#so to speak

[dduane]

Via @iucounu at Bluesky.

[northwindow]

Terrance Hayes, from So to Speak

[bloggingboutburgers]

Today took a turn so no completed OC-tober drawing again i guess

[see-arcane]

A belated moonlit commission based on a very lovely ref shot that I maybe got a bit carried away with. Consider it a pseudo sequel to this little thing. (Feel free to imagine Gowan's, "Moonlight Desires" playing in a moody reprise here.)

If you're interested in some art of your own, my Ko-Fi info is here.

And if you'd like the little vignette I scribbled to go along with the image, check below the cut:

Part of him wishes he could tell her this isn’t necessary. A small part, one that whispers when another might weep or bellow, but it’s there just the same.

You really don’t need to do this, darling. I would never have run in the first place. I would have danced my way to you regardless. Do you know that, Mina?

He cannot speak these things any more than he can look away from her. It's just as well. Her stare is a gleaming pit there is no crawling out of. His peripheral goes as far as the starlit sky, the high bright moon, the clouds. The very top of the Carpathians, sinking steadily out of view.

Yet they are dancing. Her arm is a careful iron bar around him, but the mist holds tighter still. Her mist. Her strength. Cold and cradling, whirling in a legless waltz as they spin in the moonlight like a fairy dream. They never did get to dance on their wedding day.

“Jonathan,” and her voice is crystal, “My Jonathan.”

“Yours,” he breathes. “Always yours, Wilhelmina.”

Should it worry him that he could not say otherwise if he tried? Perhaps. But it is not otherwise. He feels the vise of her mind pull snug around his and does not dread the thought of it tightening to a noose. Insurance upon insurance. As if the height were not enough to keep him pliant. As if his heart were not anchor enough to keep him sunk in the sea of her. But she is changed, his Mina, and she takes no chances. The small whispering part of him pauses to wonder how few chances were taken down on Earth; if the others were silent because they slept, or because…

She undoes his collar, slips free the cravat. The air is crisp on his throat. Her kiss is not half so sharp as the breeze when it finds him. He smiles through it all, unblinking as her.

And even so close to the heavens, he sees the moon is a dull marble beside her eyes.

[lurkdragonstuff]

I'm an atheist and a philosophical materialist. I don't think there's anything more to the universe than what can be observed and measured. Disagree if you want, that's fine, but take as read that this is where I'm coming from.

As you can imagine, this makes it very strange to me that my brain thinks I'm a dragon.

I have been trying to square this circle for years. Since around the 2000's, when I first made contact with the Internet, I would look in on the otherkin community, and the draconic community nested inside it, and I would think, man. I wish I could believe that. I wish I could believe that souls were real, and that I had one, and that it was a dragon, and that's why I was so odd. For quite a while, I just explained it as a furry fandom thing. Sure, yes, my fursona is feral, but ferals are furries, too. This is still true! I'm still in furry fandom, and my dragonself still acts as my fursona. But they are also, in a deeper sense, me.

I'm a secular pagan. I don't think gods exist, and I don't think magic is literally real. I can't really cast a curse on shitty charities. The moon's a big shiny rock. It doesn't care if I roar at it when the sun reflects off it just so and I can see the whole of its tidally locked face.

But my dragon brain doesn't know that. It likes the big shiny rock. It likes little shiny rocks, too. It likes to light things on fire, and considers this a sacred act, both bringing destruction to noxious things and bringing honour to things worthy of it. It likes to growl and hiss when things annoy it. It likes to collect things, to have a hoard. It likes to range around its territory, keeping an eye on what's around in what season. It finds it frustrating that its wings don't seem to work at all, and its other limbs barely better. It wants its tail back. It wants its fire breath.

I'm autistic. Sometimes speaking is hard, and I growl and hiss when things annoy me. I like to collect things related to my special interests; I have a sprawling collection of cetacean, Nintendo, and SEGA figurines, as well as lots of little animal figures. Plushies, too, and videogames, and books. I do wildlife photography, as well, marking who's around in what seasons. This is, to my frustration, limited a lot by waning energy because of chronic health problems.

