#art-sniveling

[mrvelocipede]

Here’s the glamour shot of the doily I just finished, and I want to start with it because it’s such a contrast to all the steps it takes to get to the aesthetically-pleasing endpoint. It’s got me thinking about that post from a while ago about getting into hobbies cheaply, and also about the internet thing of only seeing the edited highlights of people’s lives, and assuming that they must be much cooler/luckier/more talented than you.

So I wanted to put together some carefully edited lowlights. Or at least a more complete view of the process.

To begin with, projects always have a stage where they look like this:

This is tiny, difficult to work with, unimpressive, and also wrong. I took the picture, then knitted a couple of brief rounds, and realized I’d screwed something up with the initial cast-on and the center wouldn’t close properly. I had to take it apart and start over.

I failed to take a picture of the finished doily once it was off the needles, but before it was blocked. It was the usual shriveled, lumpy blob that knitted lace always is. Most of the other kinds of things I’ve made also go through spells of being metaphorically shriveled, lumpy blobs. Those stages rarely get documented, because at the time I’m not thinking about taking pictures, I’m thinking about crumpling the whole project into a wad, setting it on fire, and kicking it down a stairwell.

It’s easy to be discouraged and give up at that point. I was pretty old before I learned not to abandon things just because they looked like hell, halfway through. Sometimes if I kept going, they would shape up and turn into something perfectly respectable. (Sometimes it wasn’t exactly what I’d planned at the beginning, but interesting all the same.)

So, blocking. I enjoy blocking, especially lace. Partly because of how much better it looks afterward, but also because I love tinkering with apparatus. I get to feel like a mad scientist, or an olde-timey inventor, or something. And also because lace is considered fancy and elegant, and the things I use for blocking very much aren’t, and I find the contrast delightful.

This is the crappiest hula hoop in the world. It’s too small and too lightweight to use for actual hula-hooping, but it’s great for doilies. The rubber-bands-and-paper-clips method of blocking has the advantage of equalizing the tension, so you don’t have to endlessly fiddle with adjusting the pins and hoping the end result will be symmetrical.

The Ravelry pattern page for this doily shows it blocked in a circle, while the one listed project has it shaped into a more angular pentagon. I was curious to see what it would do if left to settle itself into whatever shape it liked, and it seems to have split the difference.

When the doily is being stretched on the hoop, it looks incredibly lame. The hoop isn’t round, and the doily isn’t even centered properly for some reason, but ultimately that doesn’t matter.

Once it’s dry, and you take away all the ungainly rigging, there it is, a lace thing that looks like some kind of big deal.

And then it’s mostly a matter of waiting until the wretched sun finally comes out again, so you can get some decent pictures.

[if-you-heart]

some fucked up beasts including pre RoE heart. if you couldn’t tell I love drawing rage <3

[downsteepy]

hi my beautiful hampsome bf ally @tianhai03 drew this last month and i asked if i could color it and then i forgor until. today . so i colored it 👍 happy late halloween 👍👍👍👍👍

[trashrat11]

Made some humanized grimspawn trio designs

[mossymandibles]

Me at anyone describing ocean horror/themes as “Lovecraftian”

[bookmark-extraordinaire]

May I ask why it makes you mad?

I have long debated whether or not answering this ask, because I know it’ll make some people upset but fuck it, if I can’t even be true on my own personal blog then what’s the point?

That post made me mad because it plays in what I call the gentrification of punk. What once was a gritty, at times disgusting movement born of the lowest layers of British society, has now become a pastel uwu stay hydrated let’s all hold hands ghost of its former self. I’ve seen people with my own two eyes arguing that the punk movement is about kindness and it always has been, which is objectively untrue. “society sucks so I’m gong to be kind instead uwu” WRONG. Society sucks so in retaliation I will be even worse. Fuck you. Scared of being pelted? Bring a knife.

With that out of the way, I am aware that modern 2024 America society is different from 70s Britain and trying to retaliate to conservatives and/or the police will get you killed or worse. Times have changed, and I understand people prioritizing staying safe instead of “sticking it to The Man because society sucks and it’s all pointless anyway”. Movements and words lose their meaning as time goes on, and this is also true for punk, which has been dead at least since the 80s. I guess being mad at people’s watered down, sweet uwu bean neo-punk is my way of mourning it.

