Yo who would want to live in a remodeled prison together, I'm thinking customisable "cells" communal cooking socialising quality time together and well prison aesthetic for all of my fellow freaks
Strange racists and homophobes on the internet seem to have access to an alternate way cooler version of TV than me. "every white character on TV is in an interracial relationship" "every show has a gay couple in it" "main characters keep having to secretly be bisexual and nonbinary" "every show has gratuitous full frontal nudity" like damn promise?? What channel???
for real though, those DO NOT WATCH OR YOU'LL CORRUPT YOUR CHILDREN lists put out by conservative christian family groups is where I find all the stellar tv shows. Like, shit I didn't know half of those existed, thanks for finding them for me, gonna go watch 30 hours of gay tv now!
For personal context, before I went to the '98 Burning Man festival, one of the things I'd read from a couple different journalists was that "everybody" runs around naked. Which, fine by me, I'd already spent a lot of time in clothing-optional spaces, I'm not fanatic about it but it's nice.
So I got there early and set up a public shade structure on one of Black Rock City's main roads and spent most of each afternoon just watching the crowds go by. I don't remember seeing more than one actually naked person the whole week. I think a topless woman passed by my intersection maybe every half an hour, sometimes once an hour. So why in the hell were people, normally pretty smart and observant writers, coming away with the impression that everybody was naked?
Then I remembered an unrelated passage from Joel Garreau's great book about the history of the outer-ring suburbs, Edge City. Mall developers told him flat-out that they tried to keep the crowds in their malls less than 5% black. Not because they themselves were racist, but because they had determined, experimentally, that if more than 5% of the people in the mall are black, the median white shopper will wrongly describe the mall as at least half black, as mostly black. And not a few of them would describe it, at 6% black, as a mall where "only black people go." Why?
Because, emotionally, they were still upset over the last one when the next one came into view.
Same as the journalists describing Black Rock City as all naked. Same as the right-wing religious culture warriors describing television as entirely mixed-race and gender non-conforming. Not because it's even vaguely true, we know that, but because they haven't gotten over their discomfort over the last one by the time the next one comes along. The anger, not the stimulus, is the part that's continuous, so their mind lies to them that it's "all" the thing they can't get over.
Similar effect for the presence/proportion of women in things, by the way: https://health.howstuffworks.com/mental-health/human-nature/perception/how-17-equals-496-the-amazing-multiplying-women.htm
This is a reminder for those who handmake Christmas presents that now is not too early to start. It may in fact be a good time to start if you have a lot to make/your craft takes a long time. You should maybe start it now, whether that's brainstorming or actually doing the crafts!
like this sentence from the introduction alone is fucking crazy. “approximately half of adults in the united states think that torture can be acceptable in counterterrorism.” what!
Suddenly struck with a need to explain to you how boat pronouns work (I work in the marine industry).
When you're talking about the design of the boat, you say "it".
When the boat is still being built, your say "it".
When the boat is nearing completion, you can say "it" or "she".
When the boat is floating in the water you probably say "she", unless there is still a lot of work to be done (e.g. no engine yet) then you say "it".
When the boat is officially launched and operating, you say "she". If you continue to say "it" at this point you are not incorrect but suspiciously untraditional. You are not playing the game.
If you are referring to a boat you don't really know anything about you may say "it" ("there's a big boat, it's coming this way"). But if you know its name, it's probably "she" ("there's the Waverley, she's on her way to Greenock").
If you are talking about boats in general, you say "it" ("when a boat is hit by a wave it heels over")
If you speak about a boat in complimentary terms, it's "she" ("she's a grand boat"). If you are being disparaging it may be it, but not necessarily ("it's as ugly as sin", "she's a grotty old tub").
If she has a boy's name, she's still she. "Boy James", "King Edward", "Sir David Attenborough"? The pronoun is she.
If it's a dumb barge (no engine), you say it. But if it's a rowing boat (no engine), you say she.