If backed into a corner, to say what I really believe, of course I'm a human. It is in my DNA, expressed in a bipedal body plan, five fingers on the forelimbs only, nails and not claws, no wings, no muzzle, no tail, short neck, skin and fur instead of scales. Not even any horns. I find this frustrating, but it is what it is. I also find it frustrating when people call me 'she' and not 'they', and that really there is no feasible gender presentation that would guarantee that strangers would use the right word. The best I can hope for is that people will read the 'they/them' button on my hat, or otherwise call me 'he'. Still wrong, but at least novel.

I honestly think my draconic identity developed when I was younger as a way to explain why I was so weird. I have never been normal. I will never be normal. As an adult, I have fancy words like "autism" and "anxiety and depression secondary to post-traumatic stress disorder" and "seasonal affective disorder" to explain why I'm abnormal.

But a part of my brain, I think the same one that still believes in magic and deities even though I don't, tilts its head, then grins a sharp grin and says, "Cool story, bro. I'm still a dragon."

I generally have, for any given of my eccentricities, the philosophical materialist explanation (generally that I am either brainweird in some way or another or am playing pretend for placebo purposes to manage executive function etc.) and the dragon explanation (generally what the pretend play revolves around). But - and this is hard to explain - it isn't exactly playing pretend, either. It's me.

When I'm pretending to be Link, either playing a Zelda game or writing Zelda fanfic, Link isn't me. I might be inhabiting him as an actor, but he isn't me. When I play Animal Crossing, and I'm playing a character named after me, that's closer. It's me but greater. Me but more. Me existing in a life I wish I could have.

When I put on my mask, when I sit and daydream about the multiverse-hopping shenanigans I get up to, when I hiss at someone startling me by getting into my space, that's me. I'm not a dragon, I'm a human wearing a mask, daydreaming, hissing because "back the fuck off!" isn't allowed in the workplace.

Yeah. Cool story, bro.

I am still a dragon.

[andyouknowitis]

you can tell a man by his triangles

[jabberwockprince]

ITS ME AGAIN, EXCEPT I DONT HAVE ENERGY FOR A FULL PIECE BUT!!! THIS EXTREMELY GOOD ADDITION ON THE HANAHAKI DISEASE DISCUSSION BY @instantartific INSPIRED ME TO DRAW!!!

as much as i love to bully rin with existential crisis and shit, i still think he'd be the last one to break down - but the first one??? to fall out of line??? to me its definitely eloni

as usual, me rambling under the cut!!

right off the bat, i do like to think a lot about how eloni sees himself as the weakest link of 1010 - entirely because he gets less fans. their entire existence revolves around entertaining, so if he cant even do that, then what's the purpose of him being around and all? its a very unfair way to live but it's not like they were even supposed to have opinions about it. and that's the beginning of his downfall. the fact that his popularity is affecting him on an emotional level when it shouldnt even be a THING. he already feels outdated, defective and more!!!

i also think that eloni is torn between the fear of being caught and the need to be seen. like, this is something brand new that's happening to him. he's an anomaly and one of a kind BECAUSE of these feelings. to a guy who rarely gets the chance to shine???? IMAGINE. IMAGINE WHAT THAT WOULD DO TO HIS ALREADY CRUMBLING IMAGE

like come on guys. there's a reason eloni is always paired up with haym. they're very cute together as a fun duo with fun dynamics, but in boybands, there's always that one guy who only serves to uplift others.

something something, sentience and self-awareness are a nightmare, it sucks that there's no one you can trust wholeheartedly (nym put this into cooler words, go read the linked post! go go go!) and the second you deviate, there's the immediate threat of being reset. all of you? gone. BUT THERE'S ALSO. THE POTENTIAL OF STANDING OUT

yes. he gets little sprouts and vines instead of specific flowers to really emphasize how much of a weak persona eloni believes he has. even if he's found out, it won't be grand. it will be a relief to him (or so he thinks) but he's certainly not going out with a bang. also the green plants blending in with his own designated color? there's another metaphor in there, i just cant put it into words!! small inconspicuous little things that amount to something extremely dangerous and painful!!!!

