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bryanharryrombough · 24 hours

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#Fractal #Fractal Friday

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ecoamerica · 1 month

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youtube

Watch the 2024 American Climate Leadership Awards for High School Students now: https://youtu.be/5C-bb9PoRLc

The recording is now available on ecoAmerica's YouTube channel for viewers to be inspired by student climate leaders! Join Aishah-Nyeta Brown & Jerome Foster II and be inspired by student climate leaders as we recognize the High School Student finalists. Watch now to find out which student received the $25,000 grand prize and top recognition!

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inkydigit · 1 day

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#digital-art #fractal art #fractal #fractal Friday

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bhrarchinerd · 2 months

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#Fractal #Fractal Friday

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noraqrosa · 9 months

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IT'S BANDCAMP FRIDAY!!! that means that if you buy anything on Bandcamp today, the artist doesn't need to share any of the profit with the site, we get it all! (aside from what PayPal takes out...) both i and my joyfriend @izukuleeyoung have music available on there.

check out this bread:

* odiohime.bandcamp.com - my psychedelic electronic/hyperpop-esque music, with my latest album (The Butterfly House, a sprawling wonderland of sounds both poppy and bizarre) & single ("Decompose Me", known by some as "the song that begs to be unmade")

* izuku.bandcamp.com - @izukuleeyoung's fun, goofy, weedy hip-hop + etc, produced by me!!! including faer latest two singles, "Expand Ur Mind" (a magnificently trippy ode to Mary Jane😤) and "Bing Bong" (bouncy track that's perfect for everyone who fuckin DETESTS work & other drivers)

of course, there's plenty more where those all came from, so feel free to peruse and purchase our prior pungent audio picassos as well!!

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kirlian-light · 1 year

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It's Bandcamp Friday, so why not check out my girlfriends' music 🎶

https://odiohime.bandcamp.com/

#music #indie pop #experimental #psychedelia #EDM #bandcamp #friday #Odio-hime #drugs #The Butterfly House #electropop #hyperpop #fractal pop #acid house #Brooklyn

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ecoamerica · 1 month

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youtube

Watch the American Climate Leadership Awards 2024 now: https://youtu.be/bWiW4Rp8vF0?feature=shared

The American Climate Leadership Awards 2024 broadcast recording is now available on ecoAmerica's YouTube channel for viewers to be inspired by active climate leaders. Watch to find out which finalist received the $50,000 grand prize! Hosted by Vanessa Hauc and featuring Bill McKibben and Katharine Hayhoe!

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mxvoid · 1 year

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Accretion

Happy #FractalFriday!

7680 × 4320 pixels (8K resolution)

This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution 4.0 International License, https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/4.0/ - Free for anyone share, repost, remix, and reuse—even for commercial use!—with attribution - Attribute to MxVoid or Robert Paul

Link to full resolution image

#Happy Fractal Friday!#fractalfriday #fractal art #fractal flame #fractals #jwildfire #art #artist #artists #artists on tumblr #underground artist #digital art #fractal #creative commons #ccby #cryptoart #right click save as

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mrvelocipede · 1 year

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Happy New Year! For the beginning of 2023, here is a formula with 23-degree symmetry.

I have a plan where I’m going to dig out a bunch of old images, and try to post at least one a week for the whole year. A retrospective of sorts. I keep trying to think of some descriptive name that would make an acronym suitable for a hashtag, but so far nothing has really worked. It could be Gratuitous Recycled Images Monday, or something. GRIM. Well, I’ll keep working on it.

#fractals #Happy New Year #was actually thinking I'd post them on Fridays but there's no real reason for that #so it could be any day of the week

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ssavaart · 4 months

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Happy Friday All!

In early 2020 (before Covid), I was painting larger paintings like this with Acryla-Gouache. I was really enjoying the medium.

I was inspired by a couple of photos by Annie Bertram on Deviant Art and asked permission to use them for reference.

Since I was just doing these for myself... I had NO plan. No test drawings. No layouts. I just started drawing on a large piece of paper and figured it out as I went.

Because of this... I never really figured out what to do with the hand on the left.

So... it just kind of disappeared.

I may go back and add it in later, I think.

But, for now... it's always a reminder of a time where I just broke out the paints and... played.

A couple months later... Covid hit and it was 3 years until I did my next large painting (the Gothic Vampire).

(Note: I can't find a reply from the photographer regarding permission or not. My memory is I heard back. But I can't find it.)

I DID hear from the model Theresa Fractale, a couple of years later, who was VERY upset that I had sold some postcards of the painting without her permission.

I was mortified. I hadn't even considered reaching out to the model. I offered her and Annie Bertram all of the profits I made from the sales, but she wasn't satisfied... and we left it at that.

These things DO happen with artists. Sometimes people claim you've "stolen" their art or style or likeness. And sometimes they have legitimate reason to do so.

