#I'll add links after

[agentravensong]

so toby fox apparently did some tv voice acting recently [source]

(based on the wiki for this show i think this is from the episode "Polly's New Crew" from Season 2, which just came out a couple of days ago)

[royalarchivist]

With over 20 members currently on the QSMP and more on the way, it's almost impossible for a single person to stay up to date on everything that happens, even with help from QSMP's official Twitter recap accounts.

For people who are interested in QSMP's story, characters, and/or streamers but don't have time to watch hundreds of hours worth of VODs, I've created the QSMP VOD Timestamp Archive.

If there's a particular lore moment you missed live and can't find, search for it in the archive!

Timestamps include quotes, notable lore events, and funny interactions. Interesting or important moments from each stream are bolded for emphasis. I'm also adding short summaries for lore-heavy / eventful stream.

I've organized the document so it should be easy to navigate, and you can CTRL + F to search for specific streamers and/or events.

Complete VOD playlists, recaps, and additional resources are also included in the document for people who might be feeling overwhelmed by the amount of QSMP content out there. It's never too late to get into the series!

If you have a streamer you watch consistently, consider writing down important timestamps to help fellow fans! You don’t have to take detailed notes like mine – even one or two timestamps can be a real lifesaver. If you have any helpful timestamps you want added to the list (or even a 1 sentence summary of a particular stream), send it to me via DM so I can add it to the archive.

I am just one person, so unfortunately this archive is by no means comprehensive, but I'm constantly updating things and adding more streams and timestamps to the document. I've been working on this project for a while now, so even though it's not complete, I hope people find it useful!

[ VOD Timestamp Archive ]

[corus24110]

100th post, I guess…

I’m just gonna put all the links to the gofundme/tumblr pages of the people who have asked for help. I DON’T have a bank account so I can’t give any money to them even if I wanted to. So maybe whoever stumbles onto my account randomly can donate I guess? I don’t know, only have like twenty something followers and like 15 of them are people asking for help, so I have no real influence.

I’ll add more links to this post in the comments since rebloging this with more links won't save properly.

This whole post will be pinned! It’ll be the first thing people will see on this blog.

@aboodalqedra18

@omarfamily80

@marahkatoa2000

@abuyasin156

@mfamily

@aabed89

@hanantalal2000

@savepalestineinfamily19

@mahmoidjsy

@aiamaher2

[ruvviks]

In the fourth and final season of All That's Left, Mac and Layla and their friends are left with one final job; travel back to fallen Opportunity, the city where it all began, to gather evidence of Matrix Corp creating the virus that led to the end of the world, sabotaging cure research, and being responsible for the destruction of the megalopolis. Hunted down on two fronts, having lost dear friends along the way, and faced with hordes of nearly unkillable mutated ghouls, the group is slowly but surely starting to run out of time. One last journey, to expose the truth about Matrix and shut them down once and for all— but who will live to tell the tale? [SEASON ONE HERE] // [SEASON TWO HERE] // [SEASON THREE HERE]

taglist (opt in/out)

@velocitic, @deadrlngers, @euryalex, @ordinarymaine, @gurathins;

@mojaves, @shellibisshe, @dickytwister, @mnwlk, @rindemption;

@ncytiri, @calenhads, @noirapocalypto, @florbelles, @radioactiveshitstorm;

@strafethesesinners, @fashionablyfyrdraaca, @radioactive-synth, @katsigian, @estevnys;

@elgaravel, @aezyrraeshh, @carlosoliveiraa

[kyouka-supremacy]

That fic from Akutagawa's pov that remarked how although Dazai had left a bomb under Chuuya's car, at least that showed he had thought about him before going, while he never cared enough to spare a thought for Akutagawa.

[summertimemusician]

Linktober Day 9

Deity

*sneezes after downing coffee* Well irl stuff got in the way so I'm way behind my original schedule for these and for Linktober but here we go with another arguably short one, fuelled purely by self indulgence, headcanons, spite against my linguist essays that kept me from keeping to schedule, severe sleep deprivation, a shout out to the Ender Lilies soundtrack and Majora's Mask soundtrack, and Nintendo for not clarifying anything about the lore so I'm snatching what I can and making it my own lol. Look, when you fíxate so much on details the Zelda team doesn't elaborate on you have to fill in the gaps with what you can.