Anyway enough of me yapping, Snivelling Shits attack

[lucydoodlessometimes]

starfall

[gorillaxyz]

she and i didnt chat today i feel like a sad puddle... girl... girlllllllllllllllll come back to me...sniff

i still havent posted the new gift art I DONT WANT. TO BE. WEIRD. i dont want ro be too enthusiastic. bc last night i also commented on her profile asking her if shed heard of wait til your father gets home. i dont want to do too much

but she literally.... goes through anf comments bacj to back on some of my posts sometimes... im just shy UGGGGGGHHHH i wish i could start convos and stuff without feeling likr a freak. girl. grayson. understand my psychic message. SPEAK TO ME. dm me on roblox or something girl i promise i dont sctually talk THAT much i promise im normal give me a chance

[theladygazingatemptiness]

like I’m literally the only one of your fucking children who's on unambiguously good terms with you despite all of the shit you put me through as a child (that I’m sure you either conveniently ~don’t remember~ even though I know that you could write a detailed novel about every time I’ve ever fucked up or you Don’t Think Was Bad) and I was literally the only one of us who’s consistently shown you support and kindness during the past ten years and ever since you’ve moved in with us (because YOU couldn’t afford to pay rent) I’ve been nothing but understanding and I haven’t protested or complained Once about it and have ensured you multiple times that you aren’t being invasive and etc and I’m the Only One Of Us who kept in touch with you and told you good night while you were in the hospital and when my sister was being verbally abusive to you I gave you a fucking shoulder to cry on every single time and denounced her over and over again and not to mention I was literally The Only One Of Us who willingly volunteered to go on a special boat cruise with you on your 50th birthday (despite the fact that being away from home overnight makes me anxious and you Know it does) but yeah you go ahead and just keep on ignoring that and fixating on everything I’m Not doing right and telling me how I Don’t Actually Love You (and don’t say that you never said that shit because that’s all “You’re Not Giving Me The Love I Give You” could possibly mean.) And How Miserable I Make You (and don’t say you didn’t say that shit either!!) or w/e and keep on lumping me in with someone who literally threatened you and called you a broke bitch and a hoe!!!! whatever fucking makes you feel better!!!!!!

[otterpop-z]

idk who on planet earth is thinking about Mad Men but I’ve been binging it and I fucking HATE. Pete Campbell

[downsteepy]

badonkers

[thesnivy123]

I think if i start posting hatchetfield stuff im gonna have to make up my own tag i dont want to contend with that fandom. ugh. my asexual ass just wants to go five seconds without any pair the spares bullshit.

cant fucking believe they said i have no whimsy bc... i think its weird that people are shipping characters that are very explicitly childlike? and then denying that? Like dude its not even subtext have you SEEN wiggly

hgh

[spilladabalia]

The Tubs - Sniveller

[viridescentelf]

In your debt

Young druid Halsin x Reader

Ever since I saw the young Halsin art above by @ozumii-fucking-wizard, I have been obsessively staring at his gorgeous damn face (thank you so much for this version of him, I am hopelessly in looooooove)!

Enjoy young Halsin healing you~

Part 2

Warning: Blood, Violence, Swearing

-----

You ventured through the forest, wanting to escape the loud bustle of the city. Carrying your heavy instrument on your back, you strode through the man-made trail into the thicket, to your usual spot you decided was your permanent hideaway.

You knew the forest was home to a druidic group, who adopted young lost children. You never encountered any druids on your many trips here, but you knew they were aware of you: sometimes you found some foraged fruit and vegetables at your spot, packaged neatly with strings or in small sacks. Someone left you these gifts. You assumed they liked your music, since you often came into the woods to practice some new songs you were crafting. You weren’t sure if the children were this fond of you or if it was some druid who kept leaving trinkets. It didn’t matter really, you were grateful nonetheless.

Today, you hadn’t found anything left for you. This wasn’t too unusual; you never ventured here expecting to receive anything. You let the strand of your instrument slide down your arm, placing it next to your seat by the large oak. It was clear this spot wasn’t really used by others, the print of you sitting in the dirt only really matched yours. It always seemed undisturbed, like you left it, with the occasional gifted sack placed there.

You gazed at the lake, where fireflies danced happily over the dawn lit water. It was another pleasant morning and you took a deep breath, enjoying the lovely fresh air you rarely got to inhale. Baldur’s Gate was lively and exciting, but you were always drawn back to this place.

You started plucking the strands of your lute, absentmindedly, taking in the sunrise as the rays warmed your face. You felt the trees sway with your music, as if they were welcoming you back. The forest seemed more alive here and had a distinct personality. Childlike glee vibrated through the branches. The tranquility of this area made you sink back into the tree, leaning against its strong body.

Something boomed in the distance. You sat up with a jolt. Normally, the only sounds you heard here were twigs breaking or the wind whizzing through the glade. You looked around, trying to locate the source of the noise.

Another blast. This time, there was shouting that followed. Some sounded panicked, some aggressive.