I hope this has cleared things up so that you may not be in danger of misgendering floating objects.
think it's a deep consolation to know that spiders dream, that monkeys tease predators, that dolphins have accents, that lions can be scared silly by a lone mongoose, that otters hold hands, and ants bury their dead. that there isn't their life and our life. nor your life and my life. that it's just one teetering and endless thread and all of us, all of us, are entangled w it as deep as entanglement goes. v neat i think.
cw:/ recovery, rescue whump, trauma response, vampire caretaker, bloodbag whumpee, whumpee thinks caretaker is new whumper, reference to previous torture/abuse/captivity, paranoia, medical interventions, loss of speech, loss of autonomy, disability/immobility (please let me know if I have missed any!)
Thank you to the ever-so-brilliant @alyscat for her amazing job beta-ing this and for rallying me on! 💞
What did the sky look like?
Declan realised he had forgotten. Something so simple, so painfully mundane. An everyday certainty the rest of the world took for granted, but he starved for even a fleeting glimpse.
No matter how hard he clawed at the edges of his mind, straining until a dull throb pulsed behind his eyes, he couldn't grasp hold of it. Rotting in the darkness of Vince’s basement had truly snuffed out the light.
A wash of blue here. A blinding glare there. Colours warped, bleeding into each other like ink and water. The more Declan fought to anchor the image, the faster it sank back down into the murky depths.
Bleary eyes drifted over to the drapes, now pulled completely shut, overlapping perfectly in the centre to seal out even the strayest, thinnest thread of morning light. That was the vamp’s doing. As long as those curtains were drawn, August could walk in whenever he pleased - at any ungodly hour. The sun was the only line of defence Declan had left, and now that was taken from him too.
What he wouldn’t give to steal a peek out the window, to check that the world hadn't vanished entirely from existence - maybe it was still out there, waiting patiently for him. Arms open and ready to embrace him like a long-lost lover.
Years. He didn't know how many - not anymore. He’d lost count somewhere along the way. Years wasted breathing in damp rot and mould instead of fresh air. Years spent choking on the blood Vince didn't drain from him, but chose to beat out of his lungs instead.
Now, the outside was right there. A few meagre feet away, just hiding past the glass. A whole world close enough to touch. He longed to see the light of day. Was that too much to ask?
But still, it was denied. Perhaps the vampire knew exactly what he was doing. Keep Declan in the dark long enough, and the memories would completely dissolve. He would stop looking for a way out; would accept these four corners as his entire earth.
And he would learn to worship August as his god.
Declan’s gaze then dropped to the nightstand, where the silver bell now mocked him. How stupid did the vampire think he was? Honestly? To dare imagine he could ever have his master at his beck and call was nothing short of a fantasy. He was the one at their mercy. Entirely. He wasn't allowed to make demands; his only job was to bend to theirs.
A test. Surely, it was just another test.
White-hot fury surged in his chest - to hell with the games and never-ending demands; Declan had more than earned a mere sliver of daylight for every agony he’d endured. With a frantic but clumsy motion, he tore the covers aside.
His legs looked like sticks; skin pale and stretched tight over atrophied muscle. He tried to swing them off the bed, but they felt like they belonged to someone else. He didn't even make it to his feet. His legs buckled instantly, sending him crashing hard onto the floor; he collapsed onto the rug with a muffled thud.
He lay there in a useless heap, his face pressed flat against the carpet. He was too weak, limbs completely refusing to obey him. It was working; he was entirely bedridden. And it was all August’s fault.
All of the gruelling ‘physiotherapy’. The exhausting vocal exercises. The vampire claimed it was all to help him heal. To rebuild his broken body. Give him back the voice Vince had stolen. Declan so desperately hoped deep down that it was the god-honest truth, that this was finally the beginning of the end.
But what if it wasn't?
What if it is all just a calculated strategy to break him down further? A genius way to exhaust him under the guise of "medicine," ensuring he would never have the strength to fight back, let alone run away.
