#and then it just fizzled out

[so-very-small]

I’ve had gt thoughts about Ant Man Recently and just trying to find new gt stories in marvel, st, supernatural, and Sherlock 🤷🏻‍♀️ nothing new

you’re in all the same fandoms I was in ten years ago and i vibrantly remember the struggle of sifting out all the Ant-man fics that had nothing to do with size and looking for any scrap of g/t SPN content I could possibly get my hands on

godspeed soldier

[kiiingsnake]

messing around w/ a redesign

[popfizzles]

I redrew the tile image for @cuppatrouble before I redrew my own featuring my actual sona... <:D

motivation is a crazy thing

[pxme-granate]

more shitposts but I snatched the quotes from @incorrectnevermoor 👀

[tongues--and--teeth]

Lovvveeeee this fic from @thebiscuitlabryinth sooo much omg. She’s such a visual writer I felt like I could actually see what was going on while reading lol.

Click for better quality!

POV: you’re Pure Vanilla Cookie

[larabar]

"so, that was fun"

[eggwishing]

More !!! Im really fond of the two stitched looking things on the right. I want to design more of them. I’m feeling super inspired by Kanotynes …..

[boundbysand]

okay, so. if we were to put aside all possible desert duo bias, do we really think scar would’ve teamed with grian in sl if his task was different? he very casually danced out of offers of alliances with both the heart foundation and the mounders. i’m not sure if grian’s offer was different or if scar would’ve done the same thing he did to other teams. please discuss

[squids-and-waffles7]

thinking about the possibility of belos ending up in the inbetween realm after being stomped and finally getting what he deserves... 

[ ID: A digitally illustrated comic mainly featuring Philip Wittebane from The Owl House. The first panel on the first page is a birds eye view of the inbetween realm, with cubes floating everywhere and a slight disturbance in the water below. The second panel is a close up of that disturbance, which looks to be a whirlpool of some sorts. The third panel follows that, and Philip’s hand is shown forming on the water, with a ““splat” beside it. The fourth panel is a behind view of Philip kneeled over, head to the ground and face obscured. He is in his human form, like how he is seen in Elsewhere and Elsewhen, and is breathing heavily. The fifth panel is still of Philip kneeling, except he has popped up his head and is looking around. He asks, “What is this” but is then promptly cut off by the next panel, which shows a grimwalker hand rising out from the water with a splash. He looks at this with a confused look.

The first panel on the second page is a close up of Philip’s face, a concerned and fearful expression on his face. He blurts out the word “No”. The second panel is spliced into three pieces, and each shows more dead grimwalkers rising from the water. The first shows another hand, the second a fully formed grimwalker with a broken mask crawling towards and reaching out to Philip, and the third yet another hand. The third panel is of Philip trying to back away by crawling while more grimwalker hands shoot up around him. He shouts at them, “G-Get Away!” The fourth panel is a view of Philip crawling back from behind, and a head of a grimwalker can be seen behind him. He yells again, saying, “I said-” but is cut off by the fifth panel where the grimwalker behind him suddenly grabs his arm. The sixth panel is of him looking over his shoulder, surprised. The seventh panel is an above shot of Philip sitting on the water, grinwalkers surrounding him and grabbing each of his limbs. The water swirls below him in a whirlpool motion. He shouts, “Get off me!! Go!!” The eighth panel is a closeup shot of an arm grabbing his shoe and pulling him down, the ninth panel showing the fear in his eyes.

The first panel on the third page is a wide shot of Philip being dragged down under the water, his arm straight up desperately trying to grab something. The water cascades around him, pushing him down even more. The second panel is a closeup of Caleb’s eyes, which are glaring with anger. The third panel is a below view of Philip being dragged down, with Caleb’s hand still tightly grasped around his foot. The fourth panel is a closeup of Philip’s eyes, which are staring in fear. The fifth panel is from Philip’s POV, where Caleb is seen still pulling him down by his ankle, glaring at him. Other grimwalkers are beside him, hands reaching up towards Philip to also help drag him down.

