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listening to the wounded man panel at magcon rn makes me want to do a relisten of w.bg and do this for the mikes walters... but i fear that would require excel sheets beyond my comprehension

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10th of June 2015, Rusty Quill Gaming released its first ever episode, and ten years on, we still love it.

So to celebrate, a very talented bunch of people came together to offer a tribute for a show that has touched our hearts and happily still has its cozy place there to this day.

Please enjoy.

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*for books physical, ebook, and audible all count

I tend to read more books but ao3 is my love I probably fall around a 4

Please reblog so more people can answer :)

I’m curious drop the last book/fanfic u read

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y’all i had this cute idea for making shitty abstract pride flags and i love them

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i know age discourse is tired and no one cares but i still occasionally see people complain about writers who make tommy 50+ and i have a few things to point out:

a) tommy kinard was not a child soldier

b) he was an army pilot. you NEED a college degree for that because that is an officers job. that takes up at least four years of his life

c) no one thinks lou looks that old. lou was casted to play a thirtysomething tommy in an episode set twenty years ago AS A THIRTYSOMETHING MAN. as we all know, tim was not thinking this far into the future when he wrote that role.

and also: i’ve done some rudimentary math that would put tommy anywhere between 48 and 53, depending on what specific choices he made in his life.

so obviously tommy was a fully-fledged firefighter in 2005, meaning that he’s been with the department since at LEAST 2004. however, the application process takes a surprising amount of time. he likely wouldve gotten his start with volunteer firefighting to help build out his resume, because there are like 10 people for every one, singular spot. the actually applicant to potential hire pipeline takes 1.5-2 years, so tommy would’ve been at the very least associated with the department as early as 2002. he would’ve had to have been at least 18 to do so, which, without the military service + time spent getting his college degree, actually does put him at 40-ish.

now. there are a couple ways tommy could’ve gone about securing that coveted pilot job. he could’ve been commissioned straight out of college, OR he could’ve gone a different route, commonly referred to as stopping out. essentially, this means that he enlisted first, stepped away from active duty service, and rejoined with his commission.

if tommy went the college to officer route, we’d have to subtract another 7 years, making him around 48. if he stopped out, he’d likely have done at least four or five years of active duty before gaining access to whatever tuition assistance he had, followed by four years of college, and at least three more years active duty following his commission. let’s just say he did 8 nonconsecutive years of active duty service, not counting whatever time he spent in the reserves while he was in school. that would mean tommy would’ve had to have been born in 1972, possibly earlier, depending on his birthday.

obviously, you can write whatever you want. i literally do not care. just like…remember this when you’re reading a fic and find yourself asking “why is this man 50 years old???”

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Something fast till I finish my pride stuff 😭 me atrasé un buen ayuda

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i think im one of the funnier types of acearo because i think sex is awesome but kissing? awful disgusting experience 0/10 would not reccomend. i get grossed out even trying to reminisce on the times ive tried it. fanfiction makes it sound so much better than it is in reality. mouths dont even taste good.

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What structure is more inherently haunted than a lighthouse? Okay, there may be a list but it isn't that long. Inspired by Lions Lighthouse in Long Beach! In my shop!

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btw if you are a trans man or transmasc reading this right now YOU 🫵‼️ make the world a brighter and more beautiful place by staying alive another day. you are NOT hurting anyone by being your gender and anyone who tells you so is a fucking moron NEVER KILL YOURSELF!!!!!!!

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Them <3

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for @911whatisyourpride week 3: family. took this prompt a little sideways but the idea hit me like a truck like two hours ago and then i typed this entire ficlet directly into the tumblr post dialog like a madwoman, so.

buck doesn't exactly try to adopt a dog, and fails anyway. tommy picks up a dog and an (ex?)-boyfriend. | bucktommy (duh) | post season-8 | 2.4k

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Buck keeps thinking about Blaze. Not Bingo, who went back to his family and is probably spoiled and happy and exactly where he belongs. But Blaze, whom for that single day had belonged to Buck. Who had been a friend when he and Eddie were on the outs, and everything was falling apart, and he had nobody to talk to because everyone thought he was overreacting. Someone who was happy to see him, who looked at him adoringly, who took joy from Buck's mere existence and gave joy in return.

Now, his life is a hundred times the mess that it was back then, but the parallels aren't escaping him.