i imagine eloni sees this hanahaki disease as catharsis, since there's no way he could've ever voiced his feelings, the only way for him to be noticed is through an external force that's extremely hard to ignore. its eating him up from inside out, but in his eyes, it's fine because it gives the world an excuse to look at him

and in the event of yinu's mama straight up outing eloni to neon j or the others, i also think he'd have the most tame, accepting reaction to it? or like, not necessarily accepting, actually but resigned. part of him was anxiously waiting for it to happen, while also dreading this very moment

on the subject of the plant itself and how it coexists with eloni, i think that his vines and sprouts are very small very thin but that they're the most constricting things ever. like, they get EVERYWHERE in his joints. in every crevice and space available. whereas purlhew might instead just have an ungodly and suffocating amount of blue flowers located entirely in his chest cavity until he bursts. or haym might have very localized sprouts and blooms that just. pop. as if attuned to every feeling he's trying to repress. i dont know what zimelu has, but it needs thorns. and rin? well. WELL <3. ITS A POISONOUS PLANT FOR SURE <333

[sunshinechay]

Me reading the Pit Babe novel and realizing that Babe calls Charlie ‘Daddy’ during every sex scene:

[piratelil]

Watching the epilogue animatic in 2023 and seeing the “Remember Her Message” mural and then being hit with this almost a year later 🥲

[totalspiffage]

It is once again time for me to be consumed by the Thoughts of my Interest!!!! Nothing else!!!!! Only Interest!!!!

[elderscrollsconfessions]

Confession: Elves in skyrim are so fucking ugly oh my god

No wonder the nords hate them! They're so disgusting to look at!

[sentientcave]

And They Were Roommates

Part 2!

Sooner than I thought I'd get it done, but I ended up with more time today than I thought. It's moving day! This one goes out to the two people who read this so far (ilu), and also the dream of affordable rent and friendly, walkable neighbourhoods.

Part 1 Here

Fem!SoapxFemReader

~2.6k

Alcohol mention, SFW

MDNI - 18+ Blog even if this is you know, pretty tame at the moment

Your apartment is on the third floor of a walk-up, with a little balcony off the living room, and a decently sized kitchen. The rooms aren’t too small either, and your landlord has never cared about you putting holes in the walls or painting, only that you’re quiet and you have not once been late paying the rent. She lives on the first floor, and you have a sort of pleasant, neighbourly relationship with her. It’s easy enough to like a landlord that doesn’t raise your rent arbitrarily or drag their feet on repairs, but Leslie’s also a handsome, handy butch, and her wife, Amelia, is a wispy artist, and you’ve always been on the cusp of wanting to be properly friendly. You let her know before you head off to work that you have a new roommate moving in today, and that there would be a bit of noise in the afternoon.

“Oh, you found someone? Good. You want them on the lease?” she asks.

“I don’t think she wants to be. She’s just giving me cash so I can pay it. Is that alright?”

Leslie nods. “Sure is, honey. Thanks for letting me know. Oh, and I want to do a check on the radiators before the cold weather hits— Shouldn’t need into your apartment, but the pipes’ll be clanging something awful. It’s supposed to be cold and rainy Monday, so I’ll turn on the heat, and you can text me if your rads don’t warm up.”

“Alright. Thanks Leslie.”

She laughed. “You don’t have to thank me. You’re just saving me paperwork and a trip up the stairs. I’ll be standing by this afternoon if you need the door taken off the hinges to get any furniture through.”

You head off to work, humming to yourself. There’s time to stop for a take out coffee too, something you’d been denying yourself for the last few weeks to conserve money, and the barista gives you an extra shot of espresso, just because she missed seeing you.

God, you would have hated moving away. This neighbourhood has been good to you, and starting over somewhere else would have been hard. You recognize most of the faces around you, and often get a smile or a nod when you pass by, or even a good morning from a few. It feels like being part of a community. You unlock the door to the shop, and you don’t bother locking it behind you while you quickly get things set up.

