#guess i'm in that kind of mood

[hajihiko]

Hokay that's the last of the YCH batch, I'm gonna try and finish some kofi doodles again and then....regular posting maybe or more commissions we'll see

[vvanillavveins]

On the WTNV finale:

Look, i like Brinknor. They helped me fall back in love with Night Vale when i was feeling particularly uninspired. It's hard to put it into words; i have adhd & i struggle to remember big intricate plots unless something reoccurring has really grabbed hold of my attention, and before Brinknor, i was struggling to sink my teeth into anything attention-holding, so to speak. I guess i was becoming less enthusiastic in Night Vale's storyline as time went on, even though i couldn't really work out why. I just couldn't stop tuning out. But, with Brinknor, there came a bunch of shiny new plotpoints- at a faster pace. The show could actually hold my focus properly, and my wtnv fixation was suddenly up & running again.

All this is to say that i know it's just my impatience talking when i say that i wish that the loose ends of those new, interesting plotpoints had been tied up a little more by episode 250. I adore the way they write about Cecil's childhood and his family, and i want Kevin & The Boy's arc to be given the same amount of love, and attention, and time that the Palmer siblings' arc got. The same goes for Tamika. And Carlos. And Lauren, actually. Yes, i know she was a central figure in the last 2 episodes, and i loved that because she's one of my favourite characters. I fucking adore eldritch Mother Lauren. But still, it was all too vague to really learn anything new about her or the desert otherworld. And, above all else, i can't help but think of how wonderful it would've been if Charles and Donovan were included in the finale- especially Donovan.

When Kevin first came back in 2023, one of my silly little hcs as to why he was apparently in the Smiling God's bad books (and why he didn't mention Charles or Donovan) was that because Charles & Donovan aren't from Desert Bluffs they haven't devoted themselves to the Smiling God like the rest of the townsfolk. They wouldn't "smile" properly. One of my darker ideas at the time was the possibility of Kevin having to choose between making them part of his faith, i.e., making them "smile" like the rest of Desert Bluffs (which i doubt he'd go through with after his mudstone abyss arc), or having Charles & Donovan leave town (which i doubt they'd go through with), or, doing neither & keeping quiet about his life with them to avoid drawing attention. If he chose the latter and then got found out, it would make sense that he'd stop being the Smiling God's favourite. Obviously, i never thought any of that was correct- i was just having fun- and i was excited to find out the real story further down the line.

But that didn't happen, and we still don't really have many answers. Everything to do with Kevin, and Lauren, and The Boy got wrapped up in about 10 minutes flat. We've already had an emotional Fatherhood themed episode with Cecil & Abby; we didn't need another one just for the sake of it.

With the context of what we already know about Kevin's father, the ending of episode 250 was just uncomfortable. Sure, Kevin's talked about his father positively before, but that's always been in contrast with the actual content of his memories. It's always been made clear that the script/the writers disagree with Kevin's sunny outlook, and therefore the listeners should too. Those moments are there to demonstrate just how fucked up Kevin really is, and that his positivity is just a coping mechanism. But this time Cecil spoke for him, so we didn't get Kevin's usual sing-song rambling. It was calm, and collected, and matter-of-factly. And this time there were no sugar-coated descriptions of abuse, only genuine praise. We were actually supposed to agree with him this time, and it made the whole speech (and ending) sound hollow and forced.

I really didn't like this episode. It felt rushed. It tried to cover far too much far too quickly, and it failed. But, despite all that, i am hoping that future episodes will bring some sort of clarity about what happened. And hopefully some closure about Kevin and his family, too. I want loose ends to get tied up properly and i believe that maybe, with time, the important ones will be. Slow burning subplots are kinda quintessential to Night Vale's writing at this point anyway. Brinknor definitely missed the mark with this one, but they're still incredibly talented writers and i'm not ready to give up on them like some of the other fans on here.

Besides, i think that some of Night Vale's worst episodes are still incredible pieces of writing in their own right. The bad episodes are only bad in comparison to the dozens upon dozens of absolutely phenomenal episodes that make up the rest of a show that is, for the most part, a joy to listen to. So, here's to some hopefully better episodes in the future, i guess.

[zishuge]

As smart as you are, you should've already guessed. Fang Duobing isn't Shan Gudao's nephew — he's his son.