Me, personally... I believe that artists should use ALL of the world around them for inspiration and if it is HEAVILY influenced by one artist or work of art... CREDIT them.

But change it. Don't directly copy it (unless you're studying someone's work... in which case... copy away).

But always credit.

I believe I REFERENCED the photos above, but didn't copy them.

But, I DID heavily reference them and, honestly, had NO intention of selling it (I still own the painting) or prints (I had only sold a few postcards before being contacted by the model... then stopped).

In any case... if the model or the photographer is unhappy with me selling prints... I don't sell prints. It's that simple.

Their work directly inspired MY work and while I feel that I've changed it enough to be unique... I don't want to cause another artist harm in any way.

Every artist is different. Some are open to sharing their art (like me) and others are very protective of their art.

But, there are no RULES to art. There is no such thing as "cheating" in art. There IS copyright LAW. And that is theft.

But that law ONLY (as far as I know) works if you are SELLING a copy of someone else's work. Profiting from it.

Not for learning. Not for practice. And not for posting online.

Just please... PLEASE credit the artist you're copying. Tell people why you are copying.

Nowadays, if I'm going to do a painting I plan on making prints of, I either use stock photography I've paid for or I get permission and pay the rights holder.

But, this is ONLY for pieces I want to sell prints of.

You do NOT need permission to use photo reference or even copy another artist's work for your portfolio or to post online.

Credit them. Share your inspiration with others. Tell them why you copied the works

But you don't need permission simply to make art. Ever.

Art should be shared. Copied. Studied. And most of all... enjoyed.

Sending Big Hugs from the Hobbit Hole. ♥♥♥

Scott

#art #traditional art #artists on tumblr #drawing #art nouveau #fantasy art #gouache painting #acryla gouache #annie bertram

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cuubism · 3 months

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Computation

part 7 of Complex Mathematics

(aka Dream vs Technology -- Technology: 1, Dream: 0)

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Wednesday, 3:54am

Hob. what is the wifi password?

3:56am: why are you texting me when I’m in the same house?

3:57am: I did not want to wake you up.

4:00am: ……….

4:01am: Ah.

4:03am: it’s 12345. which is terrible security by the way

4:04am: how do i know this and you don’t? we’re in YOUR flat

4:05am: Computers are your friends, not mine.

4:10am: It does not like the password.

4:12am: alright i’m getting up

Dream creeps back into the living room, holding a cup of tea, as Hob’s tinkering with the router. Turns out it needed to be completely reset before he could reconnect it to Dream’s laptop. Not that this is that hard, but for some reason Hob doesn’t understand, technology is simply out of Dream’s grasp. Head in the clouds, too smart for basic computer skills, etc etc.

“A peace offering,” Dream says, placing the tea on the coffee table. He perches on the couch beside where Hob’s leaning over the router on its spot on the bookshelf.

“I’m not mad at you,” Hob says. He pats the router as its indicator lights finally turn green again. “I will take tea, though.”

“I woke you,” Dream says softly.

“You’ve woken me before, you will again,” Hob says with equanimity. Their sleep schedules are out of alignment, it tends to happen.

It’s the wrong thing to say, though. Dream cringes, hands folding in his lap. “I should be able to handle such things.”

“It’s just the wifi.” Hob finally finishes reconnecting Dream’s laptop and turns properly towards him. Dream still looks guilty about it. Sometimes Hob misses the time before they were dating, when Dream would bristle at him instead of caving. Just because he doesn’t like seeing Dream feel bad.

He takes the cup of tea and places it in Dream’s hands instead, briefly wrapping their hands around each other. “It’s okay,” he repeats. Possibly they should have a longer conversation about it, but Hob’s not emotionally awake enough for it.

Instead, he gets up and heads for the kitchen to put on some coffee. He needs something with more caffeine in it than tea.

“What are you doing?” Dream asks.

“Might as well get something done while my brain is online,” Hob says. He goes to fetch his own laptop from Dream’s bedroom. Lord knows it’ll need to get reconnected to the glitchy wifi again, anyway.

Friday, 2:05pm

Hob.

2:06pm: ?

2:07pm: The wifi is angry again.

2:09pm: did you antagonize it?

2:09pm: hang on did you just wake up now?

2:10pm: I cannot comment.

2:12pm: I assume you have been hard at work in the library since six.

2:14pm: more like hardly working in the library. i did make an app that gives you a gold star every time you do the laundry

2:16pm: Will that assist in your routines?

2:17pm: probably not but it’ll be fun for 5 minutes

2:17pm: wifi password’s still 12345

2:18pm: maybe I should make an app for that instead…

2:20pm: I do not think it would help.

2:30pm: …You are not trying to make said app, are you?

2:34pm: nope just realized I’m late for a class and had to scramble out of there. I’ll be back later can do couples counseling for you and wifi then?

2:35pm: Very well.

For a while after putting down his phone, Dream stares at the wifi router in vexation, as if that will possibly make the angry red lights turn green again. He doesn’t know what he’s done wrong. He knows even less what to do to fix it.