His mind spiralled. August had been gentle. August gave him the bell. August actually stepped away when Declan signalled him to stop. But surely a monster didn't nurse its prey back to health without a catch. What reason would a vampire have to show humanity?
Were the speech lessons actually for Declan's benefit? Or did August just want a polite, well-behaved pet that would speak on command? Cry out for mercy? Was the physical therapy meant to make him strong, or to keep him too fatigued ever to pose a threat?
No. It couldn’t be for him. Everything was for August's benefit. Right down to the goddamn curtains being closed.
Gritting his teeth, Declan began to crawl. It was humiliating, like he was a newborn babe before taking his first steps. He had devolved. Elbow, hip, drag. Repeat. But he had to see for himself if the world was still there, that it hadn't turned its back on him.
He had just reached the hem of the curtain, trembling, tingling fingers fumbling for the fabric, when the door creaked open.
“Declan? I brought some - Jesus!”
Lucas dropped the tray. The sound of ceramic shattering on the floor sounded like a gunshot, and Declan cowered into himself, hands shaking over his head. In the blink of an eye, Lucas was darting across the room, hands hovering over Declan in a panic.
“Declan! What are you doing?! You're going to hurt yourself, man! Let's get you up, come on, back to bed-”
Lucas reached for his arm, and Declan lost it. He thrashed, his body erupting into a violent convulsion. A broken sound tore from his throat - a wordless cry of pure frustration and grief. He wasn't going back to that bed. He couldn’t bear to rot away in it for a second longer.
What’s the point of being dragged back from the dead, if he’s not allowed to live?
He threw his hand up, palm facing outward, fingers splayed wide. Stop.
Lucas froze instantly - as though the tables had turned and Declan suddenly possessed the power of persuasion. Lucas rocked back, his hands hovering in mid-air. "Okay! I stopped! I’m not touching you. Just breathe, man. Breathe. You’re good."
“Sky-” Declan sobbed, his eyes wild as he pointed a shaking finger up to the window. “S-Sun….p-pl-ease-”
Lucas glared at the drawn curtains, then back down at the weeping man, shivering on the floor. The frantic energy drained from Lucas, replaced by a sudden clarity.
“Shit…you just want to see the sky,” Lucas whispered. “God, Dec. I’m sorry. I'm so sorry. I didn’t realise.” His voice cracked, the confession tearing out of him like shrapnel.
Lucas sank to the floor, settling cross-legged right beside Declan. The guilt radiated from him, and he wiped beads of sweat from his brow. “I see it now. Promise I do. What we’ve been doing to you by keeping you stowed away in this room. It’s not right. No wonder you’re scared out your wits…from one cage to another…is that it?”
Declan’s shaking didn't stop, and he did not answer, but his eyes searched Lucas’s face, wide and glassy. Lucas had hit the bullseye. How could he look at this bedroom and see anything but another prison cell? Still trapped in confinement, cut off from daylight, stuck with needles day in and day out, no choice but to submit to his captor’s demands.
Lucas leaned in closer. “I’m taking you out there,” he promised, determined. “Outside. Right now. No more waiting. Only thing is, Dec…” He paused; he saw the flicker of hope in Declan’s eyes war with the ingrained terror. “I - I don’t think I’m strong enough to carry you down those stairs safely on my own. If I slip or stumble, I can’t risk breaking what’s left of you. I’m gonna need August’s help to carry you down there.”
Declan’s response was immediate in its desperation. He lunged forward, frail fingers hooking into the fabric of Lucas’s shirt, his forehead pressing hard against the other man’s chest.
Please no. His mind scrambled - logic went out the window as panic took the wheel. Down. Lucas had said down, and that’s all he heard. A basement, it had to be. His ingratitude came with a price, and this was how he would settle the debt. The vampire would drag him down there kicking and screaming. He’d begged for the sun, and now they would make sure he would never see it again.
“Nonono - come on now,” Lucas consoled, “It’s just for the stairs. I promise. I’m just nowhere near as strong as he is.”