As always can be read as romantic or platonic, technically in a LU context but not explicitly in it by itself.

The Lord of the Mountain liked hearing people sing.

In a way, it wasn’t a surprise, Hylia and the Golden Three each had their ballads and symphonies and minuets, each splendid and with cuts of their divinity in it, Farore was fond of lightning and forest alive minuets, and you could swear Farosh sparked just a bit brighter when one would him the beginnings of the Minuet of the Forest near their spring, Din was fond of boleros, fiery and alive and howling with the echo of flame touching earth that made a shine run through Dinraal’s scales, Nayru, in contrast, was much fonder of blizzard and river quiet serenades, the songs of contemplation at first snow ringing clear when Naydra curled around it’s spring, content to be free of Malice.

And of course Hylia had her ballads and lullabies, perfectly fitting to her display of divinity, of honey days and vast bird like wings, of ambered summers to come and to pass and dazzling solar storms of starlight and sunlight sparking through the human form of her descendants and heroes. So in a way, you weren’t surprised at all that the Lord of the Mountain – Satori, with a familiar touch of londsleite divinity, the hunt of the woodland beasts and diamondscar adoration for the Hero of the Wilds, similar in glory to the Light Spirits petrichor and vermeil fondness for the Hero of the Twilight – liked to listen to people sing. What you were surprised was how it attempted to follow along, it’s head across your lap the second you sat down in the clearing, a gentle hum on back of it’s throat, an owl’s cry and a cicada’s humming and faintly, chirring purring as presses it’s faces into your hands, a gentle request for petting.

It was adorable, even with the faint notes of the chill of clear spring water on winter and the livewire feeling of magic, like holding your hand too close to a flame but not quite touching it.

A low chuckle brushes against the back of your mind, a feeling like biting on ice, the prowl of a wild beast and the build up of lightning and light used to create his blade, the amused affection of a warrior reconvening with their brother in arms, you think you see the bone ivory of the Deity’s hair on the side of your vision, though you know he’s not physically there, ‘He likes you.’

You hum, gently patting behind it’s ears, pushing through the chill, gracefully not mentioning the burning with a smile at the mythic being’s faint chirring, birdsong and the wind through cherry blossoms that sparkle like rose quartz, “Well I quite like him too, I can see where it’s gentleness comes from.”

The ghost of a touch over your hair, the caress of lightning striking over your skin and the hair on the back of your neck pricking up and the crisp cold of winter, the chill of the ending and the flame of a new dawn, of new days, the phantom of magnolias and spring water on your tongue. The fragrance of pine, daffodils and blood soaked lilies on ashen fields on your senses, gentle and careful, marking but not claiming, ‘Only because it’s you, beloved. It’s not something easily given.’

You sigh, shakily composing yourself, you let yourself relax into the phantom sensation. Of hopes and dreams and healed suffering, of the divinity of hunt turned into protection and lightning given form, of tangled timelines and crystalized memories, “I know. It does not change my opinion, either way.”

To be the subject of a god’s care and regard was dangerous, after all. For the human and the deity in question, you know the stories from your world well, of the effects of Hylia on First and Sky, of Twilight and the personification of the Twilight Realm and the spirits of his land, of Wild and clawing from death’s embrace into that of the wilderness.

Knew how the fact the Fierce Deity’s mere proximity causing pain on those who changed him into hunting for hunt’s sake into protection for the sake of someone else cut deeper than even the ever encroaching entropy all beings must one day face. It was no wonder the Song of Healing was his creation, to want to ease the burden.

You gladly grant him some peace, in turn, even if it wasn’t much. It’s the least you can do, for always having his ways of watching over your heroes.

“Join me? We can make a duet.”

You feel more than see him shift, ephemeral, fleeting, gentle against the edges of your existence, as foreign to Hyrule as your own, sparking over your spine as you feel ozone and rust on your teeth. Satori is humming again to match the rumble of thunder in the man’s voice, the heralding of songs of war and elegies for the dead, ‘Of course, though I’m afraid I do not know many songs, besides…’

“It’s alright,”, you smile faintly, there’s a white ocarina in his hands, as he leans, a spectre against your side, “I’ll teach you some of my own, though you’ll have to forgive me if I don’t remember all the lyrics.”

