#beginner

[lessbutliving]

— Masterlist —

I’m still a beginner in animation, so these aren’t perfect, but creating them gives me so much satisfaction. I started making these exactly one month ago, on May 4.The very first animation I made was of my Rehmat ❤️

♡ Nadan paride (Trend with REHMAT)

♡ Isharon Isharon main dil lenewale

♡ Jane vo kaise log the

♡ Dil ka haal sune dilwala

♡ Vanjhali waja

♡ Charkha

♡ Ehsan hoga tera mujh par

[xxgirlhurtxx]

My drawing

[poolcuehub]

 Pool is a game that rewards consistency, patience, and practice. While there is a lot of information available online, it can sometimes be

[poolcuehub]

Hi everyone, I've been spending more time researching beginner pool tips, accessories, and game room setups while building a newer billiard

[mourningwoodmourge]

I MADE A MIX!!!

Please check it out 🥺

It's real rough round the edges but I'm proud of it 💖

[jakestate773]

wip character model im making for fun

[matty-the-ratty]

Fixed and Updated Fic!

I accidentally used the wrong pronouns for the OC, so here's the fixed version!:

The clipboard hit the desk with a sharp clack, sending a tremor through the half-empty coffee cup beside it. Dr. Easterman didn’t so much as glance up from his notes, his fingers tapping the pen against the paper in a rhythm that felt less like impatience and more like a habit worn deep into his bones. The fluorescent lights hummed overhead, casting the sterile white of the lab in a faint, clinical glow.

"You're late," he said, still not looking up. It didn’t answer—not with words, at least. Instead, it settled onto the edge of the desk, legs swinging lightly, the toe of its shoe brushing against the leg of Dr. Easterman’s chair. A quiet, wordless apology. The doctor’s pen stilled for a fraction of a second before resuming its rhythm, but his shoulders relaxed just enough to be noticeable.

"Subject 43’s vitals spiked during the last round of testing," he muttered, flipping a page. "Unpredictable. Like you." His tone was flat, but there was something underneath it—a fondness worn smooth by years of this same dance. It leaned forward, plucking the pen from his fingers and tucking it behind his ear with practiced ease. It had tracked this routine down to the second; every movement was a rehearsed beat in a script they both knew by heart.

Dr. Easterman exhaled sharply through his nose—his version of a laugh—as the pen found its familiar place behind his ear. His fingers flexed briefly, missing the weight of it, before he reached for the coffee cup instead. The liquid inside had long gone lukewarm, but he took a sip anyway, grimacing slightly as it hit his tongue. It watched, swinging its legs just a little faster now, the quiet squeak of rubber soles against tile punctuating the hum of the lab equipment. The toe of its shoe bumped his chair again, deliberate this time, and he finally lifted his gaze.

His eyes were the same color as the fluorescents—cold, bright—but something flickered in them when they met theirs. Dr. Easterman’s gaze lingered for a moment longer than necessary, and it held it, unblinking, like a cat basking in the warmth of a sunbeam. Then, with a deliberate slowness, it slid off the desk and onto its knees beside his chair, folding itself into a neat, compact shape—legs tucked under, hands resting palms-up on its thighs. The posture was entirely instinctual now, a shape its body assumed the moment it was dismissed from his direct line of sight. The doctor didn’t acknowledge the movement, not outwardly. But his fingers tightened around the coffee cup, knuckles whitening just slightly before he set it down with a soft click.

"You’re blocking the vent," he said, nudging its shoulder with his knee. The vent wasn’t even on. It grinned anyway, shifting an inch to the left, pressing its side against his leg like a radiator seeking heat. Silence settled between them, thick but comfortable. The lab equipment whirred and beeped in the background, a symphony of sterile sounds. Dr. Easterman’s fingers twitched toward his pen—still tucked behind his ear—then dropped back to the desk.

Instead, he reached down, his hand resting heavily on the crown of its head. His fingers combed through its hair with a clinical detachment, less like a caress and more like a supervisor checking the integrity of a familiar instrument. It pressed its forehead against his knee and exhaled, slow and deliberate, as if counting the seconds until he reacted—and when he finally sighed and dropped his hand to its shoulder, his thumb brushed the edge of their collar, where the fabric was frayed from constant fidgeting. The touch lingered, roughened fingertips catching on the worn threads, before he tugged lightly, an unspoken correction. Stop picking at it. It didn’t—couldn’t—stop, of course. The fraying edges were as much a part of it as the way it curled against him now, a living, breathing footnote to his work. Dr. Easterman’s fingers tightened minutely, not quite gripping, before sliding up to cradle the back of its neck. The weight of his palm was warm and heavy, grounding in a way that made its pulse stutter—not from fear, but from the sheer familiarity of it. He never held it like they were fragile. Never treated it like it might break. It arched into the touch, pressing its cheek against his thigh, and his breath hitched, just once, before he exhaled through his nose again.

