#(​reblog with results)

[softwaring]

[thecosmonautical]

I'm interested in something

[honestlydarkprincess]

okay i wanna join in hehe

[glowing-blue-feathermage]

[yukipri]

For curiosity's sake...

[selfindulgentcompetition]

TRYING AGAIN WITH CLEARER WORDING. PLS READ BEFORE VOTING

*Meaning: When did you stop wearing a mask to a majority of your public activities? Wearing a mask when you feel sick or very rarely for specific events/reasons counts as “stopping”

[More Questions Here]

[coffeeisfortheresponsible]

heard you guys like when i draw morro and nya

i need to be more insane about s5,, it’s my favorite actually and i feel like i don’t talk about that enough

[ichorai]

made another uquiz! which asoiaf dragon would choose you as their rider?

[redeemed-wren]

I might regret this but rogue squadron I am challenging you.

For every fifty notes this post makes I will dedicate half an hour to working on a Hobby Thing.

Hobby Things include:

Writing

Reading

Watching a TV show or movie

Knitting/crochet project

Cosplay/sewing projects

Walking/exploring

Baking/cooking

Playing a video game

These are fun things I want to do but struggle to start because I'm bad at letting myself relax, so if y'all hold me accountable it might help.

I may turn notifications off for this post but I will keep a record of how many notes it has and check it often.

You're free and welcome to suggest which of the above Hobby Things I should dedicate that particular half hour to.

Godspeed

💜💙💛

Now with added Spreadsheet so you can see what I've been up to!

[clarkgriffon]

BUFFY THE VAMPIRE SLAYER + Episode Titles in Dialogue

[tes-trash-blog]

[rubinaitoart]

#FiddleStantober2024 -- Day 1: First Meeting (yes I know I'm 7 days late)

Writing blurb to go along with it under the cut!

It’s cold and wet. Fiddleford stands alone on a street corner, holding a ratty old satchel over his head to stave off the thick snowflakes. He didn’t have a good coat—couldn’t find it, can’t remember where he left it—so he’s left to walk around in a thin sweater over an equally thin shirt, which the snowflakes soak into and dampen like rain. 

He waits for the walk signal to come on. Did he push the button? Ought’a push it again, just to be sure. His thumb clicks against the icy metal. How long was this light going to take?

“You can just walk across, y’know.”

Fiddleford nearly jumps out of his skin. He looks over his shoulder to see an umbrella, unconsciously counting the fingers—one, two, three, four, five—and then he slowly looks up at the man’s face. Five fingers; yet he’s met with Stanford’s face, framed in a scraggly mullet and equally scraggly scruff along his jaw. The man slowly lifts his eyebrows.

“Ya look like you’ve seen a ghost.” Not-Stanford says. He doesn’t talk like Stanford. His shoulders are stiff and straight, whereas Stanford often slouches; there’s dark circles under his eyes, but he doesn’t look manic. Just tired. Fiddleford blinks once, twice. A third time just to be sure—it’s still Stanford’s face, but not his eyes staring back at him.

“You jus’ look like someone I know.” Fiddleford croaks out. “Knew.” He hastily corrects himself. “Someone I knew.” 

Not-Stanford nods slowly. “You knew him enough, though. Most’a the hicks in this town think I’m my weird recluse of a brother.” He grins thinly, a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes, and waggles the fingers on one hand. “But you know. I saw you countin’ my fingers.”

“Stanford had a brother?” Not-Stanford’s smile drops, and Fiddleford kicks himself for blurting it out like that. “Sorry—sorry, he jus’ didn’t talk ‘bout his personal life real much.” 

“Mm.” The other man grunts. Then, he holds his hand out—for a handshake, Fiddleford realizes, and he quickly grabs the much larger hand with a trembling grip. “M’name’s Stanley. Jeeze, you’re really shaky.” 

Fiddleford doesn’t really know what to say. He squirms a little in discomfort, quickly tucking his arms close to his chest and hugging his old satchel. “Cold.” He finally mutters. There’s a long, awkward silence that stretches out between them. Fiddleford steals a glance at the walk signal—still hasn’t changed, did he push the button? 

“Alright.” Stanley grumbles all of a sudden, stealing Fiddleford’s attention away from the crosswalk and the button he can’t remember pressing. All of a sudden he finds a warm jacket draped over his shoulders—ugh, what was that smell?—and a warm cap tugged over his ears with semi-gloved hands. “Where do you live?”

How does one tell a near-stranger, ‘I don’t live anywhere, and the motel I was staying at just kicked me out?’

“I, uh… well, y’see…” 

Stanley heaves a long, suffering sigh. He pinches the bridge of his nose, eyebrows scrunched together in a scowl. There’s several seconds of silence before he speaks through slightly gritted teeth. “I guess you’re coming with me, then.” 

“I don’t want to be a bother—“ Fiddleford quickly shuts up as Stanley shoots him a withering look, one that clearly says there’s no room for argument. He’s baffled. The man clearly doesn’t want to be doing any of this, and yet he’s being so forceful in his… kindness? Pity? Fiddleford doesn’t know what to make of it. But maybe he shouldn’t turn down a chance at staying somewhere warm for a bit. “… thank you.” He mumbles, to which Stanley only offers a low grunt in response.