‘It would be my honor to learn.’

You think he smiles, from the fluttering of something ancient and long forgotten against your side.

You sing to Satori and the Chain, a small respite of familiar and forgotten tunes, the Lord of the Mountain hums along. The Fierce Deity’s song cutting through any nightmares that may ail your heroes for another night.

When the dawn of a new day comes, the feeling of divinity against your skin feels just a bit more obvious, sinking into every crack of your being like a shroud, falling over your boys like a veil, reflecting the breath of eternity over Hyrule.

(First gives you a look that’s half exasperation, half understanding. Sky pointedly sticks to your side as Time looks you over, markings deep with vibrant color. You shrug with a helpless smile as you feel the lightest brushes of Hylia’s fond days of gold and starlit summers days against the Lord of the Mountains warm, luminous affection and the Fierce Deity’s smug, but content lonsdaleite smile.)

[tomaturtles]

Oh yeah here's the painting timelapse of my day 5 piece!

[trealamh]

Albatross

Red sky in the morning, sailor take warning. Red sky at night, sailor's delight.

Arthur is a sailing instructor and Alasdair is a local marine carpenter who likes taking his smoke breaks on the pier. There is an accident.

-

He doesn’t think twice and wouldn’t have had the chance to change his mind even if he had tried. One hand on the forestay, one foot on the gunwale, only barely; moving so quickly that he loses his sandals and cuts a gash across his knee on something and does not feel it. His life vest is upstairs, dry and hanging from a coat rack in the office. Arthur had left it there this morning, a radio clipped to his hip, and said to their admin, Michelle, that he’d missed the sunrise by an hour, his phone dead and unplugged, silent between his matress and the headboard.

She’d shown him a picture she’d taken on her way to work that morning, the harbour crowned in crimson so deep it looked like dusk.

Arthur has worked at the sailing centre every summer-to- fall for the last three years and in that time, they’ve had a fair share of accidents. Only a handful of major injuries, including three concussions. Arthur has never been involved in any; the worst he’s ever had have been blisters, rope burn, bruises that bled green across his skin and healed over a week. Usually he’s one of a pair playing rescue, confident enough in what they’re doing that they have never had to call in the rescue service. They have two dinghies that they use to herd in their youngest students and chase after their racers, heavy enough that they whip against the waves as they cut through the contrails of the commercial vessels that dock further down the coast, where the strips of piers give way to industrial docking. They can tow students and stranded tourists in no trouble. On slow days, if they have enough gas to spare, Arthur takes the larger of the two on joy rides, packing in his youngest students like sardines and riding waves out to the cove to make them squeal.

The first thing he does most days when he clocks in is pick up the keys from Michelle. Only this morning he was late, so he’d arrived to find he keys gone, and their storage half-cleared of equipment, boats by order of size and the age of their crew lined up on the slipway already. Arthur had waved as they set off, dry and tasked with putting together reams of lesson plans and patching up the hull of their oldest Vaurien instead of shouting orders against the wind. His kids had waved back, smiles wide, and during his lunch break he’d come to see them back into port, letting them recount the hours they’d spent drilling short manoeuvres like while they sorted their lines and pulled their boats up over the tideline for a couple hours, waiting out the worst of the sun and giving them all a chance to rest. The forecast

(Arthur had been mindful, then, of the eyes on him, watching from the railing overlooking the public slipway the centre uses. In the three years Arthur has worked here they have talked properly maybe twice, enough at least that Arthur to know his name. Alasdair.