He needs the wifi operational to keep generating these fractals. He supposes he could go to the library and use university wifi, but that requires going out in public, which is preferably avoided, at least while he’s trying to work. So he will have to do something else until Hob gets back from class.

He recalls what Hob had said. That instead of working on his dissertation he had made an entire phone app about laundry. He had said it so casually, like it was a doodle to pass the time. Dream can use apps—barely—but he cannot begin to fathom how he would go about making one. Hob does not understand how even in his procrastination he is exceptional.

Well. This is something that Dream can do. Hob hates doing laundry—hence the app-based reward system—but Dream doesn’t mind. He finds it meditative. He will have to be more precise about fabric care instructions now, as while his own clothes rarely range beyond grey, black, and dark blue, Hob actually wears colors which might bleed into each other.

He puts on his headphones with some music, gathers up the laundry from the bedroom, and goes about his routine.

When Hob gets back, Dream has finished hanging the laundry to dry and returned to his contemplation of the router, this time still with his headphones playing. He’s lost in thought, and doesn’t notice Hob’s come in until his hand lands on Dream’s shoulder. Normally a sudden touch when he’s thinking would make him jump, but he’s become used to Hob.

“Trying to solve your marital problems through telepathy?” Hob asks.

“We were never married,” Dream says. “Indeed we are enemies.”

Hob laughs. He kisses Dream on the cheek, then kneels in front of the router. “You have to stop tormenting my boyfriend,” he tells it. It only blinks back at him innocently.

Hob can be very silly at times. “I do not think arguing with the inanimate object will help,” Dream says.

“You never know.” Hob takes the router down and sets about unplugging all the cables. Dream still doesn’t know what any of them precisely do, nor how wifi works. It may as well be magic.

Hob has it fixed within minutes, of course. Far more effective than Dream’s intense staring. He gets Dream’s laptop reconnected, and Dream is finally able to start generating his fractal. “Thank you,” he says.

“Anything for my love,” says Hob, getting to his feet again. “Guessing you want some time to yourself now to work on this?”

“Yes,” says Dream, with some guilt. Hob has come home to help him only for him to immediately bury himself in his work again. But yes, he does want to make progress on this at last.

“Well, good,” says Hob, and Dream turns to him in surprise. “Because I’m due for a nap.”

Dream still hasn’t formulated a response to this by the time Hob’s disappeared into his bedroom. Strange, that their routines can be so opposite and still meld together so well.

Hob pokes his head back out into the hall. “Did you do the laundry?”

“Yes,” says Dream.

“I could kiss you,” Hob declares, then blows one to him before disappearing back into the bedroom.

Dream presses his hand to his cheek, as if to touch a kiss that had really landed there. Smiles to himself. Then goes back to his fractal.

Monday, 5:02pm

Hob.

5:03pm: Wifi?

5:04pm: …Yes.

Thursday, 9:50pm

…..Hob.

9:50pm: I’m sitting right next to you.

9:51pm: ….

9:51pm: I’m just gonna get you a new router. This thing’s got problems.

9:52pm: I think it is I who has the problems.

9:52pm: That too.

Saturday, 6:00pm

Hob.

6:00pm: Is it broken AGAIN??

6:01pm: No. I got dinner.

6:02pm: Oh!

6:02pm: Fuck I’m starving.

6:03pm: Coming back from class now.

6:03pm: Don’t touch the router it’s in a fragile mental state.

6:04pm: Aren’t we all.

Thursday, 3:50pm

This time, it is the wifi in Hob’s flat that is stymieing Dream. He does not think it is broken. Hob has merely changed the password, as he’s much more diligent about internet security than Dream, and then forgotten to tell Dream what it is. Or, more likely, correctly assumed Dream would have to ask him again anyway.

He briefly contemplates trying to deduce the password, but it is likely an incomprehensible string of characters that Hob would claim is ideal security precisely because of the impossibility of deducing it.

He refuses to text Hob about it again. Hob has a class to teach soon—Dream has his schedule memorized—Dream does not want to distract him. Though speaking of…

3:50pm: You have a class in ten minutes.

3:51pm: FUCK

3:51pm: I got distracted

3:53pm: Now… running

3:54pm: You are not near the building, are you.

3:55pm: NOPE

Dream smiles to himself, thinking of Hob sprinting across campus. It happens often. Hob is good at many things, but time management is not one of them. This is why Dream knows his schedule.

He does feel… a bit silly, though. He should be better at this, should he not? Less bothersome to Hob over small things that he should be able to handle.

Normally he would go back to his work to distract himself from these thoughts, but he still can’t work on his fractals without being able to connect remotely to the university computers, which are more powerful than his own. This is something Hob had also set up for him, because Dream had not been able to make any sense of the instructions he had been given for remote login, and the like.