And yeah, yeah, he's always got Maddie. But she's not his, not really; she's got more important people in her life. Her own family. Chimney, and Jee, and newborn baby Robert-who-he-still-cannot-call-Bobby. Chim's got her and Jee and Robert, in return. Eddie's got Chris, and Tia Pepa. Hen's got Karen and Denny and Mara too, now. Athena's got May and Harry, and anyway he's not going to impose on her, not now, not after everything.

Point is, everyone's got someone who's theirs. Everyone except him, that is. For a minute there he thought he might have Tommy, but well. Shows you how much he knows about love, about building a family.

So instead he's sitting all alone--in a shitty little Airbnb he's got for the week, because apartment hunting in LA is anything but fast--thinking about Blaze. And looking up dog rescues, just to dream about holding them all, and bringing one home, and having someone to greet him and be excited to see him when he gets home.

He knows it's pathetic--knew it even then, when he was clinging to Blaze and ignoring Eddie--but the one thing more pathetic than having a dog for your only friend and source of love, is having no one for a friend and source of love. Although, dreaming about having a dog for his only friend and source of love, when he can't even get a dog because he doesn't have a home address and anywhere with a pet deposit is going to be way out of his price range, is probably more pathetic than both.

The thought doesn't stop him from scrolling, and scrolling, and scrolling past the little squares of photos and blurbs. There's a five-year-old beagle named Dot that reminds him a little too painfully of Blaze. A six-month-old mutt of a puppy--they think it's maybe a boxer mix--with bright blue eyes called Frankie. A massive ninety-pound Doberman named Sergeant with a noble air to him--and behaviour problems, apparently. A tiny yorkie, by far the teey-tiniest dog he's ever seen, called Mini.

And then, at the bottom, a raggedy three-legged lab mix called Tres. He's the longest-running resident of the shelter, according to his bio. Lost his leg in an accident, while wandering in the streets. Seven years old, old enough to have trouble being adopted even without the missing leg. He's also got the biggest, most soulful brown eyes Buck's ever seen on a dog. Ever seen period, maybe.

Before he quite realizes what he's doing, Buck has the address memorized and the keys to his Jeep in his hand. No, that's not entirely true. He sort of halfway realizes what he's doing, but refuses to let himself recognize it all the way. Because if he did, then he'd have to acknowledge that it's insane, and then he'd have nothing to do but sit there and think about how pathetic he is, and how sad Tres looked in the photos.

The shelter is almost halfway across the city, because he wasn't exactly paying attention to the location when he started down this impromptu spiral. But that's alright; he's on day one of a four off, so he's got the time to kill. It's early enough, too, so traffic won't even be that bad. (He Does Not think about why he was up so early on his day off. That way lies grief and pain and danger, and he does not want to end up accidentally wrapping his car around a power pole.)

Still, this is LA, and "not that bad" ends up being nearly an hour instead. Plenty of time to think about what the hell he's doing, and all the million reasons it's a stupid, impulsive idea. But he's started this already, going Full Buck as they'd say, and he's determined not to turn back. Maybe he can't take Tres home, doesn't even have a home to take Tres to, but that doesn't mean he can't go see the dog, right? Maybe he can't be enough for anyone in his life, can't make them happy or hold them together, but surely he can be a bright spot in one sad dog's day. He can be good for this one thing.

The shelter's open, but just barely, when he gets there. No cars in the tiny parking lot, thank God, because most sane people don't show up to animal shelters at--he checks his phone--8:17 in the morning. The tiny bells above the door chime a happy little chorus as he walks in. A woman behind the front desk looks up, seeming startled to see him there. Fair enough.

"Hi, u-um, I saw this dog on your website?" Buck says, uncertainty tilting his sentence up into a question.

"Are you looking to adopt?" the woman--Miranda, according to the name tag Buck's now close enough to read--asks, already rummaging for some forms.

"U-um, not-not yet. I don't, um, I don't currently have a pet-friendly place," Buck says. He doesn't have any place, of course, but that's a lot to unload on this poor woman at barely eight in the morning. "B-but, um, but I'd like to someday. When I'm in a- a better place." Winces at the phrasing; apparently he's so chock full of death euphemisms these days, it's leaking out everywhere. "I just, um, I just wanted to see the dog for now? Maybe play wit him for a bit, if-if that's something I can do?"

Miranda looks at him for a long moment. It feels, oddly, like the way Bobby used to look at him. Piercing and uncompromising, but not unkind. Like she was looking at him, really looking, past his shell and right down to the core of him--not to judge, or find him wanting, but just to see. To understand. To maybe even help. The moment stretches like gum, and Buck's not even sure he's breathing. Not until she nods once, sharply, and says, "What was his name? The dog you were looking at?"