He works a trade, somewhere on the coastline, and runs a shop right across the street, keeping hours during the height of tourist season and watching over the centre like a disgruntled gull. He smokes sometimes, and the parents complain when they catch him at it, like there is anything the centre can do. Arthur is sure that if it didn’t require him walking up the office to Michelle, Alasdair would file as many complaints about them. It’s not rare that they have an audience and Alasdair is as good as a dock-cleat by now. He greats Arthur with a nod, if at all, eyes dark and set under the seemingly permanent burrow of his brow. He makes Arthur feel clumsy with his silence and hot in the face when he has to walk past him. Last summer Arthur thought he saw him sitting by the bar of his once-favourite pub and was so absurdly, inexplicably shy that he’d walked right out the way he came and spent the rest of the summer sober.)

So, Alasdair had been there at midday, rolling his tobacco with a filter between his lips and catching Arthur’s eyes. Arthur had walked past him on his way back to the office, and had considered (briefly, briefly) stopping on his way up the slipway, right below where Alasdair stood. He almost had, hesitating for a moment before picking up the pace and filling in quickly for another instructor. It’s just that he hadn’t known what to say and had felt in that split second that it would have been worse to trip over his words than walk away. Alasdair would be back tomorrow, or if not then next week. Next month, before the season ended, or next year. Time enough for Arthur to find something clever to say. Alasdair would be there, forearms resting on the railing, his hair whipping in the wind. There would be time.

It is strange, but it’s the last thing Arthur thinks of before he hits the water. Alasdair’s hands and the weight of his attention.

-

In Alasdair’s opinion, he’s the best they’ve got.

He has lived and worked by the water his entire life, coming and going with the seasons since their small town turned from trade to tourism some twelve years ago, now. In that time, he has watched the marina grow from salt-rot to fresh planks on the boardwalks. Late last spring whoever is in charge of things like gave the iron railways in fresh black coat, glossy and cool to the touch. There is no chipping rust off with his thumb anymore, eyes lost on the horizon. Maybe in a year or two the paint will wear, and the iron will flake again, eroded by the sand and salt that blow into the bay.

The children like the railings that run from the sailing centre down to the promenade leading into town. They hang off them, chasing gulls and waving out the smaller fishing boats when they set out in the morning. Alasdair is not much better, coming down here with a pouch of tobacco he should quit on and a faint excuse.

It’s not that Alasdair comes down to see him; he’d been coming down to smoke and watch the boats for longer than he’d care to remember and would continue to do so long after the lad moved on, as he would inevitably. He’s southern and pale and leaves every autumn with some warmth leeched into his skin, stark tan lines on his shoulders from his life vest and the uniform shirt he wears beneath it. The first time Alasdair had seen him had been his first day at the centre; couldn’t have been older than twenty-and-some, tripping over his own feet like he hadn’t expected Alasdair to turn to look at him when he did. Alasdair isn’t sure why he had, truth be told but since then he’s had a hard time looking away.

Alasdair has seen him head out in one of the sleek racers, late in the afternoon. He’s also been around to watch him tow wrecked boats in a few times. What’s more is the children like him; the older ones try to impress him. He’s good with them, the right amount of involved and patient with them. None of them seem to notice how he keeps out of the way with the rest of the instructors, subtly awkward in a way the weans can’t pick up, not like Alasdair has. They look at him with, with poorly-disguised awe and make up in heads who they expect him to be and will remember fondly come autumn. Summer gold and brave.

In this too, Alasdair is not much better.

The old radio he keeps on the counter tunes into the forecast. Around half past, he half-pays attention to talk of a windstorm and resolves to pack up for the day. This time of the summer anyone who needs him already knows where to find him and he has an early start tomorrow working on a luger someone’s towing in from Balliemore. It’s late enough that the fleets will be turning in, clearing the horizon for the larger commercial vessels and making way for the last ferries to dock before dusk. The centre will have gotten word on the windspeed, and he is half expecting that he will walk past to find the slipway cleared already. Turns out he is half right.

From across the street the view is half obscured but Alasdair can see enough to know that something is wrong before he hears shouting and the splitting crash of metal. Arthur is already sprinting from the centre, faster than Alasdair has even seen, and it must be bad, if even from a distance Alasdair can make out the fear in the clench of his jaw.

He is running after him before he even realises he’s made the choice to.