The first panel on the fourth and last page is of Philip being dragged down, a fearful and almost angry expression on his face. He screams, “Caleb! Let-” but does not finish his sentence. The second panel is of Caleb still glaring at him, not saying a word. The third panel is Philip looking at his brother with an unreadable expression on his face, as though he just realized something. The fourth panel is an above shot of Philip finally being dragged down into the depths Dr. Falcilier style, arm out stretched and he sinks. Broken masks of grimwalkers can be seen below him, pulling him down too. The last panel shows the surface of the water in the inbetweens realm, the surface still and finally tranquil. The word “Fin” is written at the bottom of the page. End ID. ]

[putting-kinger-in-places]

Mod Caine Update: Lowering queued posts to 6/day.

Hi guys, sorry to slow down my output, but I feel like I'd rather do this than quit the blog completely, for now. It's pretty tiring to do a constant stream of requests while also tackling schoolwork, friend drama, my own mental health, and a new relationship. That being said, I'm fine, but I need to slow down requests for a while.

Thanks.

[nights-at-crystarium]

wolqotd

What does your WoL seek in life? Do those goals change throughout the msq?

[popfizzles]

They mean well, but Cuphead being around makes it hard for Mac to stay on task!...

[jjdogasaur]

I am mildly disappointed in this fandom for completely ignoring the prism gate and it's truck's worth of horror potential. Like you're saying I'm just supposed to see the multidimensional, supposedly sentient portal capable of changing everything about a monster down to their very personality as just a normal thing? I think it should be seen as a concern when most monsters in various prismatic teasers are either scared when they see the prism gate, or in the process of getting sucked in. Does this look like the face of two Pompoms who are enjoying what they're seeing?

While it could be argued that some of the instances where a monster got sucked into the prism gate were just accidents or unfortunate coincidences, some of them seem like this random ass portal had something against a monster, who was just trying to enjoy their day, and then whoops! The weird space portal was feeling a bit pissy today so now you're a piñata! But now, that could all just be chalked up to extremely coincidental accidents, but here is my biggest reason on why the prism gate should be utilized more in msm horror:

This damn teaser. This goddamn teaser.

If the weirdly eerie aura wasn't enough, all descriptions that include this teaser describe Reedling entering the prism gate as an act caused by peer pressure? Why? With how monsters are for the most part, morally good, it seems almost out of character for these monsters, especially ones so nice like Pompom, to convince a fellow monster to do something that they seemed scared to do. But consider this, the prism gate possibly altered the minds of these three monsters to encourage other monsters to enter the gate, becoming almost forceful about it, thus leading to the peer pressure of this poor Reedling.

Anyways that was my TED Talk enjoy my ramblings about a fictional gate

[bookshelf-in-progress]

Queen of the Fairies

All children love fairies. Who among us does not have memories of springtime afternoons with Nurse in the gardens, watching those tiny, human-like forms flitting through the world on their delicate wings, who seem to be clad in the very blossoms among which they live?

Yet most of us, as we age, forget about the fairies. We rush past gardens and flower boxes with barely a glance for the blooms themselves, much less for the delicate creatures that hide so carefully among them. If we think about them at all, they are part of the hazy, distant memories of long-ago childhood, not a vital part of the landscape that supports every facet of our daily lives.

But there is one woman who did not forget. Who never did forget, in her eight-and-four-score years of life, despite a scientific world that laughed her to scorn. As I, with all of England, mourn the passing of this inestimable woman--beloved author, illustrator, and (at last) honored naturalist, I can think of no better way to honor Constance Sommers than to recall my childhood meeting with her in the summer of my seventh year.

I had always loved watching the fairies in the window boxes outside my family’s London home. In 1892, I visited my grandparents in the countryside, and a new world opened up to me, filled with more flowers—and more types of fairies—than I could have imagined. I spent every waking moment in my grandmother’s gardens. I watched fairies hatch from the hearts of blooming tulips, scatter thousands of dandelion seeds, and endlessly paint the delicate shades of apple blossoms.

My favorite place, however, was my grandmother’s rose garden. There I found fairies whose forms matched every species of rose to a shade—save one. The crowning jewel of my grandmother’s garden was a rose she had bred herself; its white blossoms, as large as my hand, were streaked with red, and its scent was like a thousand fresh-plucked fruits. I knew that such a flower could only be tended by the grandest and most beautiful of fairies, and I watched, breathless, week after week for this hypothetical fairy to show her face.