"U-um, Tres," Buck says, somehow surprised by this turn of events despite literally showing up here for it. "I was looking at Tres."

Miranda's face turns apologetic. "Oh hon, someone already put in yestereday to adopt him."

Something inside Buck stretches past breaking point, snaps into overstretched pieces. Of course he can't even do this right. Too late and not enough. Forces his lips into a smile that feels far too brittle for how practiced it's become, these past few weeks. "R-right. Okay. That's, that's good for him, right? G-going home to someone who can love him." Love him better than Buck ever could. Who probably has a yard for Tres to play around in, and a cozy fireplace for Tres to curl up in front off, with a fluffy dog bed all set up and waiting.

Miranda nods, but she seems distracted, chewing at her lip. Looks down at her desk. Shuffles through some papers, looking for something. Squints down at one sheet, running her fingers along the lines. "Pick up time, pick up time... ah! Yeah, that's what I thought." She looks up at him, still holding the paper in her hand. "Listen, you seem like a nice guy--the people who come here for the saddest dogs usually are. You can see other dogs, of course, whichever ones you want. But if you've got your heart set on Tres, The owner's out back right now, picking up Tres and his stuff. I can go and ask if he'd be okay with you at least say hi to Tres."

Buck nods, mumbles out a thanks that may or may not come out intelligible past the growing knot in his throat. He can't explain it, why meeting Tres feels so important. Maybe it's because he felt like they were kindred souls, in some terribly pathetic way, forgotten and left behind and waiting, waiting, waiting for someone to finally want him. Maybe it's because he thought that he could save someone, even just one sad dog, from the terrible loneliness eating him up from the inside--and be saved in return. Maybe he just wanted to be good for something, anything, and this was the one tiny thing that felt maybe, possibly, within his reach.

Or maybe he was just a sucker for a sob story and big sad eyes and abandoned dogs. It doesn't have to be that deep.

Miranda pops her head in from the back door where she'd disappeared to. "He said yes, of course. Come on and meet Tres. It'd be good for his socialization anyway, to meet some more people."

Well. At least this whole insane trip wasn't a total loss, then. He can go meet Tres and his new owner, play with a dog for a few minutes, and then drive back to his sad Airbnb so he can keep searching apartment listings. Buck makes his way across the lobby, towards the door that Miranda's holding open. Ducks out through the gap. Steps into a little back yard, lined with straggly grass and patches of sand. Looks around for Tres.

Finds himself looking at familiar blue eyes, instead.

"Evan?" Tommy says, staring right back at him like he's seeing a ghost. His eyes are wide, and so blue, and rimmed faintly red with exhaustion. Buck's pretty sure there's new lines in their corners, stupidly wants to reach out a run a gentle finger over them, to learn their new shapes. Clenches his hands into fists in his pockets to stop himself.

"T-tommy," he says, more breath than word. Has to swallow twice and clear his throat awkwardly before he tries again. "Hey. I, uh, I didn't know you were in the market for a dog."

Tommy shrugs, a little awkward. Something about the motion somehow makes those strong, wide shoulders seem small. "House was feeling too quiet. Thought a dog might help liven things up. Plus, I've always been weak for the puppy eyes." The last sentence comes out with the weight of a confession, too heavy for the back yard of an animal shelter with a soon-to-be-spoiled three-legged dog sniffing around by their feet.

Buck makes his lips curl up at the corner, pretends he doesn't notice it feels more like a grimace than a smile. "You've got good taste," he says, jerking his chin towards Tres. "I had my eyes on him this morning, too."

"Sorry," Tommy says, and it feels like he's talking about more than the dog. "Didn't mean to steal him from you."

It's Buck's turn to shrug, this time. He tries not to think about other things Tommy's stolen, not from him but for him. Tries to hold on to the fading memory of how he felt that sun-drenched morning in Eddie's kitchen, in that helicopter still full of hope over the LA skyline. Tommy's going to be good to Tres. Buck knows, because he was good to him, too. Besides, Tommy's got a solid house, big back yard and a fireplace just like he'd been picturing.

Buck's got no house, and no dog, and no one to go home to. He leans down to pet Tres instead of thinking about that. Lets Tres lick his face and slobber all over him. Pretends that's why dampness weighs down his lashes.

"I was just gonna take him home, get him settled in," Tommy says above him, after a few prolonged minutes of silence.