It still happens too fast. Later the girl from the office, Michelle, will tell him it started when two of Arthur’s students, anxious and off-kilter, had lost control of their boat. The instructor in charge of them had left them to it, only realising too late that with the wind coming at the speed it was, and with another three boats, there was no getting the dinghy in between them. They had crashed, first into another Vaurien, mast to mast, and then into the side of the slipway. That’s when Alasdair had spotted Arthur running blind down when one of his students had screamed his name. Alasdair had missed him jumping onto the boat closest to the slipway, line in hand to lock it in place while another instructor and two of the parents waiting rushed to his aid. He had managed to get a hold of the second boat, somehow, and grab onto the forestay to keep it close enough for the kids to climb from one boat to another and into their parents’ waiting arms.

That might have been it; some injuries, Arthur’s bleeding knee and bruises on the weans, and damage to the hulls of both ships. But in the panic and rush to bring the boats in, the instructor on the motor boat had turned in at full speed, missing a turn and ramming into the boats and Arthur, who’d been standing on the gunwale.

Alasdair had watched it happen without slowing his pace, feet slipping on the wet stone of the ramp. The mast had tipped, giving under the strain of Arthur’s weight and the impact of the dinghy on its hull. Arthur had gone under between the boats, silent under the audible fracture of one of the hulls when the boats knocked together again. Alasdair had felt sick, the whole useless lot of them frozen in terror as they all realised that Arthur might have drowned then, knocked unconscious by the impact or killed by the blow outright.

The children had been rushed away, adults crowding near the top of the ramp where Michelle was shouting to make herself heard over the wind, directing people away and screaming someone’s name. No one tries to stop Alasdair when he scrambles onto the dinghy, soaked up to the thighs and reaching shoulder deep into the water while someone holds on to his trousers to keep him in the boat, all in a mad dash to push the boats out of the way as best they could, clearing the space to try and catch sight of Arthur under the surface. The second dinghy wouldn’t dare come close and risk Arthur under the sharp blades of its propeller.

When Alasdair feels skin and then fabric under the surface he makes a strangled sound and pulls up, desperate and hopeful.

Arthur coughs, half limp in Alasdair’s grip once he realises that someone has him and knowing in some dormant way that struggling now would do more harm than good. Already he can feel his shoulders starting to shake, reedy tremors from deep in his muscles which come from the adrenaline crash. He kicks against the side of one of the boats to help Alasdair bring him into the dinghy and only realises then that it’s him who’s got him, broad and panting almost as hard as he is, still trying to catch his breath. Rather than let him go, Alasdair goes from gripping his side to the front of his shirt, letting him settle and spit saltwater while keeping him at arms-length.

His nose and his ears hurt. He’d hit the water so hard he lost half the breath in his lungs and held onto the rest out of instinctual desperation. He had let his body sink out of shock, feeling the temperature drop with every inch he lost to the depths, eyes stinging and set firmly on the last refraction of light under the surface. The crashing boats miss him by a handspan and even then, he does not recall feeling afraid; only a sense of stillness. He remembers thinking that if he’d been wearing his life vest he would have stayed afloat and that would have been it. But he wasn’t, and so he slipped deeper, eyes to the sky, and only started kicking up when a silver of light had come back into view.

On the boat, now, he is barely aware that someone is talking. Speaking to him, harsh and loud and shaking his shoulders. Arthur blinks saltwater away from his eyes and blinks up at Alasdair like he is seeing him for the first time. Looking up like he had earlier, from the slope of the slipway up to where he’d been standing on the gangway.

Alasdair cannot help his anger; the way it hardens his voice and makes him grip Arthur tight. He is vaguely aware of the other instructor in the dinghy, so he turns to him as well, calls him an imbecile worse than Arthur for having caused this god-forsaken mess in the first place. He would have cursed them both out hoarse if it weren’t for Arthur hand just then, reaching to up to grip his forearm where it is still crowding Arthur in close to his body.

“Thank you,” he says, working hard to collapse his breathe and release the tension from his body, eyes falling to half-mast and back coming to rest in the cradle of Alasdair’s body.