The office was quiet save for the steady hum of a fax machine and the distant drip of a leaky faucet. The doctor’s thumb traced idle circles over the knob of its spine, a thoughtless rhythm that matched the tapping of his pen from earlier. It could feel the tension in his leg beneath it, the way his muscles twitched when it turned its head just so—deliberate, testing. He knew what it was doing. It knew he knew. It was part of the dance.

The fax machine whirred to life suddenly, spitting out a sheet of paper with a mechanical screech. Dr. Easterman didn’t move to retrieve it. His fingers stayed tangled in its hair, his other hand resting heavily on its shoulder like an anchor. It tilted its head slightly, just enough to peer up at him through its lashes—his expression was unreadable, the fluorescent light carving sharp shadows under his eyes. But his thumb had stilled against their neck, pressing just a little harder than before. A silent command. Stay. It obeyed, settling back against his leg with a quiet sigh, its own fingers curling into the fabric of his lab coat where it draped over his knee. The material was starched stiff, smelling faintly of antiseptic and the bitter tang of old coffee stains. It nuzzled into it anyway, lips brushing the edge of a frayed pocket seam. Dr. Easterman’s breath hitched again, barely audible over the hum of the fax machine, but it caught it—the way his fingers twitched in its hair, the way his knee pressed more firmly against its side.

The fax finished with a final, grating beep. The silence that followed was thick, charged. Then, with deliberate slowness, Dr. Easterman shifted, his chair creaking as he leaned forward just enough to snag the paper from the tray. He didn’t let go of it to do it—just stretched, his forearm brushing its cheek, the motion effortless, like it was merely an extension of his own body. The paper crinkled as he scanned it, his expression flattening further.

"Subject 43’s results," he muttered, more to himself than to it. "Inconclusive. Again." The fax crumpled slightly in Dr. Easterman's grip as he tossed it onto the desk with a dismissive flick of his wrist. The movement was sharp, precise—a clear end to whatever unspoken moment had lingered between them seconds before. His fingers returned to its hair, but the warmth was gone, replaced by the cold efficiency he used when calibrating a microscope.

"Up," he said, voice flat. "We have work to do." It didn’t move immediately, pressing its forehead harder against his knee in silent protest. His fingers tightened slightly—not a caress, but a warning. "Now."

The word left no room for argument, and it reluctantly unfolded itself, rising to its feet with the practiced grace of someone who’d spent too many hours kneeling on cold tile. Dr. Easterman didn’t watch it stand. His attention was already back on the fax, his pen scratching across the paper with quick, efficient strokes. The lab felt colder suddenly, the hum of the fluorescents louder.

It hovered awkwardly beside the desk, its usual perch now feeling off-limits. Dr. Easterman didn’t glance up, but his free hand twitched toward the empty space beside his chair—a habitual gesture, as if he expected it to be there even as he dismissed it. It caught the movement, hesitated, then deliberately stepped back instead. The doctor’s pen stilled for half a second before he resumed writing, his jaw tightening almost imperceptibly.

The fax machine beeped again—another incoming document—but Dr. Easterman didn’t react. His focus remained locked on the notes in front of him, pen moving in tight, controlled lines. Without a word, it stepped forward and knelt beside the machine, catching the paper as it slid out. It held it up toward him, arm extended like a shelf, waiting.

The doctor didn’t take it immediately. His fingers flexed around the pen, knuckles pale with tension, before he finally plucked the sheet from its grip with a curt nod. Its arm didn’t waver, didn’t tremble—just stayed suspended in the air until his fingers brushed against its, fleeting and impersonal.

Dr. Easterman’s chair scraped against the tile as he pushed back, standing abruptly. The movement was sharp, deliberate, leaving no space for it to rise with him. It stayed where it was, knees pressed into the cold floor, hands resting palms-up on its thighs again. A human end table. A living footrest.