Sighing, he instead takes his sketchbook out of his bag. It’s been a while since he’s made any time for drawing. But he had started looking at fractals in the first place to better understand patterns in art, to understand resonances between what occurred in nature and what was projected by mathematics. And drawing used to soothe him.

So he starts drawing, sketching the fractal he has been generating—to the extant that he can with the imprecise instrument of his pen. Even in infinite impossible digital form, the branching spirals eventually become too small for him to see, though he knows they continue on in perfect replication forever, smaller and smaller until they disappear into atoms. He cannot recreate that level of detail by hand. But he tries.

By the time he gets another text back from Hob, an hour later, he’s moved to the floor to have more space. He’s found a bigger piece of scrap paper and is drawing the fractal again, in more detail this time, color-coding the different shapes, free-handing where he should probably use a ruler for more precision. He has achieved several more levels of replication than before, but it is still not right. He can’t get it right. If he could only use the stupid computer system he could get it right.

Finally he looks at his phone, several minutes after the text alert pinged.

Thanks love 😘

Unexpectedly, it makes him tear up. Always this happens to him. He does not realize how frustrated he has become with himself until it is too late.

Of course, to only make matters worse, he is still sitting hunched on the floor, pen clasped tight in his hand, teeth clenched so hard it’s hurting his jaw, when Hob comes through the door. He must have texted not far from home.

“Hey, love,” Hob’s already saying as he comes through the door, “meant to stop and grab dinner but I totally forgot— I’m sure I have something here, though— Dream?”

Dream hasn’t moved from the floor, or responded. Hob puts down his bag and comes over to him. He looks down at the fractal, which is still incomplete. “Did you draw that?”

“Obviously,” Dream bites. The pen is still in his hand. He drops it, scraping a hand through his hair. Great. Now he’s snapping at Hob, too.

Hob sits down on the floor beside him. He studies the fractal. Then points to one of the shapes that Dream’s colored in red. “That’s supposed to be purple.”

Dream stares at the fractal. Hob is right, it is meant to be purple. According to the way Dream had color-coded it digitally. He looks at Hob. “How do you know that?”

“I’ve watched you fiddling with it enough. We set it up on your laptop, remember?”

Yes. Dream remembers. He remembers how Hob had helped him.

“Wifi giving you troubles again?” Hob asks, looking from the drawing, to Dream’s laptop, which is sleeping on the couch.

Dream nods, then saws quietly, “Are you not… frustrated with me? Annoyed?”

Hob doesn’t need to ask what he means. “Sometimes,” he says, and Dream can’t help his flinch. “So?”

“So?”

Hob shrugs. “I would have missed that class if you didn’t text me.”

Dream does not understand the relevance.

Hob looks up at him, raising an eyebrow in challenge. “Aren’t you annoyed with me?”

Perhaps he is, at times. Recently, Dream has been too absorbed in his project to feel much about it at all.

“I don’t know,” he says. “It is just how you are.”

Hob seems to think that Dream still doesn’t understand the point he’s making, and perhaps Dream doesn’t. Hob takes his hand. “Look. I’ve no idea why someone as smart as you are is constantly defeated by basic technology, but it doesn’t matter. Always having to be the one to fix the router is a small price to pay for having you in my life.”

Dream’s mouth opens, but no words come out. He… he does not know if anyone has ever put up with him with so little complaint. For truly, it is not only computer troubles. It is all the small things that stack upon each other to make him feel different and difficult.

“I find I do not like…” Dream admits tentatively, “when you must do these things. That I should be able to do.”

“You did the laundry the other day,” Hob says.

Why must he jump topics in this manner? “I do not understand.”

“Well, we don’t actually live together, you know. You have your own laundry. You don’t have to do mine, too.”

“I thought it would help you,” Dream says.

Hob just waits expectantly.

Dream looks down at his lap. “Ah. I… see.” Hob finds him frustrating at times, he had said so, but still wants to help him. He finds Hob’s admittance that Dream is frustrating to be a relief, in its way. He would only feel more on edge if Hob pretended otherwise, surely to snap later when Dream was least expecting it, as so many have done.

“Give me your arm,” Hob says then.

When Dream does, Hob pushes up his sleeve, takes one of the markers from the floor and writes on Dream’s forearm, the wifi password is I love you.

“There,” he says. “Now you won’t forget.”

Dream touches the words with a light fingertip. “This is not good internet security.”

“Oh, so you do listen my ramblings,” Hob says, laughing. Always, Dream thinks. “What, you’re going to throw out my valentine because I cut the heart out a little wonky?”

He makes as if to rub the marker off, and Dream pulls his arm protectively to his chest. Hob’s smile softens. He carefully pulls Dream forward into a hug, Dream’s arm pressed between them. Dream tucks his face into the crook of Hob’s neck. It’s one of his favorite places to hide.

“I’ll help you fix your program after we find some dinner,” Hob tells him, rubbing his back.

“I think I should give up on using computers,” Dream mumbles.

Hob chuckles. “See how you feel about it after I make you some brownies for dessert.”