What are you staring at me for? Mysterious Lotus Casebook (2023)

[sundial-bee-scribbles]

trying to psych myself up to finally do oc refs by doing fandom-related refs instead: volume 1

wanted to update my yuma from whatever tf this au is so he was a bit more unique... takes inspo from a lot of different things while also trying to be its own sorta thing? which is fitting given the au ;)

bonus chibi now that i'm also figuring out how tf to do chibis lol:

[icewindandboringhorror]

recent lounging babey images

[thelassoway]

Jason Sudeikis as Ted Lasso » Ted Lasso 3.01 Smells Like Mean Spirit

[causticsunshine]

wanted to share the sentiment here too but didn't feel like rewriting the whole thing lmao so here are some Thoughts i had last night on twt regarding my weird relationship with my art whilst being in fandom:

i know i've definitely talked about this kind of thing in the past but it's been a very recent development that i actually understand what's been going on with me and why i've picked up this habit of letting a fandom i'm in / a piece of media i'm really into fully dictate my creative drive. like, just because i'm very interested or invested in something, it doesn't mean i necessarily feel inspired by it or inspired by it for the duration that it holds my interest, and forcing myself to create relative art or fic or what have you for the vested interest(s) has both dampened my desire to be creative as well as my imagination. i know a lot of people can be super into something or a few random things at once and that can keep them going for ages without them running out of ideas, but in my case, things that hold my interest aren't always synonymous with my creativity and i'm just now learning that despite how obvious it seems!

i also imagine i'm not the only person who functions like this but i personally haven't seen it spoken about very often (if it even needs to idk), so i wanted to bring it up / talk about it a little bit :)

[florida3exclamationpoints]

I think perhaps when my psychiatrist asks me how my appetite is maybe possibly I shouldn't say it's fine 🤔

[the-wanderer-returns]

[amplexadversary]

Ahh, tv shows where I can't tell apart the male leads, my beloathed.

Seriously either we need to go back to lighting our sets more, or long hair on men needs to come back into vogue, because I can't keep living like this.

I can't keep taking two seconds to try to determine who is who every shot because I miss what's going on in the scene!

Controversial opinion, but you need to follow the silhouette rule in live-action projects too, at least in regard to characters in the same show or movie! If you absolutely *can't* hire actors with different heights, hair, or builds, you need to work something out with the costuming department to get a distinct shape!

[ehlnofay]

immediate follow-up to these pieces

The sabre cat lies in the grass where they promised to stay.

The grass there is tall, and they’re pressed flat against the ground, so from a distance they look like nothing more than a very bright-looking rock. Efri knows better – she sees them, walking the fields holding tight to Sissel’s hand, and she breaks into a run.

She calls a “Hello!” and the sabre cat’s head rises, and Sissel falls down.

She pulls Efri down with her, the both of them hunkering into the dry grass. When Efri looks her in the face she’s wild-eyed. “Efri,” she says through gritted teeth, “what is that?”

“My friend,” says Efri sheepishly. “I told you not to freak out.”

Sissel’s jaw works for several seconds. She’s got that bloody rabbit or feral fox look about her again. Her free hand is clutching at the grass, fingers digging down into the topsoil. “That’s not your friend, Efri,” she finally bursts out. “That’s – I don’t even know what that is!”

“Sabre cat.”

“That’s not a sabre cat! They’ve got those teeth long as your arms! That’s something else!”

She’s being a little bit rude, but Efri can’t really blame her – Efri was a bit scared too, when she first met her friend. And both of their houses have just burned down. Of course Sissel’s jumpy.

(Efri’s still not feeling upset like she should be. The thought doesn’t make her want to cry – it just feels logical. It’s just true.)

“That’s just a rumour,” Efri says loftily. “They don’t really have teeth like that. And this one’s nice, promise, they’re not going to hurt you. They’ve never even ate one of my goats.”

Sissel’s staring. The whites of her eyes almost seem to shine in the beginning of the evening dark. Her face is mottled pale. She yanks her hand away from Efri and curls up in the grass and dirt in a little ball.

“You’re going to get your dress extra dirty,” Efri warns her, but she doesn’t move, so Efri leaves her to calm down and goes to talk to the sabre cat.

They’re waiting, ears pinned down, looking quite uncomfortable. They peer at Efri accusingly.

“That’s my friend Sissel,” she tells them, rubbing her thumb in circles over her stick. “Sorry she’s being a bit rude. She’s upset. Her house burned down.”

The sabre cat chuffs. They still don’t look best pleased, but they flick one of their ears up.

Efri says, “Mine too.”