You got to your feet, frantically, staring into the distance where you thought the brutal noises were ebbing from. There were screams now. And they sounded young.

Without really thinking, you started sprinting towards the cries. Clutching your lute in one hand at your side to keep it from knocking your hip, you darted through the brush. There were children screaming and wailing, getting louder and louder the faster you ran towards them. A loud, ugly voice was yelling at them.

There were other more distant shock waves bellowing: an ambush? Were the druids under attack?

You heard the angry voice thunder in front of you, as you slid behind a birch tree.

“Move it, you little shits! Or I’ll cut yer hands off!”, a goblin with a bloody handprint across his face snarled at a group of mixed children, who were huddled together, sniveling and trembling uncontrollably. He pointed a curved, dirty blade at their backs, as they sheepishly shuffled along.

“Can’t we just kill them and drag their corpses? They’re so fucking slow…” Another smaller goblin groaned, walking in front of the hostages.

“No, the drows say they need new slaves. We need ‘em alive,” he pushed a small tiefling in front of him, who let out a terrified shriek, “Faster! Before the stinkin’ druids catch up.”

They passed the birch tree, which was rooted opposite a cliffside. The rapids below reverberated up, making it hard to hear clearly.

Goblins were attacking the druids, the far sounds of crashing and clanging meant a fierce battle was commencing.

“They won’t be able to hold them back much longer, Izick,” the short goblin at the front was standing close to your hiding spot. You peered through the branches and saw the poor souls quivering wildly. Their faces were cut and stained with blood. You deduced whoever was watching over them had been murdered in front of them.

You weren’t a fighter. But you couldn’t let them take the children.

The small goblin turned to face the group; his back facing the tree. You grasped your lute hard, making the skin around it paler. You took a deep breath, preparing yourself for guaranteed pain.

This was an expensive instrument, too.

You pounced out of the woods into the clearing and slammed the lute onto the head of the unassuming goblin. It broke over his fat head, but the velocity had done its job. He fell to the side with a loud thud, letting out a last, gurgled groan. You kept hitting him with the remaining pieces of your improvised weapon, making sure he was dead. The blood pooled around him.

Izick was already running towards you, having pummeled through the victims without care, who all fell to the ground and held their heads to the dirt, whimpering and horrified.

You dodged the first swing of his blade, but knew instantly this wasn’t a fight you could win. You had nothing to fight with, except your fists, and you dared not get close to him as she flourished his disgusting weapon.

The goblin roared as he jumped towards you. You collided and felt a scorching pain in your stomach. He had gotten you, deep in your belly. You screamed. You both fell to the ground near the edge of the cliff. The goblin tried to pull the blade back out while he sat on top of you, but it was stuck. Izick cursed at you, although no insult really reached your ears. Your entire body centered around the searing wound in your abdomen.

The children were petrified. You saw the tears roll down their faces as they watched the pathetic scuffle. If you failed, they would suffer endlessly. You couldn’t allow him to kill you, before you saved them.

He lifted his fists to pummel you. His face was etched with determination, he would beat you to death if he had to.

Your arm moved instinctively. You grabbed his collar, before his fists met your face, and leaned your entire body weight to the side, where the roaring river called to you. It was the only way.

You felt the wind whistle past your ears as you fell with the goblin in your grasp to the depths. You both crashed into the icy water and you felt him drift away, as the muffling water slowed everything. Your body was being pulled to the side, the current dragging you uncaringly down the river. It pulled you violently from one side to the other, not tiring of its new toy, pushing you up and down like a ball. Weightless, you floated and let it take control, unable to do anything else.

Your thoughts silenced. The cold of your surroundings embraced you and you had no strength to resist. The pulsating pain from the blade kept you awake, barely.

After a while, you felt yourself bob up, your head bracing the surface. The sudden blaring of the river crashed into your ears as you gasped for air. Your eyes blurred. The water seemed to settle into a lazy tempo. You didn’t know how, but you kept your head above water. You saw red puddles waft after you.

The current carried you to a small bank, discarding you there as it continued on. You lay on the muddy earth, motionless, staring at the piercing blue sky that seemed to beckon you towards it. The blade still stuck out of you, you saw it move up and down as you breathed shakily. You couldn’t keep your eyes open much longer.

Your heavy lids fell, darkening everything. The pain slowly left, too.

You were dying. And you were accepting it.

Before the complete darkness, you felt tiny hands pressing on your aching belly. That spot felt warm and kind, as the last of your wits evaded you.

Quiet. Emptiness. Nothing.