Dream hums in pleasure at the thought, and Hob kisses the side of his head. And Dream touches, again, the words Hob’s written on his arm, where it’s pressed between them. And allows himself to smile.

Wednesday, 6:03pm

Dream is attempting to cook dinner. Hob doesn’t think it’s going so well. At least not if the blaring fire alarm, which Hob’s just silenced by waving a dish towel at it until the smoke dissipated, is any indication. But it does mean he’s been treated to the sight of Dream with his sleeves rolled up, delicate hands at work—and wearing an actual apron.

Having soothed the alarm, he leans against the counter so he can shamelessly ogle instead of helping.

“What are you even trying to make?” he asks, eyeing the still-smoking oven.

Dream pouts. “Only bread. It should not be so hard.”

“You didn’t wait for me to get home to watch?” He imagines the sight of Dream aggressively kneading the bread dough. It shouldn’t be a turn on, but it kind of is.

“You would make a spectacle of my misery?” Dream says, but there’s a smile tugging at the corner of his lips, like he knows exactly what Hob is thinking about.

“Definitely,” Hob says, and Dream sighs, but turns to take the attempt at bread out of the oven. It’s… pretty blackened, to be honest. “Butter’ll save it, I’m sure!” Hob says cheerfully.

“Nothing will save it,” says Dream, morosely. He pulls off his oven mitt in apparent disgrace, and— Hob catches his arm.

“How has this not faded yet?”

For Hob’s writing saying the wifi password is I love you is still on his forearm.

Dream looks sheepish. “I got it tattooed.”

Hob tilts his head at him, confused. “So you could remember the wifi password?”

“So that I could remember this.” He traces his finger over, I love you.

Hob feels a blush creep across his cheeks. But it’s a pleasant feeling. “This is not even my best handwriting.”

“I know,” says Dream. He does not seem unhappy about it.

Hob takes his arm, touches the words, too. “You could have just gotten this part done.”

“I think,” Dream says slowly, touching the part that says, the wifi password is, “that this is another form of the same.”

And Hob… finds himself tearing up a little. Because it’s true. It’s so silly that Dream, certifiable maths genius, struggles so much with basic computer skills. But Hob will do any silly thing for him, because he loves him.

“Yeah,” he says, taking a shaky breath. “It is.”

“Unfortunately, you can never change the wifi password now,” says Dream, and Hob laughs wetly.

“I really can’t, can I? Terrible security. The things I’ll do for you, darling.”

“Would that include making proper bread?” Dream asks, and Hob nods, patting his arm.

“We’ll fix it, don’t worry.”

Now he’s wondering how he didn’t notice Dream getting a tattoo. Though to be fair, they haven’t seen each other as much in the past two weeks as they usually would, thanks to very inconvenient scheduling. Apparently Dream’s taken advantage of that time to do this.

“Can’t let you out of my sight for a second,” he says, as he fetches a new bread pan from the cupboard. “God knows what you’ll come back with next.”

“Be careful or I will consider that a challenge,” Dream says, and Hob pauses as way too many images flash through his mind. He shakes them off. He’ll never be able to focus on anything like that.

And Dream, the bastard, is smirking.

“Watch that look on your face or you might find that flour you’re holding dumped over your head,” Hob warns, but Dream only looks victorious, and utterly uncaring of the bag of flour he's precariously picked up.

“How will you ogle me kneading the dough that way?”

Hob swipes a dish towel from the counter and throws it at him. Dream yelps and spills the flour, which poofs up in a cloud of white landing all over his black t-shirt.

“Hob,” he complains.

“Serves you right, you dickhead,” Hob says. It only returns the smirk to Dream’s face.

“If you feel that way perhaps I’ll decide I don’t need your supervision,” he says archly.

Hob tears a piece off of Dream’s first attempt at a loaf. Or rather, breaks off a piece, which is hard as stone. He shows it to him as evidence.

Dream snatches it and shoves it into his mouth. Bites down with a crunch so horrifying Hob’s afraid he’s broken a tooth. But Dream persists, chewing it painstakingly and then swallowing, as if by force.

“Taste good?” Hob asks.

“Yes—” Dream starts to insist—then dissolves into a fit of coughing that swiftly turns into giggles. Hob loves it so much when he laughs like that. It’s so rare.

Hob laughs with him. Then frees the crumpled bag of flour from Dream’s grasp and sets it aside, brushes the flour and crumbs from his shirt. Then he takes Dream’s arm and runs his fingertip over the words again, still in awe.

He again finds himself having to clear his throat to avoid tearing up. But he manages, and says, “Let’s get you some proper, not burnt bread, yeah?”

“Please,” says Dream, a tad sheepish. “I am… very hungry.”

Hob kisses his cheek, then goes about solving that problem, too.

