#holly’s stuff

[thehollyraven]

THE STARGAZING DREAMER

Fitaphim Qafotix

Name: Fitaphim Qafotix (“gift of light”)

Reference Images:

Notes on Personality: A kind and thoughtful, if naive child, they’re often quite quiet and content to hang out near the back. Still, if approached they will be more than friendly… or at least try to be.

Backstory and Lore: Wished into existence by Twinkle Popopo and Phinumiti Qafotix, this little guy hopes to follow in the footsteps of their grandfather Albanis!

Eventually, they grow up to be a fortune teller, but that time is most certainly not now.

(They have a dream matter overflow! Which can be… quite overwhelming at the best of times, though their grandfather is helping with training that power, considering he Also Has That.)

(Not pictured: the cloak they wear! It’s a deep blue hood patterned with stars and constellations. It’s quite big for their current size, but as time goes on they eventually grow into it.)

(second image by @blue-jester! all else is by me, go give her a follow she’s real cool)

@kirbyoctournament god i hope im doing this right lmfao /silly

[kirazdaha]

they're not that nice......

[skyekurisu]

Those Who Long for Yuri

Original: https://twitter.com/chizuna_n/status/1478196988210561030

Original: https://twitter.com/chizuna_n/status/1484719997117431815

Original: https://twitter.com/chizuna_n/status/1486902505380270082

Author: Nakajima Chizuna

Translation: SkyeKurisu

Typesetting: @hdittus01

[goosterbold]

here's the holly n puzz talksprites i made for tonight's show + progress shots on em! wahoo. thank you to holly n puzz for lettin me draw em, the rig setup is holly's arm- > puzz -> holly.

[deathsweetblossoms]

— The Wicked King, annotated by Holly Black

[phoenixyfriend]

Me: I'm color-coding it! [Explains system]

My sister: [chokes on a laugh]

Me: What?

My sister: Nothing, I was gonna say something but it's really mean.

Me: What is it? Like the suspected autism, or--?

My sister: No it's just, dude you're color-coding a cookbook. Get a job.

[intoxi-tooned]

Doodles whilst I was on vacation.

It's still surreal to me that Bill showed up in that one chapter

[manyrandomfandoms]

If you’re not saying floof powder, moo juice, eggies, FIAH, cimanim!!! and nilla :D while you bake, are you even baking???

[squarecloud73]

*I worship you Tumblr please don’t remove it

[makiswirl]

can i just say. and this is probably a niche hill to die on. that i am so gobsmacked every time someone vaguely hints at the idea that jotaro doesn't care meaningfully for the other crusaders, usually particularly kakyoin and joseph, when those two actually tend to be the ones he reacts to being hurt the hardest

like he cares for his loved ones!!!! that literally plays into his character motives in every single part he shows up in!!! stop lying to me!!!!!!!

[shoot-me-with-a-crayon]

them✨💕

anyways do check out Marble Sky by @somerandomdudelmao it's a very good read so far i'm looking forward to see where it goes ^_^ !

[slightly-gay-pogohammer]

once again mylittleponifying the rayman nymphs who dont have a personality but yes they do. to me.

[redularium]

Hollis powers :]

She so silly so stressed so … sssssSTUPID

[hometoursandotherstuff]

Huh. I never knew this.

[gatheringbones]

[“Turns out that being a lesbian outside of the privacy of your own home was quite hard. I’m not talking about the various manifestations of homophobia—oh, that old thing. I’m talking about scoring. Picking up chicks. (As it turns out, I would come to prefer the type of woman few would recognize as female, the type who would cheerfully deck you if you called her a chick, but might, if I were lucky, see me as such: a chick, a babe, a femme fox.)

In the oeuvre of Mr. Spillane, being a lesbian seemed so easy, like shooting fish in a barrel. In my favorite lesbian novels, No Blonde is an Island and My Gun is Quick, all a gal had to do was brush up against another woman by the water cooler and, watch out, the sapphic sparks would surely fly. Lesbianism was something any woman could do, no special equipment, messy creams or liquids were required.

But when I walked into my first dyke bar in New York City, I had a rude awakening. It was like transferring to a new high school. No, it was worse than that. A new junior high school. You walk into the class on the first day and everyone turns to stare. Your clothes, your hair, the way you move, it’s all wrong. You have to change everything or die a horrible and lingering death.