A choked whine ripped from his throat. Declan shook his head until he saw stars. “N-Not him… y-...y-ou-”
"...Okay," Lucas breathed, more to himself than anyone. "Okay, Dec. I’ve got you. I’ll give it a try. Just…Just stay still for me, yeah?"
He slid his arms beneath Declan - one behind the back, one beneath the knees - and braced for the weight. He expected resistance, the solid heft of a man.
He expected too much.
As he stood, he didn't even strain. Declan rose like he was made of feathers. Lucas could feel every ridge of Declan’s spine through the shirt, the sickening curve of ribs that felt like they would snap under even a gentle pressure. He was holding a ghost.
Lucas wasn't a violent man, but at that moment, he wanted nothing more than to find the monster that did this and burn him to ashes.
How? He thought bitterly, his jaw clenching. How do you do this to a living being? How do you erode someone’s soul? Let someone just...fade away?
"You're okay," Lucas grunted. "I've got you. Not gonna drop you."
Declan didn’t fight, but he didn’t help either. He went limp as a rag doll against Lucas’s chest, his head lolling against the man’s shoulder. He was convinced he’d misbehaved, caught red-handed. He’d squandered whatever twisted privilege he’d been given. Declan braced himself for the familiar sight of a cellar door to loom into view, to be thrown back into the dark once again.
As they stepped out of the bedroom, Declan felt the house expand around him. It was his very first time venturing beyond the four walls of his room, and he gazed about in stunned bewilderment at his surroundings, lips parted slightly, eyes shifting rapidly.
Vince’s estate had been blindingly opulent - antique, ornate windows, crystal chandeliers dripping from the ceilings, historical artwork Declan wasn’t permitted to lay his filthy eyes on, lest they ‘tarnish the canvas’. Here wasn’t anything like that. It felt smaller, simpler and deeply lived-in.
There were no massive, intimidating gold frames of artwork here - just small, slightly crooked photos of faces he didn't recognise. Near the top of the stairs, the wallpaper was peeling slightly at the seam, a tiny flaw Vince would have had a servant flayed for. Lucas’s hand shifted on a scuffed mahogany bannister that had clearly seen years of use. Outside a door just down the hall, a basket of unfolded laundry sat out in the open, and someone had left a paperback book resting face-down on a windowsill, its spine creased.
Moving past a row of closed doors, Declan’s eyes tracked each one. His chest tightened, wondering what was on the other side. Were they more bedrooms, or closets, or rooms he would never be allowed to see?
Lucas made it down the stairs and walked straight into the library, where August was sitting by the unlit fireplace, flicking through a thick medical textbook open on his knee.
August looked up, his red eyes blinking in surprise at the sight of Lucas carrying a trembling, wide-eyed Declan.
"Lucas? What has happened? Is he injured?!" August jumped to his feet immediately, the book dropping to the floor. He scanned Declan’s body for any sign of damage - Declan tucked himself further into Lucas.
"Take a look at him, August," Lucas said, his voice tight as he adjusted his grip on Declan. "He's not getting any better just sitting up there. He’s suffocating. He’s desperate for a breath of fresh air, but we’ve got him stuck up in a dark, stuffy room day in and day out, dreading the creak of the door. I found him collapsed on the floor, crawling over to the window - because he said he wants to see the sky.”
August’s expression softened into an aching empathy.
“Can you see what he sees? To him, we took him from one prison and shoved him straight into another. How can he possibly feel human again?”
“O-Of course," August muttered, looking at the frantic rhythm of Declan's chest. "I should have seen sooner. I’m sorry, Declan. I didn't mean to, quite literally, keep you in the dark. I only want to do what’s best for you.”
“Well, don’t just stand there then,” Lucas chastised, adjusting his grip on Declan’s frail frame. “Go down to the clinic and fetch that fold-out wheelchair. And wrap yourself up, or whatever you have to do. I want you out there with us too.”
August didn’t argue. He nodded once, “ I will be as swift as I can.”