The bell above the door jingles just as you’re about to go and flip the sign. “You know, you should really keep that locked when you’re not open,” John says. He’s an irregular regular, the sort of customer you see every few days for a couple weeks and then not at all for months at a time. You like him— He’s always polite, and he always takes your recommendations seriously, and comes back to tell you what he thinks. He’s older, but in a non-distinct way where he could be anywhere from 30 to 45. The muttonchops kind of make it hard to tell.

“A customer coming in a minute or two ahead of time is not terribly concerning to me, John. And the shop is open, I just haven’t flipped the sign yet.” You do so, and dust your hands together, like you’ve just accomplished some great feat.

“What if I wasn’t a customer?”

“What, like a robber? I’d give them the money from the till and then ring up the cops so they can stand around and be useless a while.”

His stern expression cracks into a smile, the crows feet around his eyes deepening. “Alright, fair enough.”

“You’re here early. Usually don’t see you until lunch hour. Got a busy day ahead?” You absently straighten a pile of books on the table by the door before you return to your perch behind the counter to sip your coffee.

“Yeah. Helping one of my sergeants move this afternoon. Someplace in the neighbourhood, but you’ll be closed long before we finish.”

You hadn’t realized he was military, but now it seems obvious. He’s got that straight-backed, keen-eyed look to him that could belong to few other professions. “Oh, are you Jamie’s captain?” you ask, connecting the dots. It's too close to be a coincidence.

He raises his eyebrows. “You’re her new flatmate?”

“Yeah! Ha, I guess you’ll get to see how I live. Always weird when a customer crosses the threshold of familiarity.”

“Didn’t realize you two knew each other.”

“We don’t— Not yet, anyway. I’ve had an ad out for over a month, she’s the first person who’s responded that I think I could actually live with. You would not believe the number of guys who responded thinking that a picture of their dick counted as a reference.”

“Did Jamie give you references?”

“Yes, her old landlord, her LT and her Captain— Guess that’s you. But I met Ghost last night, and I didn’t really think I needed to call the other numbers after meeting Jamie.” You shrug. “Although looking back on it, I guess getting a vibe check from a giant in a balaclava is maybe not the most legitimate reference I could have received.”

“You ever think you might be too trusting?” John asked, leaning against the counter. He didn’t have a tendency to use his size to intimidate, but he was looming over you now, giving you a stern glare that you’re sure his newer recruits have nightmares about. You’re not intimidated though. You’re too familiar with him by now to be worried. He’s just got this protective, almost fatherly streak to him, and a bit of paranoia that makes more sense now that you know it’s coming from his military background.

“Have you ever thought that you might not be trusting enough?” you ask sweetly. “Not to sound trite, but I’ve found that when you approach things with an open mind and heart, things work out. But maybe I’ve just been lucky.”

“I’m surprised you haven’t been eaten alive,” John grumbles, moving away from the counter, shaking his head.

You just shake your head too, picking up your phone so you can text Jamie.

I met your captain!! Well I already knew him but I didn’t know he was your captain

The response comes in almost instantly

UR BOOKSTORE GRIL<

GIRL<

NO FOCKIN WAY<

???

caps got a crush on ye. dirty old man >:( <

Dinny wry kitty ill fight im 4 u<

You hear John’s phone ding. He glances at the screen and laughs, and then looks over at you. “Jamie just told me to square up.”

“Wouldn’t be fair. I bet she fights dirty,” you tell him. “Is that why you call her Soap?”

He laughs again, his broad shoulders shaking. “No, but it might as well be.”

John buys a couple of old westerns and heads out soon after, leaving you to putter around the shop. You get a few customers through, though not many. Fridays are never very busy. Saturday and Sunday are always the busiest days of the week, and the days that the little book shop is open the longest. From what you've gathered, Bruce, the owner, makes most of the money to keep the place going by renting out studio space upstairs. The second floor is a wide open room, and the third floor a maze of little studios. There's a bulletin board behind your counter with all the workshops and events listed. Bruce lives at the other end of the first floor, and you rarely see him. The bookstore was something for his wife, who had gotten bored and moved on to pottery, and then glass blowing, and was currently occupying a studio upstairs and writing a novel. Sometimes she asked you to read chapters of it, and you had to come up with polite ways to tell her that she needed to put a lot more work in that wouldn’t get your ass fired.