Buck get up, because he does know how to take a hint, sometimes. Time to get out of Tommy's hair, let him take home the dog he wants without the ex-boyfriend he didn't want. Doesn't meet Tommy's eyes as he turns to leave, because even he's got a limit for how pathetic he's willing to be in one day.

"Do you want to come with me?" Tommy says, the words uncharacteristically rushed.

Buck looks up with surprise. Tommy's got a hand rubbing against the back of his neck in a gesture Buck hasn't seen in ages.

"D-do you want me to?" Buck says. Tries not to feel like he's asking about more than just Tres. Fails. It's like they're having a whole second conversation--except they're not, because they haven't said more than maybe fifty words to each other and neither of them are actually saying it. So maybe it's all in Buck's head; maybe he's gotten so desperate that he's reading signs into innocent

Tommy's wide-eyed again, breathing a little fast and shallow. For a second, he looks almost panicked. Doesn't quite look at Buck as he reaches down to clip a leash onto Tres's collar, and lingers to pet down the line of Tres's spine with a huge hand.

When he stands back up, something in him has straightened. He's steady, looking Buck straight in the eyes as he nods firmly. "Yeah. Yeah, I do. I want you to come home with me." Glances down at his feet, where Tres is sitting patiently with his tongue rolling out. "You and me and Tres."

They're still not talking, not really. Not about the them of it all But it's the closest they've come since the helicopter--no, since before that. Since that morning, maybe.

It feels like an invitation. Like a closed door, reopened. Like a second, third, fifth chance at something.

Buck leans down to give Tres one last pat--for luck, for hope, for gratitude, for courage. He takes the hand Tommy opens to him. Him and Tommy and Tres. It feels like a good place to start.

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evan buckley + ADHD

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I'm on a need to know basis, no one tells me shit unless I need to hear it

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Dreamlike Impasto Paintings Evoke Artist’s Childhood Memories of Rural Life

by Emma Taggart - My Modern Met, August 14, 2024

Artist Anastasia Trusova uses bright acrylics to create colorful, nature-inspired impasto paintings that look like something from a dream. From rolling hills and meadows to winding rivers and serene lakes, each psychedelic scene offers a modern twist on classic impressionist paintings, reminiscent of the works of Claude Monet and Vincent van Gogh.

Trusova grew up in a small town in Russia, where she remembers the simplicity of rural life. “We didn’t have much, like everyone else back then,” she recalls, “but we were surrounded by abundant nature—forests, lakes, and swamps.”

Her passion for art began in childhood, leading her to study design at university. After graduating, Trusova spent eight years in China working as a shoe designer. Eventually, she moved to Belgium to join her husband. Now a mother of three, Trusova is fully dedicated to her painting practice, having developed a unique style she calls “textured graphic impressionism.”

By applying layers of thickly applied acrylic paint to her canvas, Trusova is able to capture nature’s abundant textures. She says, “I want to show the variability of nature, the beauty of the moment, as I see it.” Flowers and leaves are brought to life with thick daubs of pigment, while swirling clouds are formed by skillfully swiping paint across the canvas with a textured scraping tool.

Trusova seeks to capture and preserve her childhood memories of rural life in her art, hoping that future generations will also come to appreciate the beauty of nature through her work.

“Watching young people leave for big cities in search of opportunities, leaving behind quiet streets and abandoned homes, is a sad reality of our time,” she writes on Instagram. “When I return to these familiar places, now as a parent with my children, I feel a strange mix of joy and sadness. Joy from the memories of my childhood spent here, and sadness from the realization that my children will likely never experience this.”

The artist continues, “This painting is an attempt to preserve those memories and pass them on to the next generation. May they remember their roots, even if their lives are far from these places.”

Anastasia Trusova: Website | Facebook | Instagram

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@woebegonepod is the gift that keep giving. Laughed so hard at work hearing this sentence. Leg 4 ever.

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The other night husband and I were watching a documentary about the yeti where they were doing DNA analysis of samples of supposed yeti fur, and every one of them came back as bears.

Anyway, the next night we watched a thing about some pig man who is supposed to live in Vermont. People said it had claws and a pig nose but walked upright like a man. Now, I happen to know that sideshows used to shave bears and present them as pig men. So every piece of evidence they gave of this monster sounds to me like a bear with mange.

So now the running joke in our house is that everything is bears. Aliens? Bears. Loch Ness monster? Bear. Every cryptozoological mystery is just a very crafty bear.

Bears. They’re everywhere. Be wary. Anyone or anything could be a bear.