Moments later, August returned, pushing the metal wheelchair, but he looked entirely different. He was a bizarre sight - wrapped in a trench coat, a wide-brimmed hat pulled low, a thick wool scarf buried over his nose and a pair of dark sunglasses. He looked ridiculous, like a child's drawing of a spy.
Declan felt the smallest bubble of laughter rise in his chest at the absurdity of it, yet he choked it back before it could bloom. He barely dared to breathe too loudly, terrified of spoiling this opportunity. He was so close, he could taste it - it might be the closest to freedom he would ever get.
August locked the chair's wheels, then stepped back to give Lucas space. Working in unison, they hoisted Declan up, carefully manoeuvring his limp body into the seat. He held his breath, every fibre of his atrophied muscle locking in sharp anticipation of the inevitable restraints - the bite of metal cuffs or coarse rope designed to pin his fragile limbs to the frame. Not that they’d need to; he can’t even hold his own body weight, let alone run for the hills.
But they didn't tie him down. Lucas tucked a woollen blanket around his useless legs.
And then, they began to move.
The threshold of the door felt like a boundary line between two worlds - between hell and earth - and for a terrifying second, Declan expected to be halted, dragged back inside, and punished.
Instead, he was outside. Finally outside.
As the front wheels hit the porch and the first real gust of wind ruffled his curls, Lucas reached down and firmly squeezed his shoulder. "Look at that, Dec," Lucas whispered, pointing. "See? Didn't we tell you? The world didn't go anywhere. It was always waiting for you."
Then the light hit him. It was blinding. His retinas felt as though they would burst into flames, so utterly unused to the intensity. Declan squeezed his eyes shut, tilting his head back to let the warmth soak into his translucent skin.
The wind whipped his hair across his face, stinging his cheeks and filling his lungs. It was beautiful.
A sob swelled in his chest. He was outside. He was under the sky. Vince would have broken his spine for even looking in the direction of a window, and now here he was. He’s finally alive again. He’s finally woken up from the nightmare. Not like the day he’d surfaced with agony splintering his skull and terror lashing every muscle, but this - this moment right here.
The ink and water that had bled together in his mind for so long finally snapped into focus. The colours were stark and breathtaking. The sky was a violent, searing blue that sliced through the haze. The grass, an impossible, vivid green. And the orange? The golden sun burning high in the sky.
How could he ever bear to let them wheel him back inside that house?
Maybe it’s all a cruel dream. Of course. Another drug-fuelled dream with whatever concoction they’ve pumped his veins with this time.
August moved into his line of sight, stepping carefully into the shadow of a large oak tree to protect himself. He crouched down, meeting Declan's eye level and placed his gloved hands firmly on Declan's knees.
“Could you look at me, Declan? Please?” August said, his voice heavily muffled by the scarf. Declan obeyed instantly, forcing his watery eyes to stare into the dark lenses of the vampire's sunglasses. Even without the power of persuasion, every muscle felt compelled to obey. It was ingrained into his very nature by now.
“This isn't a one-time thing,” August said. Declan could swear he almost saw sincerity in his eyes, even behind the dark lenses of his sunglasses. “This is my promise to you. You are not a prisoner. You are a patient, and you are recovering. One day, hopefully one day soon, you won't need this chair. You won't need us.”
Whole again. Healthy. A life where these monsters were nothing but a fading memory, and he would never have the misfortune to look upon a vampire’s face for the rest of his days. It felt almost cruel to promise that. He would wish on every star for it.
“You're coming back to life, Declan. I'm just holding the door open for you…not keeping it closed.”
Declan looked away, back toward the horizon. The tears finally spilt over, hot and fast. He didn't fully believe it yet - but he was sitting there, bathed in the gold of the sun. He closed his eyes and took greedy breaths of the cold, free air. His thoughts kept snagging on things he hadn't allowed himself to touch in years. His mother’s warm arms. The sound of his sister’s voice. His dad’s laughter.