The doctor’s shadow fell over them as he paced to the filing cabinet, his lab coat brushing against its shoulder. It didn’t flinch, didn’t follow—just tilted its head slightly, tracking his movement with its eyes. The drawer squeaked as he yanked it open, rifling through the folders with rough, efficient motions. A sheaf of papers slipped from the stack, fluttering toward the ground. It caught it before it could land, lifting it toward him without a sound.

Dr. Easterman didn’t thank it. His fingers closed around the papers, tugging sharply, as if testing its grip. It let go instantly, fingers curling back into neutral readiness. The drawer slammed shut with a metallic clang, and the doctor’s heel came to rest against their thigh—not quite a kick, not quite a nudge. Just pressure. A placeholder.

The heel of Dr. Easterman’s shoe dug into its thigh just slightly harder—not enough to bruise, but enough to leave the ghost of pressure behind when he finally shifted his weight away. He didn’t look down at it as he strode back to the desk, the folder tucked under his arm like an afterthought. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, casting his shadow long and sharp across the tile, and it stayed perfectly still beneath it, a human paperweight anchoring nothing.

"Subject 43’s cortical scans," he muttered, more to himself than to it, flipping open the folder with one hand. His other hand hovered momentarily over the desk, fingers twitching—a subconscious search for the pen still tucked behind his ear. It watched the movement from its spot on the floor, tracking the minute hesitation before he remembered and plucked it free. The tip scratched against the paper in quick, decisive strokes. "Inconsistent neural patterns. Degradation in the prefrontal lobe."

His voice was clinical, detached, but his thumb rubbed absently at the edge of the folder, smudging the ink of some hastily scribbled margin note. It shifted just enough to press its shoulder against the leg of the desk, the cool metal biting through the thin fabric of its shirt. The movement was deliberate, calculated—not enough to disturb him, but enough to remind him it was there.

Dr. Easterman’s pen stilled for half a heartbeat before he resumed writing, his free hand dropping to the desk’s edge, fingers drumming a silent rhythm against the laminate. His knuckles grazed their temple—a brief, hard contact that felt entirely accidental, though neither of them moved to correct it.

The fax machine whirred again—another useless report sliding into existence—but Dr. Easterman didn’t react. His attention stayed locked on the cortical scans spread across his desk, fingers pinching the bridge of his nose as if trying to physically press the fatigue out of his skull.

It watched from the tile, tracking the subtle shift of his weight, waiting for the exact moment his attention would fracture. It didn’t. He exhaled sharply, tossing the pen onto the desk with a clatter. "Inconclusive," he muttered, not to it, not even to himself—just to the empty air between the fluorescents and the tile. His fingers flexed, then curled into a loose fist against the desk.

It leaned forward, pressing its forehead against the side of his chair, close enough to feel the heat of his leg through the fabric of his slacks. Dr. Easterman’s jaw twitched, but he didn’t pull away. The lab hummed around them—the steady drip of the sink, the distant whine of machinery down the hall. It closed its eyes, counting the seconds between his breaths. Eleven. Twelve. Thirteen. Then, with deliberate slowness, it lifted a hand and pressed its palm flat against the side of his shoe. Not grasping. Just there. A paperweight. A bookend.

Dr. Easterman went very still. A beat passed. Two. Then his heel came down lightly on its fingers—not enough to hurt, just enough to pin it in place. The pressure was warm, firm, grounding. It exhaled through its nose, flexing its trapped fingers slightly, testing. His weight shifted, just a fraction, but it was enough. Approval. Or at least, something adjacent to it.

Dr. Easterman's heel shifted, releasing its fingers with a slow, deliberate lift—like peeling tape off skin—but his shoe stayed close enough that it could still feel the heat radiating from the leather. The fax machine had gone silent again, leaving only the rhythmic drip of the sink and the quiet rasp of his breath. He didn't look down at it. Instead, his fingers traced the edge of the cortical scan, smudging the ink further, as if searching for answers in the blur. It didn't move its hand from where it lay, palm-up, beside his shoe. A silent offering. A placeholder.

After a moment, Dr. Easterman exhaled through his nose, a sound too sharp to be a sigh but too soft to be irritation. "The wall," he said abruptly, voice low, "wasn't personal." The words hung in the air like a clinical observation, devoid of inflection. But his thumb paused mid-smudge, pressing too hard into the paper.

[magic---secrets]

How to do the Hamman Count Tutorial/ Revealed. Card Sleights for Beginners