Halsin’s lips clasped yours, as he breathed into your mouth, holding your nose. The moss on your puncture was absorbing the excess blood. The vile blade lay discarded to the side, already carefully pulled from you.

You convulsed and coughed out, life filling your face first and then gradually seeping into your weak limbs.

You blinked hard and opened your weary eyes.

Halsin met your gaze and placed a hand on your cheek, as his other etched glyphs into the air.

“You’re going to be alright…”, he said softly, as a green mist appeared suddenly from his hand, which he lowered down to your injury.

“Breathe…”, he commanded gently. You obeyed and took a shaky breath. Your body felt heavy. Even breathing was difficult.

You felt his hand pressing on your abdomen. Whatever he was doing, the agony was quieting because of it slowly. You watched him as he attended to your mortal wound.

He was beautiful. A few braided pieces of his long, honey hair fell effortlessly next to his face. The jade eyes were focused, but there was an air of kindness about them. You squinted at the embroidery on his attire. This was one of the druids.  He looked young, but the elf ears suggested he might be older than he appeared.

You attempted to speak, but could only let out feeble coughs.

“Don’t speak. This will take a bit to close up”, he looked down at you and smiled kindly. You blinked as a response, taking another deep breath as you felt the pain flee your body.

There was a brief silence, the only sound was the hypnotic whirring of his enchantments.

“You did something truly courageous back there. The children told me. They recognized you, the singer in the woods…they often spoke about you at bedtime”, he chuckled briefly, “Didn’t expect I’d meet you under these circumstances.”

You watched him, as he seemed to reminisce fondly. So, it was the children who left you gifts at your spot?

His other hand swished and another cloud of green wafted out of it. He placed that hand next to the other on your stomach.

“I am in your debt. You saved the little ones, when they were not your burden. Truly, you’re a real hero.”  

You didn’t know how to respond. You were also more than confused as to how he found you so quickly. You felt like you had been drifting in that river forever. And the druids lived deep within the forest.

Who in the Hells was this elf anyway?

“You are exceedingly lucky. Thaniel found you and tended to you before I made it here.”

You raised an eyebrow, coughing again.

“Oh, haha. Thaniel is the forest spirit here. He seems quite fond of you.”

A forest spirit? Your exhausted brain couldn’t process that thought. You couldn’t really contest the idea either.

The druid lifted his hands briefly, checking how far along the healing process was. Deciding it needed more time, he repositioned his palms. You observed him for a while in silence as he concentrated on the regeneration of your tissue. He was huge. You felt like a child next to him.

“Wh-who are you…” you croaked out faintly.

He turned to you, his eyes softening with a calm smile.

“I’m Halsin,” he put one hand on your shoulder to keep you down, as you tried to sit up at the response. It didn’t take much strength to keep you there. He smiled more widely, then turned his attention back to his task.

Halsin. You had heard that name before. Whispered by folk in the area, he was famous for his incredible healing abilities and knack for getting captured. You only knew one druid by name and that was him. A druidic protégé, yes. A fierce warrior, yes. But a bit different. People in town talked about the impulsiveness of the young druid, which caused the other, older druids to scratch their heads in frustration at his unpredictability. And that‘s who was healing you right now?!

Gods, you never imagined he’d be this dreamy.

You were probably dreaming. No, you were dead. Definitely.

No being was this beautiful.

[quakerjoe]

When asked "Why do some British people not like Donald Trump?" Nate White, an articulate and witty writer from England, wrote this magnificent response:

"A few things spring to mind. Trump lacks certain qualities which the British traditionally esteem. For instance, he has no class, no charm, no coolness, no credibility, no compassion, no wit, no warmth, no wisdom, no subtlety, no sensitivity, no self-awareness, no humility, no honour and no grace - all qualities, funnily enough, with which his predecessor Mr. Obama was generously blessed.

So for us, the stark contrast does rather throw Trump’s limitations into embarrassingly sharp relief. Plus, we like a laugh. And while Trump may be laughable, he has never once said anything wry, witty or even faintly amusing - not once, ever.

I don’t say that rhetorically, I mean it quite literally: not once, not ever. And that fact is particularly disturbing to the British sensibility - for us, to lack humour is almost inhuman. But with Trump, it’s a fact. He doesn’t even seem to understand what a joke is - his idea of a joke is a crass comment, an illiterate insult, a casual act of cruelty. Trump is a troll. And like all trolls, he is never funny and he never laughs; he only crows or jeers. And scarily, he doesn’t just talk in crude, witless insults - he actually thinks in them. His mind is a simple bot-like algorithm of petty prejudices and knee-jerk nastiness. There is never any under-layer of irony, complexity, nuance or depth. It’s all surface. Some Americans might see this as refreshingly upfront. Well, we don’t.