Sissel’s staying in a ball in the dirt. Efri faintly registers that she’s beginning to feel hungry.

Efri jabs her stick into the ground. “So. I had an idea. Do you want to go to Winterhold?”

Her friend stills. They draw back, posture wary, a low sound in their throat – but their ears turn to face forwards. Efri thinks that might mean they’re listening. It’s hard to tell, most of the time, but she thinks that’s what that means.

“Because you always get excited when I mention it,” Efri continues, turning up turf with the bottom point of her stick, “and Sissel and me can’t really stay here. It’s all burned down. And Sissel’s great at magic – did I ever tell you that? – and that’s where the College is, up north, and if we go there then she can learn. It would be hard to go by ourselves, but if you’d come with us, then we could all help each other. We could all go.”

Sissel’s still on the ground. The sabre cat stands up, flicking one of their paws.

“Do you want to come with us?” Efri persists.

The sabre cat leans down and thunks her gently on the head with their chin.

“That’s not an answer,” Efri says. They sniff at her.

It’s hard, because this is an important conversation, and it feels very one-sided. At least when Sissel argued the idea she could make points Efri could refute. The sabre cat just lashes their tail and looks doubtful. (Why won’t they just agree? Don’t they know that Efri’s trying?)

Efri sighs and turns back to crouch down next to Sissel. “I’m trying to explain the idea but I don’t know if they like it or not. Can you help?”

Sissel’s arm slips down off her face. She looks at Efri balefully out of the one eye that’s visible. She doesn’t speak.

And Efri gets it. She knows it’s a lot. She knows it’s a weird plan and a weirder day and she knows Sissel is probably upset about the houses and Jouane and how she had to hide under someone’s porch when a dragon came, the right amount of upset, as upset as Efri should be, and she knows Sissel clams up when things go wrong and she knows this is how they always do it, Sissel small and frightened and Efri the strong friend, the one in charge, coaxing her out of her head and making plans and making it better, she knows all of it. But.

But her throat still hurts and her legs are still tingling and she’s tired of trying to be positive, strong, the one in charge.

“Sissel,” she says, voice grating and croaky, “I’m trying.” And she’s not crying exactly but her throat feels stiff and she’s hungry and tired too. She drops her stick and sits next to Sissel in the dirt. “I’m trying. I don’t know what to do.”

Winterhold makes sense. It’s a place both the others want to go – she thinks, at least. And Sissel would do well there, she can learn, she can stop being afraid. And she just needs to get out, get the both of them out. They can’t stay here, not after this. Efri can’t stay to watch the town get rebuilt when something inside her has been clamouring for what feels like forever to tear it down. She can’t stick it out, counting down the months until she’s reached whatever arbitrary age is old and responsible enough to leave, soothing Sissel each time she gets hurt and nobody does anything to prevent it, staying stiff and silent at the dinner table. She hasn’t talked to her parents in the last week, been out in the mornings before they wake up and not back until the lights were put out and they were abed. There’s a rage knocking around inside her at it all. She can feel it like a stone deep in her stomach. She doesn’t want to be angry any more than Sissel wants to be scared. She wants to stop it now before it gets bigger.

She was just trying to find a solution. She just wanted things to be better for everyone.

Dimly, she recognises Sissel’s hand on her shoulder, her arms around her. She’s sitting with her head in between her knees, the stained orange fabric of her smock stretched out against her face. She can hear Sissel’s voice, soft and unsteady, but she’s not talking to her.

She looks up.

The sabre cat is standing just a little in front of them, low to the ground, cautious; Sissel, gripping Efri’s shoulder tight, is talking to them. “She says you want to go to Winterhold.”

They nod very slowly.

“Um,” Sissel says. “Do you want to go with us? I don’t think Efri wants to go back.”

“Do you want to go back?” Efri mumbles. Sissel’s hair is tickling her face.

Sissel shakes her head. “Just don’t know if it’s smart, is all.”

The sabre cat sighs, long and low, and nudges Efri’s scrunched-up body with their paw. Sissel breathes sharply in – but of course Efri isn’t hurt, and she relaxes.

“I don’t know what to do,” Efri tells the both of them.

Sissel squeezes her tightly; the sabre cat sighs again and prods their head a bit under her leg. It doesn’t really work because they’re so much bigger than she is, but they do it again, and again, till Efri gets the message and the girls pull each other to their feet. The sabre cat lets Efri flop over their neck, same as before, and it isn’t until Efri’s adjusting her position that she remembers, mumbles, “My stick!” Sissel picks it up from where she threw it to the ground and passes it up to her. Then, nervously, Sissel climbs up over the sabre cat’s back too, wrapping her arms around Efri’s waist for balance.