#this is so... silly. so sappy #complex mathematics #dreamling #dream of the endless #hob gadling #my writing #proofread this many times so here's hoping it's fine now XD

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bryanharryrombough · 8 days

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#Fractal #Fractal Friday

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shootingstarpilot · 5 months

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In Which Obi-Wan Meets Stitch Properly

Happy Friday! Today's been A Day, so to make myself feel better, I wrote a lil scene referenced in Chapter 11 of how to bring him home:

Stupid.

It wasn’t even during a battle. Not on the ground, where the noise is everywhere all the time and where he tucks himself back and away and pulls on ‘81 for a bit, because ‘81 knows not to flinch at loud noises and or tap his fingers and Stitch can keep being a good medic while ‘81 takes the brunt of the noise and the darkness and everything else.

It’s effective. ‘81 had gotten him out of Kamino. ‘81 keeps him and his brothers alive on the battlefield. But being ‘81 is exhausting. So he stops being ‘81 on the ship once he realizes he doesn’t have to be. Because no one tells him that he’s tapping too much or talking too fast or being too stupid, and he can walk up to Helix or Needle and ask for a hug and get one.

(‘81 doesn’t get hugs.)

So he’s not prepared at all when he wanders into the engineering bay just in time for the sharp snap of a backfiring engine to crack his brain open like an egg.

He backpedals instinctively, all thoughts of routine physicals dropped along with his composure on the engineering bay’s floor, and the whole world goes snapshot-blurry.

Boots skidding across the floor.

A door that won’t open.

His own breathing, too loud.

A door that won’t open.

His own heartbeat, too fast.

A door that won’t open.

Voices approaching–

And then, finally, a door that does.

He flings himself in– glimpses a bucket, a mop, cleaning supplies– yanks the door shut behind him, and tries to fold down onto the floor. If his head’s between his knees, then that’s a few more layers between him and everything that’s too loud. But the engine’s vibrations tear all the way through him and splinter him all apart into a hundred thousand million tiny pieces–

He tries to back into a corner but the vibrations are in the walls too and hit right behind his shoulder blades–

He skitters into the middle of the room but the noise sneaks in through his feet and crawls all the way up and empties him out until there’s no room for shame or embarrassment or anything of himself at all, so he stands in the middle of the room with his hands over his ears and his eyes squeezed shut and tries to pretend he doesn’t have feet because eventually things go quiet again, they do, it’s just a question of how long it takes and how much of him gets peeled away in the meantime–

A different kind of quiet settles over him.

Not the raw type of quiet that usually arrives after the noise has worn itself out.

This is a solid quiet. As if someone has built a wall between him and the noise and has told it very sternly to stay out.

The vibrating roar of the engines has dulled into an almost imperceptible hum. Like how it should be.

He can’t hear his hammering heartbeat anymore, and his breathing is comfortably muffled.

He pries his eyes open carefully, in case someone actually managed to put a blanket over his head.

No one has.

But there’s a blanket on the floor in front of him.

He bends down and picks it up.

It’s brown. Brown is a quiet color. And it feels nice on his hands.

He considers it for a moment, and then drapes it carefully over his head.

Oh. That’s much better.

In the dark and quiet, he has enough room to breathe properly.

And as he works on that, a slow, simmering shame begins to kindle uncomfortably behind his ribs.

That–

That wasn’t good.

The last time he’d let that happen had been on Kamino. An alarm had gone off in the barracks. A false alarm– the announcement came over the comms, calling off evacuation protocols– but the shrieking whine hadn’t shut up, and Stitch hadn’t been very big then so he’d opened his mouth to drown it out himself, and then Fractal had tackled him and dragged him under the bunk and pressed his face into his shirt so he could scream quietly and he’d squeezed him tight enough to force out all the noise that was trying to fill him up and–

He cuts the rest of that thought off, and breathes it out.

Then he breathes out the hiccups, and the ache behind his eyes, and the prickling numbness in his feet.

This time, when he peels the blanket off his head, the lights don’t hurt anymore.

He stares at the wall.

Then he shakes out the blanket, intending to fold it up, until he sees something that stops him short.

The blanket has a hood.

He stares.

Sleeves, too.

Then he remembers–

They don’t have brown blankets on the ship.

He looks down.

The thin line of light under the door is partially blocked.

Someone is sitting outside.

He looks again at the blanket-that-is-not-a-blanket.

At the blanket that is a cloak.

Clone troopers do not wear cloaks.

After a moment, he gives up on trying to fold it, and wraps it around his shoulders instead.

Helix says that General Kenobi can be trusted. Helix says to stay with General Kenobi because he brought troopers home safe. Helix says that General Kenobi stopped the decommissionings and that he wouldn’t ever send anyone back to Kamino, not even if they were–

Not even if there was something really wrong with them.

(Helix says that General Kenobi is kind.)

Stitch takes a deep breath.

“We are learning,” he tells himself sternly, “how to be more than afraid.”

He opens the door before he can think better of it.

General Kenobi looks up.

Stitch hesitates before settling down cross-legged onto the floor next to him.