At last, on a morning when my quest left me restless with anxiety, I tiptoed out of my room and slipped out to the rose garden in the gray light of dawn. As soon as I reached the prized rose bush, I saw fairy even more beautiful than I had imagined. Every bit of her form, from her face to her tiny fingers and toes, was pure white, with only the faintest green specks in her gray eyes. One of grandmother's red-and-white blossoms seemed to splay from her waist like a dancer's skirt, and her wings were so transparent that in that dim light, she appeared to have none, and instead seemed to float upon the delicate breath of the dawn.

At first, I stood awestruck—this was truly a queen among fairies. Then I recalled—I couldn’t let her slip out of my grasp. In a twinkling, I caught her in a glass jar, with one of my grandmother's roses tucked safely inside to serve as shelter and food.

How I rejoiced in that treasure! I brought the fairy to my room and marveled at her graceful fluttering until breakfast time, when I slipped away to the kitchen to eat with Nurse. By the time I returned, the beautiful little fairy was splayed, lifeless, across the base of the jar.

I wept myself breathless, completely inconsolable. Nurse offered comfort and threatened punishment, but she could not quiet me. At last, my sobs drew Grandmother, who took one look at that lovely little fairy and said, "I suppose there's nothing to do but give it to Constance Sommers."

I knew that name—every child in England did. Constance Sommers had written and illustrated the marvelous tales of the flower fairies that had a place on every nursery shelf—and all this time, she had been one of my grandparents’ neighbors! Surely she, if anyone, could save this little fairy! After much begging and pleading, I was allowed, reluctantly, to accompany Grandmother as she brought the fairy to Miss Sommers.

The carriage brought us to a tidy brown brick cottage atop a hill, surrounded by the most glorious gardens I had ever seen. Flowers bloomed on shrubs and trees, climbed trellises and the walls of the cottage, and blanketed the ground with every color of the rainbow. Even from the carriage I could see dozens of fairies flitting among the blossoms. I was utterly enchanted. Were it not for the dead fairy I carried in the jar, I might have lost myself in ecstasy.

The moment we alighted from the carriage, a gate leading to a back garden opened, and a woman strode toward us. She was like the branch of a tree—impossibly tall, thin and knobby. Her hair—dark, with only whispers of silver—was cut close to her head. She wore a simple white shirtwaist and black skirt, and dozens of tools—pens, keys, scissors, lens—hung from a silver-chained chatelaine at her waist. Her eyes, caged behind gold-rimmed spectacles, darted a million directions, fairy-quick, as if cataloging the landscape.

At last, her eyes lit on me—or rather, upon the jar in my hands. She rushed toward me without so much as a glance at Grandmother. “Fairy?” she asked.

I nodded and lifted the jar toward her. She took it and examined it with those sharp eyes—which quickly widened. “I’ve never seen this kind before.” Those eyes pierced me. “Where did you find it?”

She was speaking to me, not Grandmother! Never before had an adult addressed me so directly. “In Grandmother’s rose garden,” I said. “Can you save it?”

The head moved—one sharp shake. “It’s dead. Perfectly preserved. Do you have more?”

“N...no.”

“If you get some, I’ll pay triple the going rate. Could be a new species.”

She bombarded me with questions—what kind of flower the fairy resembled, the location of the garden, the soil conditions, the time of capture, the surrounding flowers. Grandmother answered the more technical ones, but since she hadn’t seen the fairy until I’d shown it to her dead in a jar, most of the questions about it fell to me. I was terribly shy, but under the circumstances, too bewildered to be afraid. As Miss Sommers jotted down my answers in a small diary, I had my first brush with a scientific approach to fairies—and I was fascinated.

As she questioned, Constance Sommers wandered through her gardens, making note of various fairies—lilies, honeysuckle, hollyhocks—but clearly intending me to follow and continue with the interview. I had never felt so important. I answered the questions to the best of my ability—and she seemed impressed.

“You’ve got a good eye,” she said. “Good memory.”

As if I could have forgotten anything about the queen of the fairies!

I trailed Miss Sommers through her back garden, losing Grandmother somewhere along the way. At last, Miss Sommers approached one of the cottage’s side doors. With a twist of one of the keys at her waist, the door opened, and I followed her inside.

At first, I thought we’d entered another garden. Every surface—every wall, ceiling, shelf and dozens of tables—seemed to be covered in framed flowers. Enchanted, I stepped closer to the nearest one, and found that it was the lilaced purple skirt of a flower fairy.