Jamie texts you updates on the move, mostly complaints about how she didn’t think she’d need so many boxes, she didn’t think she had that much stuff, as well as a picture of her reclining on a couch while Gaz and Ghost lift it into the air, with the caption RIDES HERE that you receive just as you’re locking up the store.

They gonna carry you the whole way here?

no :( LT said im 2 heavy <

rude fucker <

You should reconsider your no killing in your spare time policy Just this once

ur rite. <

only after ahm dun mvoing tho<

hes useful 2 me yet<

You giggle and stow your phone back in your pocket, picking up your pace so you'd have time to do a quick, last minute clean of the apartment and shut Red Herring in your room so he doesn’t make a run for freedom while the doors are open.

He never listens when you tell him he doesn’t have what it takes to make it out there alone.

You happen to glance out the window when a pickup truck pulls up in front of the building. John and Gaz climb out. It’s a smaller model, and the couch from the picture is strapped sideways across the short-box bed with a pile of boxes stacked neatly underneath. A blue sports car pulls up behind it, and Ghost unfolds himself from the passenger side while Jamie throws her door open and hops out of the driver’s side. You head downstairs to meet them at the front door.

As soon as she sees you, Soap runs over and throws her arms around your waist, picking you up bodily and swinging you around, like she’s a soldier returning from the war and you the long suffering wife awaiting her return back home. You shriek with laughter and hold on tight, worried that she’ll drop you. Not that it’s all that far from the ground. Maybe it’s just kind of nice to be manhandled by a big strong woman.

“Missed ye,” she says in your ear.

“Jamie, we just saw each other yesterday,” you remind her, still laughing. “We just met yesterday.”

“Pff. No matter.” She gives you one more spin before setting you down. “Awlright, let’s put these big strong lads to work, aye? If ye ask nice Gaz’ll prob’ly take off his shirt.”

“I think he should keep it on, actually,” you say dryly.

“Yer right, kitty, don’t want to get distracted while there’s a job to be done. I’ll take my shirt off for ye later, since yer insistin'.” She loops an arm over your shoulders and presses a quick peck to the side of your head before letting go and dashing back over to the vehicles, giving you no chance to say that you most certainly had not been insisting.

No one lets you help, beyond opening doors and helping them navigate corners, but you suspect that you really only would have slowed up the process. They make carrying the couch up the stairs look easy, and the whole job is done in under an hour, despite the three flights of stairs. Soap moves her car to the lot, taking the space Leslie indicates, and you walk up together, Leslie telling her the laundry hours and letting her know that she was welcome to paint her room any colour she liked.

“Hey, John,” Leslie says peering in the open door with a grin. “Haven’t seen you around in a while.”

John turns a curious shade of pink. “Ah, well. Things have been busy. No time for workshops.”

“Well, you’re welcome back any time. Bring your friends, even.” She claps Soap on the shoulder as she turns to head back downstairs. It strikes you that she only came up to say hello to John, who had done his best to avoid her the whole time they’d been moving boxes. “Nice to meet you, Jamie. You’d best be good for our girl.”

“Ahm always good,” Soap protests. “Ask anyone.”

Leslie glances over at Gaz, Ghost and Price, who shake their heads in unison.

“Awlright, ask anyone except these bastards. They dinnae appreciate me. Even when I was going to order them takeaway and git ‘em a few pints.” She pouts, leaning against the doorway dramatically clutching her chest. “Ahm misunderstood in my own time.”

Leslie chuckles. “Well, she’s a handful. Good luck with that one, honey,” she tells you as she trots back downstairs.

You shuffle Soap into the apartment and close the door so you can release Red Herring from the confines of your bedroom, where he’s been yowling his displeasure for the past hour. She flops over the back of the couch, landing upside down with a sigh, and pulls out her phone, head tipped over the edge of the seat. “What do ye lads want? A Chinese? Or somethin’ else?”

“We also don’t have to stick around.” Gaz looks around at the others. John is looking at your bookshelf with interest, and Ghost is crouched in the hallway, greeting Red Herring. Gaz gives you a sheepish smile. “Or, uh. Maybe we do.”