“Hello, sir.”

“Hello, Stitch.”

His voice is very gentle. Not loud at all.

“How are you feeling?”

“Better, sir.”

Then, belatedly–

“How are you feeling?”

The General smiles, and Stitch relaxes. “Quite all right, Stitch. Thank you for asking.”

“You’re welcome,” he says quietly.

They sit in silence for a long moment until something occurs to him.

“Did you make it quiet?”

“I did.”

“Oh. How?”

“Nothing in your head, if that’s what you’re worried about,” General Kenobi says easily, and Stitch hastily remembers to worry about that and then remembers to be relieved that he doesn’t have to. “I have a friend who gets… overstimulated. Have you heard the term psychometry before?”

Stitch shakes his head.

“It is, in essence, the ability to read impressions by touch. Very useful, when used carefully, but occasionally he will glean something by accident, and sometimes those things are… overwhelming. We– myself and my friends– learned when we were much younger what would help. Creating a bubble of sorts would muffle other stimuli and give him time to reorient himself.”

He gives Stitch a sideways look, and says pointedly, “He’s quite the fierce fighter, and I couldn’t ask for a better friend.”

Stitch ducks his head, feeling a burning flush crawl up the back of his neck.

“The– the bubble,” he says haltingly. “Did you– when you make it– with the Force?”

The General lets it slide. “I did.”

Stitch makes a face, and General Kenobi laughs.

He can’t help it. The Force doesn’t make sense, especially not General Kenobi’s, and it bothers him. Helix too, he knows.

He doesn’t think it bothers Needle.

(But then again, he doesn’t think anything manages to bother Needle.)

The General shifts up onto his knees and closes his eyes, and the world–

Stitch doesn’t know how to describe it.

It settles back into place. Quietly. With no itching. And the noise makes sense again.

“Thank you,” he says, remembering, and really means it. “And– here–”

He pulls the cloak off his back and offers it up.

General Kenobi gives him a considering look.

“You could keep it, if you like,” he says. “I have more.”

“It’s not mine, sir.”

“What if I gave it to you?”

Stitch opens his mouth, and then pauses, scowling. Technically, it would be his, he knows, but not– not in the right way–

The weight vanishes from his hand.

“You don’t have to,” General Kenobi informs him gently, slipping his arms into the sleeves. “It was just an offer. But thank you for giving it back.”

“You’re welcome, sir.”

“Would you like me to comm someone?”

“No thank you, sir.”

“All right,” the General accedes easily. “I’ll see you later, then?”

“Please don’t be bleeding,” Stitch ventures, and feels immensely pleased with himself when General Kenobi lets out a sudden bark of laughter.

“I’ll try my best.”

Stitch stays sitting against the wall for some time after General Kenobi leaves.

Thinking.

It’s only when voices approach from down the hallway that he levers himself to his feet and makes his way back to the medbay.

One week later, Needle comes in with their deliveries from the recent requisitions order and gleefully informs Stitch that there is something in it for him.

Stitch, bewildered, accepts the package.

After some unsubtle encouragement from Needle, he opens it carefully.

Headphones.

Good headphones.

And the tag–

The tag says his name.

They’re his.

(Properly.)

Later, Stitch concludes that General Kenobi sees the whole galaxy the way Helix sees him.

He thinks that’s a lot of people to love quite so much.

#shoulder the sky #anyway being '81 is 100% stitch's way of describing masking #i have strong feelings about masking-related trauma #also known as “in which i bully stitch to make myself feel better”

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bhrarchinerd · 3 months

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#Fractal #Fractal Friday

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mellaithwen · 1 year

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We carried our past and cradled the storm

Since @fleurdebeton and @shortsighted-owl tagged me in last lines and @rewritetheending tagged me in fuck it friday I figured, well, fuck it :D here's the finished version of my draft from February aaand I'll tag @homerforsure @princessfbi @fcntasmas @littlespoonevan @nymika-arts @renecdote @buckactuallys and @buttercupbuck :)

Spoilers for 6x10 "In a Flash" A sketch of Buck and his Lichtenberg-figure scars in the aftermath of the lightning strike. (on ao3)

Buck can't help but stare at his scars in the mirror. The fractal pattern of fern-like vines that start at his shoulder and creep down along the front of his chest. Gnarly roots that clutch and cling, and crawl up along the side of his clavicle. Tendrils of burst capillaries that cradle his bicep and ensnare his chest, leaving a trail of red lesions that lead straight to his heart.

He swallows the lump in his throat, and shakes off the memories of the lightning strike before they can consume him once more. He stands up straight, raises an eyebrow for good measure—desperate to convey the image of someone who is completely fine despite the mottled bruises on his pale skin, and his inability to sleep longer than an hour before he's jerking awake from his latest nightmare...

He holds his phone aloft, snaps the photograph, and sends it to Eddie.