“I know you don’t like giving people rides, so thanks,” Efri whispers to them, her fingers curled into their long tawny hair, and they chuff and start walking.

They end up at the cave, of course – where else? It’s well dark by now. Sissel sparks a light in her palm, casting an eerie glow over the damp cave walls, and Efri is delighted to see that the goats are all still there – or almost all, after she does a head count. “Good,” she praises them, slipping off her friend’s back, and feels a pang when she thinks that she’ll probably leave them behind. She’s never too attached to any in particular – they’re livestock, after all – but the herd as a whole has been her constant companion since she was four or thereabouts. Basically a baby. She’ll miss their snuffling, cloven-hoofed presence.

They light a little fire there in the cave, Efri and Sissel gathering and stacking sticks for it. Efri’s fire-flint lights the sparks and Sissel, though she hasn’t learned yet how to make a flame out of nothing, helps them grow.

Efri finds some nuts in her pocket and shares them around. She and Sissel savour them, crunching them into little pieces; the sabre cat swallows them whole. She doesn’t give any to the goats; they’re chewing aimlessly on the moss and don’t seem to need them.

They all lie down, then. It’s still early but it’s been a long, long day, and it’s warm and comfy with the fire going. The sabre cat lies down, and Efri and then Sissel lie against their side – they make a rumbly noise like a purr, which is a bit funny – and then even the goats come and lie with them too, little hoofs and horns digging into Efri’s legs. It shouldn’t be comfortable, and it isn’t, but it really, really is.

Maybe they’ll go to Winterhold tomorrow. They’ll talk about it.

Efri thinks, half-asleep, that her parents probably haven’t even noticed she’s gone – she’s out of the house all the time they’re in it, and now they don’t even have a house to meet in. She wonders if they’d forget about her like they seemed to forget Onmund. She wonders if she cares.

Onmund is there, at Winterhold, at the College. If she goes there she’s almost sure to see him. Does she want to see him?

She doesn’t know. She doesn’t know how she feels about anything today. Maybe she’ll know tomorrow.

Efri closes her eyes. Against the rise and fall of her sabre cat friend’s ribcage, with Sissel’s knees resting in her lap and one of the kids rubbing the side of its face against her bare foot, she falls asleep.

They’ll sort things out in the morning.

[prettyboybun]

Had my lil tail plug put in earlier and it felt so good 🥺 He put it on under my clothes and held up the vibrator where it was, calling me a good lamb, saying I look so pretty for him >//< I normally like very soft gentle sex but sometimes I think about him shoving me down to the ground and using me there as rough as he wants, where I can't help but whimper and squirm •///•

-💌

[bg-sparrow]

mcfly july 2023 || day 29 Greg AND Craig

xix.

Greg is an ode to the classics — Coca-Cola, red roses, bold. He rolls out the red carpet just for her, and no one else is allowed to set foot on it.

Craig is simpler than that, more laidback. The kind to hold buttercups under her chin, laugh, and follow her around the carnival carrying her popcorn and a balloon for himself.

But the third triplet, Paul, embodies the stars and has sapphires for eyes. He gives her blue hydrangeas — a bunch of rare, small moments that make up a bigger love. 

She basks in his cool hue and feels warm.

[lock-my-feelings-in-a-jar]

my drafts have been too full lately i haven't even made gifs in so long because i've just been posting them, i feel like it's been 10 years

[faunabel]

hmm would if be weird if my alters posted here occasionally? i don't like the idea but some of them really want to. they get bored or lonely when they front and can't interact on the main blog here. ehhh. would people mind? it wouldn't be a big thing. they might just be like "oh this is [x] speaking" or they might stop masking their typing style.

it is Nerve-Wracking to me personally but every time certain alters front, they beg me to let them post on here. and i don't like them pretending to be me, either, because then i come back and i'm like wow you did not do a good job at pretending to be me. that's actually why i was running entirely on queue yesterday because i was gone for hours.

[awesomesaurous]

What do you think the word ‘pretiositas’ that flashed on the screen during Maxwell’s dream means? It looks like it’s Latin for “preciousness” but I’m not sure what context they mean it in…

what am I a dictionary? ok let's go with the maxlie interpretation. Who is more precious to our magician than his assistant?