We see it as having no inner world, no soul. And in Britain we traditionally side with David, not Goliath. All our heroes are plucky underdogs: Robin Hood, Dick Whittington, Oliver Twist. Trump is neither plucky, nor an underdog. He is the exact opposite of that. He’s not even a spoiled rich-boy, or a greedy fat-cat. He’s more a fat white slug. A Jabba the Hutt of privilege. And worse, he is that most unforgivable of all things to the British: a bully. That is, except when he is among bullies; then he suddenly transforms into a sniveling sidekick instead.

There are unspoken rules to this stuff - the Queensberry rules of basic decency - and he breaks them all. He punches downwards - which a gentleman shouldn't, wouldn't, could never do - and every blow he aims is below the belt. He particularly likes to kick the vulnerable or voiceless - and he kicks them when they are down.

It’s impossible to read a single tweet, or hear him speak a sentence or two, without staring deep into the abyss. He turns being artless into an art form; he is a Picasso of pettiness; a Shakespeare of shit. His faults are fractal: even his flaws have flaws, and so on ad infinitum.

God knows there have always been stupid people in the world, and plenty of nasty people too. But rarely has stupidity been so nasty, or nastiness so stupid. If being a twat was a TV show, Trump would be the boxed set."

[runninriot]

hold on together

for @stervrucht, inspired by this beautiful art piece | rated T | wc: 625 | tags: dealing with post UD trauma, nightmares, emotional hurt/comfort | also on ao3

   "We're alive."

The words hit Eddie like a punch to the gut. He feels like someone’s dropped him into ice cold water, startled awake by the impact. Slowly, the world around him comes into focus.

   "We're alive and we're safe and whatever you saw in your dream isn't real, okay?"

Strong arms wrap around him, giving Eddie something to hold on to, keeping his trembling body steady.

   "You're okay, Eddie. We are okay."

A sob forces its way out of his throat but doesn't have the chance to get very far. Not with Eddie's face pressed against Steve's shoulder - held tight against warm skin. Skin that is damaged, covered in scars that will always remind them that the horrors are real.

Were real.

   "It's over. They can't hurt us anymore. You're safe, I promise."

Steve's voice is a soothing vibration against the shell of his ear, the hand at the back of his head encouraging him to bury his face where he always feels safest, hiding in the space between Steve's shoulder and neck.

   "I'm here, Eddie."

He always is. Always is there to get Eddie through the nights when the monsters seem too real and he can't escape, can't run from his own mind when it's playing those images over and over again. When he can feel the teeth sinking into his flesh and smell the blood. When he feels so cold, so alone, so scared. When he wakes up screaming and drenched in sweat, unable to breathe.

Steve holds him through all of it, never complains about losing sleep, never makes fun of Eddie for crying.

   "I'm sorry, Steve," he says weakly, the words offering no real solace for how fucked up he feels. "I'm so, so sorry for being such a mess."

   "Shh, don't worry. I got you, Eddie."

Steve always does. Is the only one who gets to see Eddie like this. The only one who can catch Eddie when he's falling.

   "It's all gonna be okay. Do you hear me? I love you, baby."

Loves him despite how broken Eddie is. Loves him with all his flaws, loves him with all the burdens of a tattered mind, the trauma, and barely healed wounds. Loves him and keeps him close. Lets him fall apart in his arms before he helps him pick up the pieces time and again.

   "I don't deserve you," Eddie snivels before he dares to look up, teary eyes searching for Steve's hazel ones, "You shouldn't have to put up with me."

Steve takes him in for a few seconds, eyes flitting between Eddie's, seemingly searching for the right words to say. And then his lips curl into a lopsided smile.

   "You're not getting rid of me that easy. Sorry to break it to you but you're stuck with me forever. We're trauma bonded for life, baby."

Eddie laughs, all wet and choked up - he must look disgusting with his puffy eyes and red, blotchy face but Steve kisses him anyway. Kisses him, and holds him, and it's like a dream. A beautiful dream that slowly replaces every last memory of the nightmare he had.

   "Feeling better?" Steve asks when their lips part and Eddie nods, wordlessly follows Steve back underneath the covers where he crawls into waiting arms, quickly drifting, falling back asleep.

Maybe tomorrow, he will be the one offering comfort. Right now, though, Eddie can rest safely in his boyfriend's arms.

Hopefully one day, the recurring nightmares will finally end for both of them. Until then, no matter how hard it gets, they have each other as their anchor. Protected by love as their armour. Two hearts beating for one another, their rhythmic melody a reminder that they made it.

They are alive.