“You don't have to trust me, Declan. Not if you can't bear it. You just have to believe me. Believe me when I say that you will feel this wind on your face every day if you want it. You will walk on that grass with your own two feet. And when you are strong enough, I swear to you, you will go back to your family. Can you do that, Declan? Please…will you believe that your freedom is all yours and no one else's?”
Declan didn't look at him. He couldn't. He didn't and wouldn't trust the vampire - he knew better than to be that reckless, but a ghost of a memory surfaced, his mother’s voice echoing from a lifetime ago: Actions speak louder than words. The terrifying truth was that the vampire had done both. Every time without fail. Every gentle gesture, every step back, and every promise made had perfectly aligned.
For a long, agonising moment, time stood still.
Then, the walls came crumbling down.
A gasp tore from Declan’s throat. His hands, stiff and clawed with tension against the armrests, began to shake violently as the truth of August's words finally broke through to him. The tension holding his spine straight completely snapped. Declan slumped forward in the chair, his face burying into his own hands as a broken sob escaped him.
Positioning themselves on either side of him, August and Lucas offered their support, one placing a steadying hand on his knee and the other bringing comfort to his shoulder. Declan didn't have the strength to wholly trust them yet, and he couldn't see the road that lay ahead. But as he drew in a deep breath of the open air, Declan chose, for the very first time, to believe.
After all, what was left for him to lose?
SHATTERED TAGLIST! (Please let me know if I have forgotten you or if you would like to be added! 💗)
huge coming from the site who is so against black art that 'tumblr users are afraid of rap' has been a meme for the best part of a decade. You know that yall are 4channers with pronouns right?
this post and all its wonderful additions (look in the notes) is circulating again. these photos and many of the ones added in the notes come from the US Southwest.
right now the trump administration is attacking the public lands in the Southwestern US. most recently (July 2026), in Utah the Bears Ears and Grand Staircase-Escalante national monuments have been cut by over 90% to allow for mining. these lands are sacred to multiple Native nations in the area and contain irreplaceable archeological sites. additionally, the commission of Native representatives who aided in management of these lands has been dissolved leaving Native people without a voice in caring for the remaining land. (read more here)
here in New Mexico, the 10 mile buffer zone surrounding Chaco Canyon preventing oil and gas drilling is under attack. Chaco Canyon contains incredibly old and incredibly fragile archeological sites sacred to Pueblo people. these sites are threatened by mining and drilling. (read more here)
The attack on the Chaco buffer zone is currently in a public comment period open until July 29. PLEASE leave a public comment to save these irreplaceable places.
↳ wallpapers
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↳ cross stitch patterns
↳ tapestries
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↳ continue to like & reblog my art
♡ MY PIXEL ART TUTORIALS
↳ simple landscapes (old)
↳ city tutorial (old)
↳ water reflection (old)
↳ clouds tutorial
↳ how i use values
↳ color process
↳ BONUS: bluesky 101
♡ OTHER PLACES TO FIND ME
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♡ FREQUENTLY ASKED QUESTIONS
WHAT PROGRAM DO YOU USE?
↳ photoshop (i do NOT recommend it)
WHAT PROGRAMS DO YOU RECOMMEND?
↳ pixquare (you can get 30% off with code 8PXL), aseprite, graphicsgale, even krita!
HOW DID I LEARN PIXEL ART?
↳ trial and error basically. I started by just trying to create, and once I hit roadblocks I would google tutorials, or find similar artwork to what I'm trying to achieve. i started heavily doing monochromatic work then eventually working into more complex pieces!
GOOD RESOURCES ON LEARNING PIXEL ART?
↳ lospec is a great learning resource. has tutorials, color palettes, and a large community. there's also lots of great tutorials on youtube, like adamcyounis. there's also saint11's great tutorials.
me as a teenager: man it sucks to have no privacy or autonomy but i guess its for a good reason. when i turn 18 i will realise how young i was and understand why they did all that.
me as an adult: teenagers are an oppressed class, their abuse is normalised and systemic and they need to start killing people