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ostrichmonkey-games · 9 months

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Coming up this Friday is the August 2023 Itch Creator Day sale, so, I've put a few things on sale for then!

From August 25th to August 26th 2023,

a selection of my games (including some of my bigger ones like Vibe Check!) will be on sale, so mark your calendar.

Some highlights;

EXTRACAUSAL: Monolith Edition a role-playing game about creating and uncovering a dense web of the paranatural, the occult, conspiracies, and of things far beyond it all. This is a game of encountering that which is extracausal.

If you've ever wanted to build your own Federal Bureau of Control, or Magnus Archvies, this is the game for you.

Into the Riverlands, a system agnostic fantasy setting that explores the different corners of the titular Riverlands and beyond. It has a whole host of potential story hooks, character backgrounds, items, NPCs, and other fun random tables. Fill your games with everything ranging from Trickster-Poets to Ghost Road Guides.

Vibe Check: Enter the Inversion is an action-fashion inspired by The World Ends With You. Play through the Watcher's Game as you fight for a second chance. Collect powerful Tokens, customize your Looks, and tailor your character's build with just, the most character options I've ever put in a game.

There's also my Dishonored inspired Paktbound, a system agnostic sci-fi adventure Anomolous Carbon Sludge, the contemplative misty fantasy Reaching in the Dark, a set of new playbooks for Fractal Romance collected in Velvet Fragments, and a stripped down Forged in the Dark inspired by my times in grad school Arcanademia.

Check them all out here (on Friday)!

#ttrpg #indie ttrpg

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namusthetic · 4 months

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The Artist and The Writer

The Tiny Love Stories Series

Their love blossomed in the gentle quietness. In moments when they felt overwhelmed by the rush of sensations or dived too deep in their thoughts, forgetting to resurface for a breath, they sought each other's eyes, and the noise finally ebbed away.

They had grown weary of giving away pieces of themselves with each lover, so they became each other's muse.

Link to the full playlist here <3

----------------------

The Artist

"Why can't you see that?"

The Artist observed. Patterns and colors spoke clearly to them, like words never could. Their childlike curiosity had been so refreshing to the Writer—a breath of fresh air after all the molding and the dust that had settled during long hours of contemplation, shattering on the fractals of their mind. The Artist made them rediscover the beauty of simple pleasures, the magic of seeing things as they are. The Writer knew that, no matter how much they tried, no word could ever fully capture the Artist's beauty.

Playlist:

As It Was by Harry Styles

Someone New by Hozier

Accidentally In Love by Counting Crows

Hey Lover! By Wabie

Me Gustas Tu by Manu Chao

Black Friday by Tom Odell

As The World Falls Down by David Bowie

The Bug Collector by Haley Heynderickx

Let The Light In by Lana del Rey ft. Father John Misty

The Writer

"You just don't understand."

The Writer's depth had ignited the Artist's fascination—a tranquil, opaque mirror nestled in a clearing deep within deep woods of the most vivid shade of green. Beneath its surface, wisps of light, flashes of distant storms boiled with fury. Rarely noticed by others, the Writer observed every detail keenly, a nostalgic aura of bittersweet melancholy surrounded them. The Artist spent hours sketching, attempting to capture the comforting warmth of the wisdom in their eyes.

Playlist:

Line Without a Hook by Ricky Montgomery

Writer In The Dark by Lorde

Talk by Hozier

Wicked Game by Chris Isaac

Heart to Heart by Mac DeMarco

Mystery of Love by Sufjan Stevens

Those Eyes by New West

There Is a Light That Never Goes Out by The Smiths

We Are The People by Empire of the Sun

----------- 🎨🖋️

(there's a surprise below 🤫)

------- Tiny Side Story ------

The soft gold light of sunrise cast a warm patina across the surfaces; it was barely 5:42 in the morning. The aroma of freshly brewed coffee and jam wafted through the small apartment. In the direction of the small kitchenette, the clinking of plates and cutlery could be heard.

"Did you stay up all night writing?" The writer turned to find the artist leaning on the doorframe, a smirk playing on their lips.

"I couldn't bring myself to stop; had to finish that chapter. I was about to go to sleep, just wanted to prepare breakfast for you first. I know you like to wake up early to paint, but you awoke before I could bring it to you."

"Let's have breakfast together then; you can go and sleep after."

"Is there any way I can convince you to come back to bed and cuddle for a bit before you disappear into your studio?" The writer raised their brows in question, their attention still on the slice of bread in their hands. The artist sniffed and turned their head, as if pondering: "I have a very strict schedule; I'll see if I can spare a moment for you."

"Much obliged," they exchanged smirks, a spark of affection evident in their eyes. The artist settled into a chair by the window, watching attentively.

"Did you put the jam on the whole slice?"

"Yep."

"On the borders too?"

"Yep."

#moodboard #types of people #character aesthetics #tag your aesthetic #dark academia #chaotic academia #light academia #art academia #tiny love story series #namusthetic #tag yourself

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