Sitting on the floor like he is, he can tip his forehead against his own knee, so he does, feeling for the first time in his life something like motion sickness. Alasdair letting go of his shirt feels like coming unmoored, but it is only for a moment. Alasdair puts his hand on his arm, squeezing gently and murmuring something that gets lost under the wind and the breaking waves but feels reassuring nonetheless. Arthur still has a hold of his forearm and does not even think of letting go. They breathe in tandem with the rocking of the boat beneath them and Arthur shivers. Alasdair presses closer and when Michelle runs down the slipway, a clean, dry fleece jacket in hand he reaches out to grab it and wraps it around Arthur before helping him to his feet and back onto land.

He sticks around. Some of the parents approach them to thank Arthur and shake his hand; a few others have concerns they want addressed and Michelle quickly steps in to lead them away. Some of the children cry, frightened. A handful of the older crew disguise their worry under banter but linger until they see Arthur standing with his freshly bandaged knee and then offer him a ninety-nine from the ice cream truck that rounds the pier every day at five. Arthur accepts, awkward and tired and mindful of the fact that they are watching him. Alasdair doesn’t get any ice cream but does get one more glare in when the second instructor comes to apologise with a few of Arthur’s other colleagues, who slap them both on the back.

When Arthur goes to collect his things Alasdair is still there, standing in his wet boots and his damp jeans. Arthur stays in town and offers his shower and tea. Despite the fact that Alasdair’s home is closer, he accepts, and they walk in silence.

Dusk comes late in the summer and bleeds gold-red. Alasdair’s clothes smell like Arthur’s detergent, and his skin like the bar of soap in his shower. Arthur’s temple smells clean and his hair is softer than Alasdair would have thought. He brushes a kiss there before he goes and can’t place the scent that lingers on his nose after. He sleeps deeply that night and wakes up thinking of something sharp and sweet.

He greets dawn on the deck of the luger, a smattering of clouds in the sky tinged gold in the first hours of the day.

(Lingering by the fenced boardwalk, a figure watches him work, lazy and listless, forecasting mild winds and clear skies; waiting patiently for midday when Alasdair might be tempted to step away and take his Saturday easy and slow. They have time.)

[sesamenom]

hoping to get my maedhros maglor week pic up tomorrow if the tech side of things runs smoothly

[franken-loser]

@mothmore SORRY FOR TAKING A STUPID AMOUNT OF TIME TO MAKE THIS, I MEANT TO FACT CHECK EVERYTHING BUT I COULDN'T FIGURE OUT HOW☹️💔

https://docs.google.com/document/d/13SChkkAkoExnZpuQXRqpI-l-brjyGRorRDSzoMR7WQY/edit?usp=drivesdk

Anyways HERES A BUNCH OF STUFF ABOUT MARY SHELLEY, PERCY SHELLEY, LORD BYRON, JOHN POLIDORI, CLAIRE CLAIREMONT, HARRIET SHELLEY, AND ADA LOVELACE ‼️‼️

[welcometoteyvat]

xiaoyun amv set to 春岚/shun-ran/spring storm <3

[zahroreadsthings]

The adventure continues...

Your eyes drift towards the cursed amulet but you ultimately decide to purchase the fries. You'll need your energy for the days ahead.

'Wise choice,' the stranger says. 'Be careful out there. Roads aren't what they used to be.'

It's true - both potholes and highway robbers abound. You've had to be more careful in recent years than you've ever had to be before.

You thank the stranger and continue your journey. You've heard of a wizard who lives in a tower across the river, and they might be willing to take an apprentice.

You reach a crossroads. Ahead of you is the shortest path to the wizard's tower, but you know a troll has taken residence under the bridge spanning the river.

To your right is a longer path to the tower, but the bridge there is unguarded.

To your left is a road less travelled that leads to a forest, a coast, and a crabby witch who might be after an apprentice.

[spoonyglitteraunt]

Devs, did you put those breaks in the bridge just to try and slow down the speedrunners? Because you know they only need about one pot lid and a lot of determination.

Aww, there went our sword. Bye Fi, hope Zelda can fix you. Probably will get done faster than if I had to. No offence.

Once again, way to go on jumping off of something with zero clue if there would be water below. You’re lucky you got plotarmour in the bits I’m not playing, Link. And I’m lucky my fear of heights does not translate to games.