I guess the moral of this story is that there are some pursuits, such as lesbianism, that one can’t learn from a book, no matter the author. A more crass sort might make some tasteless jokes at this juncture about “boning up” on lesbianism, or about “hands-on experience,” but the reader can be assured this dyke will not sink to that level.

I watched the other women dancing, talking, flirting. All transactions were conducted in a lingo as incomprehensible to me as straight guy sports speak. My late-seventies disco fever look was out of place here. Everyone looked like they’d raided the closet of their bigger, older brother while he was out repairing refrigerators.

I was the only one wearing makeup.

Someone approached me: “This is a gay bar.” I shriveled up and a gust of wind blew me out into the street.

I had no skills. No lesbian skills. I was stared at, rather than cruised, at the bars. I couldn’t find a way of singnaling to another dyke that I was open for business, a friend of Dorothy, in the life, on the bus. Let alone desperately horny.

Somehow I managed a few invites to lesbian parties. I’d figured out that wearing lipstick was wrong, but I was still doing it. I’m such a congenital WASP that my lips disappear without makeup; I couldn’t imagine having sex without lipstick. I had tried to pull a lesbian look together: oversized second-hand men’s clothes, an unbuttoned black vest, but Annie Hall does not work on someone five feet tall.

Nor could I play softball. When something is thrown at me, even if it is specifically designed for that purpose, I automatically duck. All I had going for me in the lesbian skill department was ownership of a cat. Enough to break the ice, but not cinch the deal.

Certainly I couldn’t just come out and ask some other dyke to show me the ropes, so to speak. The seventies were still going on even though it was now the eighties. Feminism and lesbianism had kind of merged, become one big multinational entity with Andrea Dworkin as CEO. You had to be sneaky to get laid.

Yikes. It had been so easy with men. All you had to do was bend over at the bowling alley and something would happen.

After two years, the drought ended. I saw a sign that advertised: “Double-X-Rated Christmas Party for Women.” The party was held in the basement of a Catholic church. Perhaps the priests had passed out upstairs and had no idea what was going on. Or perhaps the priests were the drag queens working the bar. Nevertheless, I was there as soon as the doors opened. And the doors were not the only thing that opened.

I walked into the basement where the party was taking place and saw rows of thrift store tuxedoes, second-hand prom dresses. The doorperson made it clear that these outfits could be borrowed for the evening. After they checked their coats, many party-goers were borrowing outfits from the racks and disappearing into the bathroom to amend their attire. As the evening went on, I noticed more and more women trading in their flannel and denim for sharkskin and taffeta.

At this, my first encounter with the women who produced the WOW Festival and would later open the WOW Cafe in a tiny linguini-shaped storefront on East Eleventh Street, I fell in love. In love with all of the women, with their outrageousness, their unruly desire. I wanted desperately to be a part of whatever it was they were doing…if the WOW Cafe had been a support group for lesbian skeet shooters, that’s what I’d be doing now.

Instead, I found theater, or it found me. And the theater, it seemed, offered a wonderful solution to my involuntary celibacy: the casting couch. In theater you are encouraged to have sex with as many people as possible; it’s an integral part of the process. At least at WOW it seemed like the shows were almost an afterthought to the flirting, a byproduct of the endless parties where women of every imaginable gender rubbed up against each other.

This last paragraph reads like a natural cue to cross-fade to the Story of the First Girlfriend, doesn’t it? At this point, I should see a stranger across a crowded room, our eyes should lock, and the violins should swell like wieners on the grill. But this scene isn’t part of my coming-out story. Who even remembers my first girlfriend? Not me. I remember lots of bodies, I remember rooms lit by lots of small lights, and above all else, I remember lots and lots of Rolling Rock. This movie doesn’t end with a soft-focus closeup on two women kissing; this is a coming-out story that crescendos into a crowd scene. It’s a wide-angle shot. The climax of my coming-out scenario isn’t a closeup on a lesbian couple but a panorama of a lesbian world.”]

holly hughes, from what comes first, from a woman like that: lesbian and bisexual writers tell their coming out stories, 2000

[faerieostara]

"Still we walk through the gardens, stealing sun from the flowers..."

This was an older piece that I never finished. I started it somewhere in June but got burnt out attempting to finish it. So, here you go.