to think of how to make yourself like your art better. Don't get stuck on it, if it begins being unfun, please do take a breather. Also, none of that is objective, people will still prefer things different to what you find beautiful. It's alright, create what you like, that's what this post is about. If you don't wanna, don't focus on aesthetics, just the process of creating art is fun and will eventually get you in the right place, that's what I do, I just occasionally throw in things I like and sometimes they work. Take care.

These are my current thoughts on the topic. I wouldn't take them too close to heart, this is just a blogging site and I'm blogin 👍

[witch-of-the-sands]

Me spinning the general fantasy idea I've had based on my fanfiction that I want to turn into a book. Suddenly, I realize that it's the perfect opportunity to make a country girl rough and tumble masc lesbian and I am going to do it. She is a masc lesbian who loves her femmie wife and would die for her and kill for her and-