And as we arrive below it starts to rain… I’m not saying it’s an omen, but

Was.. was that a bokoblin trader?

So I like that there are sky island fruits growing near the obvious bits of crashed rock. As if some seed got stowawayed down to the surface. But also that would imply this is quite some time after the intro events for it to have grown. Not sure if I should be worried or if it’s just gameplay convenience.

First encounter with bokoblins and mokoblins, do you think Link would be like aww not these guys again. Or would it be more like, finally back to familiar territory. Hit it till it dies.

First money of the game. Even here one can’t escape capitalism.

I’m just going to say, Horriblins? Aptly named. Ugh.

Everyone in town: go talk to Purah, yes yes in a sec, go talk to Purah, yes just checking out this bit, go talk to Purah, ooh is this climbable? GO TALK TO PURAH!!! ok fine fine, no need to be pushy.

Aww Robbie, you’re here too? And Purah, girl you look all grown up. I’m so proud. So uh, does this mean we took a longish nap or did you just accelerate something somewhere?

Trust Purah to lock in on the arm straight away. Wasn’t even five seconds max.

Thank you for that very helpful recap of events I just lived, Purah. I’m sure we all needed the refresher. Truly. Next time on an episode of getting distracted with Link we’ll—

Look Purah, this is all very interesting, truly, but how long has it been? Yes, yes, fascinating info. Just, just tell us how— Truly marvellous place, well done. So how long— Yes, I’ll go see the captain or whatever, just. Purah, for the love of Zelda, HOW LONG DID I NAP!

We did not find out how long we napped.

[icewindandboringhorror]

I’m always paranoid of my tumblr being deleted or malfunctioning or something like that someday, so here’s other places to find me/follow me, just in case lol

~ instagram - https://www.instagram.com/lucalicatte/

~ main youtube - https://www.youtube.com/c/LucaLiCatte

~ games/sims youtube - https://www.youtube.com/@cloudycatte

~ facebook page (I rarely use this because I hate facebook but.. it at least allows text posts better than instagram does, so idk maybe I’d use it more if tumblr went away? lol) - https://www.facebook.com/cloudycatteart/

~ Other Links (stuff I don’t use often/isn’t Main enough to list here, like twitter, neopets, other tumblr sideblogs, youtube channels, etc.) are here - http://icewindandboringhorror.tumblr.com/otherlinks )

[wutheringheightsfilm]

i think i have the list locked in... presenting the tentative new tag list (emojis not included they're just my bullet points):

🩸 fealty to blood alone - yiling laozu and hannigram vibes. blood and guts, baby!!! the age old tumblr famous cannibalism metaphor for love. tag from wei ying tells me about resurrection by natalie wee: "I am no prophet, but know this: any devil / worth their salt swears fealty to blood alone, / knowing hurt, like any animal, lives only to bury itself / in the heat of its truest grief."

⛓️ between desire and torture - wuthering heights vibes. haunt me then, our souls are the same, you know the drill!! tag from ibrahim muhawi's translation of mahmoud darwish's journal of an ordinary grief: "Between sand and water, she said, "I love you." And between desire and torture, I said, "I love you."

🫧 beautiful finite - nostalgic things

🏹 noli me tangere - catholicism... religion... many such cases. sorry!

🇨🇺 mi sangre - CUBAPOSTING!!!!

🍲 i'm going to build us a table - COMMUNITY!!! FOOD!!!! LOVE THROUGH FOOD!! tag from the line in if beale street could talk by james baldwin: "Baby. Baby. Baby. I love you. And I'm going to build us a table and a whole lot of folks going to be eating off it for a long, long time to come."

🕯️ l'amour heureux - love tag <3

🪡 tapestry - web weaving posts catchall

🥀 the eternal rocks beneath - nature!! from wuthering heights by emily brontë: "My love for Heathcliff resembles the eternal rocks beneath: a source of little visible delight, but necessary. Nelly, I am Heathcliff!"

🪩 candy crush - y2k and mcbling <3

🗡️ take me up and cast me away - arthuriana aesthetic. massive oversight to not have this in the OG post!!

[thelatealek]

sonamy inspired karapril

references/outfit inspo under the cut

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