My enchantment turned to horror. Every single one of those surfaces—every frame—was filled with flower fairies, each one as lifeless as the beautiful specimen in my jar.

I ran away screaming.

I took only two steps out the door before Miss Sommer’s hand came down upon my shoulder like an iron shackle. She stood over me, as immovable as stone. “Where are you going?”

She did not sneer. She did not sympathize. She didn’t try to soothe or placate me. She simply asked. Before such unshakable practicality, I was helpless. My screams stopped.

She pulled me back into that room and plopped me onto a low wooden stool. Frozen as I was, I didn’t resist. Then she opened the door, tipped the fairy onto a table, and went to work.

Her hands were like two fairies, constantly in motion, yet always sure where they were going. I forgot about the walls and simply watched her work. With minuscule brushes, she cleaned the fairy’s lifeless form, then arranged it inside another wooden frame. She posed it with its hands outstretched, its nearly invisible wings positions halfway down so as to catch some of the light in rainbows. I recognized in this work the same hand that had painted such delicate pictures of living fairies. Though the fairy’s end was tragic, she was turning it into something beautiful.

As she worked, she lectured—I believe she forgot I was only a visiting seven-year-old, and not a potential apprentice. She explained how the preservation of specimens allowed for further study. She spoke about competing theories as to the origins of the fairies—whether they were one species that took on camouflage based upon the nearby blossoms, or multiple species that were born with each flower—whether they were somehow tied to the flower’s life cycle or whether they were an independent species laying eggs within the blossoms.

I have heard it said many times over the years that Constance Sommers did not like children. Certainly, she did not handle children with delicate patronizing care, as the adults of that generation and that class tended to do. Certainly, she had attention only for her work. But I believe it was simply that she was no respecter of age. Whether her listener was seven or seventy years of age, so long as they respected her work, she allowed them to stay.

That day, I stayed for hours as she utterly captivated my mind and imagination. My little fairy, who met such a tragic end, became a crowning jewel of her collection, vital to her later discoveries about the camouflage abilities of rose fairies. Those discoveries were not published by the scientific community for decades—her gender and field of study made it almost impossible for her to be taken seriously, until later developments in ecology made her work impossible to ignore.

But what adults could not accept, children welcomed with open minds. The fairy of the white-and-red-striped rose featured in her next picture book—as Queen of the Fairies.

Now, I am grateful that, in recognizing both the artistic and scientific achievements of this remarkable woman, the rest of England knows what I learned that day—that title truly belongs, and always will belong, to Constance Sommers.

[thefirstknife]

For me, I try to keep in mind that EoS is inevitable for all live service games. Destiny has at least gotten a satisfying end to the main story arc and some really fun epilogue content (and the rest of this year's is on track, as you said). If it goes down after this, well, it had a much better run than plenty of other games I've seen end. But also this might easily just be us heading into a lull period while they figure out a direction for a more content in the future. Stepping back a bit for some breathing room to figure out a healthier approach that will entice players without being unsustainable for the employees is hopefully just what they need.

Well said and agreed!

Expansions have always been the biggest money makers for Destiny, which is also why a lot of people are concerned. This is a perfectly valid concern of course. Unfortunately the problem with expansions is that while they're a huge reward, they're also a huge risk. If an expansion fails, that's a lot of resources and effort put into something that spirals the game down, which then requires more resources to make up for it. It's something that people tend to ignore and not really talk about when it comes to yearly expansions and how much they mean.

I know it's probably at least a little naive to think that all of this is for a positive outcome in the future. But even then, I still think it's a good idea, as a concept, to stop pushing for yearly expansions when we know for a fact that some of them simply don't end up as well received as others. Making a really loved expansion every 2-3 years is better than inundating players with expansions every year, of which people will not enjoy most of them. Maybe a different model will help with this so I'm willing to give it a chance without going into it with negative expectations.

[eatyourmaker]

alright it's official

✨💞💖I'm taking a break💖💞✨

Indefinitely

Idk how long it's gonna be.

It could be 3 days, it could be a week, it could be until more sm content drops, it could be till the end of time but

✨No✨

I am currently

✨not having fun✨

So uhhhh

See ya.