Soap hauls herself into a more upright position, both hands still holding her phone. Her core strength must be unreal. You briefly wonder if she has actual, honest-to-god abs. “You want ‘em gone, kitty? Hens only?”

It strikes you that whatever this group has going on, it’s more than a little codependent. Better to get used to them now. “It’s alright. I’ll hang out in my room if I run out of social battery. Used to do that when Fern’s friends got to be too much.”

Soap tosses her phone down and flips her legs over the side of the couch and then to the floor. “Oh no, kitty. Dinna start off bein’ accomodatin’ when ye’d rather not be. I can tell ‘em to fuck off. Weal. I can tell Gaz and the captain to fuck off. I have ta drive LT home. No cabbie in his right mind will take the poor fella.”

“Not even the one’s not in their right minds,” Ghost says mournfully. Somehow, he’s coaxed Red up onto his shoulder, and is wearing the fat orange cat like a fur stole. You can hear the cat purring from several feet away. “For some reason, I make people nervous.”

“Couldn’t be the eye black and the fuckin’ skull motif, LT,” Soap says.

“Couldn’t be the size of you either,” Gaz adds.

“Sweetest pup I know,” John agrees. “People just don’t trust these days. Sign of society collapsin’.” He winks at you.

“What’s the word, kitty?” Soap drapes herself over your shoulders and nuzzles against your hair. Her nose runs along the curve of your neck, and it doesn’t seem to bother her even a little that the other three are watching with fascination. They're trying to be subtle about it, and failing miserably. John has a book in his hands, holding it upside down. Gaz is pretending to study a picture on the wall. Ghost is… Well, Ghost isn’t pretending to be subtle. “Want ‘em to go?” Her voice sounds a little breathy against your ear, and you’re not at all sure what to do with the electricity that shoots through your whole body. “Have us some girl time?”

“They did just help you move,” you say slowly. It’s taking a moment for you to collect your thoughts enough to speak. “Would be rude to send them away without a meal, right? Plus Red just got settled into his new nap spot.” You gesture at Ghost, who’s carefully walking over to the chair to sit, holding his shoulders very still so as not to disturb the cat, his eyes still turned your way.

You're not totally sure what Soap thinks is girl time, but you think it might be several shades more intimate than you're used to.

“Aw, yer too good ta my lads, kitty.” Soap kisses the spot right in front of your ear and lets you go. Without her solid body holding you up, you briefly consider melting into a puddle all over the floor, but manage, somehow, through sheer force of will, to keep your knees from buckling.

Leslie was right. You definitely have your hands full.

[kaialone]

It's subtle, but Faust's outfit was actually slightly redesigned in Xrd to include some Dr. Baldhead-inspired details that weren't there before.

The coat flaps are now in a square cut, rather than triangular, becoming a bit closer to Dr. Baldhead's combat outfit-

And he now wears a cross on each of his arms, which is similar to Dr. Baldhead's own coat.

Also, this doesn't have to do with his design, but Faust's Xrd theme "Destructive Goodwill" contains some parts of Dr. Baldhead's theme "Suspicious Cook", too.

[rubydracogirl]

I… I’m not gonna even try to justify this. I don’t know if this counts as inappropriate but in case anyone wants to avoid seeing a naked torso, I’ll put it under the cut

[brown-little-robin]

So, four of my sculptures broke while I was carrying them to my cousins' house and back to photograph them, and it made me realize I need to have my own photography equipment. Does anyone have suggestions for how to find good inexpensive cameras or, like, anything with a camera? I'm not doing professional photography, I just need pictures that aren't blurry that I can move from camera (or phone) to my laptop.

[tehamelie]

"Who has FOUR toothbrushes? Like, Bill Gates or something?"

"Eh, no, that's like, for a family."

"Family? Like a whole family and their toothbrushes, all together? Two slots for the parent toothbrushes and two slots for their. Kids."

"Yep."

"So the parent toothbrushes can be close to the kid toothbrushes and. And watch over them and. They can all talk about their toothbrush feelings. And they can hold their little toothbrush hands when they're sad and make sure no harm ever comes to their little bristles?"