#birdie replies

[birdietrait]

Birdie! Hey friend! SO! I saw an ask you got about your CAS pics and I was wondering: with your swre settings at 3000x3000 how are you able to move the little orb around with relight? Anytime I go big with swre I can't see the orb controls. So I adjust the orb in a smaller window and then cross my fingers and hope for the best when I go bigger. Am I missing something? My play the game in windowed fullscreen if that helps.

hi cin!! i'm not sure if it would work the same in windowed fullscreen since i do this in windowed mode but here's what i do :))

step 1: open swre as usual and click remove borders and fake fullscreen

step 2: go back to ts4 and open up the reshade settings, adjust the relight orbs

step 3: click the windows key to open srwe from the taskbar, set to 3000 x 3000 (or whatever your preferred settings are)

step 4: minimize srwe and take your screenshots

step 5: if you want a close-up or different angle, open srwe again, click taskbar mode, adjust what you need in ts4 and relight, then go back to step 1 :))

[canarydarity]

(desert duo titanic (1997) au be upon ye. 4330 words. ao3) ((check tags for content warnings))

The most attractive part of the idea, Grian had thought, was that nobody would know what had happened to him. Not his mother, not his fiance, not a single socialite on this godforsaken boat—and then they’d wake up to find their lives would go on business as usual regardless. There would still be teas and luncheons to attend, they’d still dress for dinner—though in customary mourning black for at least a few months, if only to keep up appearances—and have the same dozen mindless conversations about things that would never really matter, and better yet, Grian wouldn’t have to be there for any of it. 

The air was nice up here, chilling but in a pleasant way. That was a good thought. It soothed the rush he’d felt on his way over, the panic of needing to get away fast and the train of thought that kept saying do it now before they follow. 

He didn’t remember the last time he was allowed to just take a breath; he didn’t remember the last time he was allowed to do anything without threat of penalization. 

Even this, he knew, was a punishable offense. He could certainly never expect freedom nor even an inch of space to spare if he failed. And if his mother’s god was to be believed, success, too, was a crime befitting discipline. Grian had since decided he’d rather take his chances on an eternity in hell than a lifetime in his family house.

Unlike the air, the ice-cold bone-piercing sting that was the metal railing sticking to his skin was the kind of cold that was so intense it, ironically, burned, and it did wonders to keep him firmly in his brain. It connected to each of his palms like a stubborn leech, like it was, in some roundabout way, telling him to not let go. But what were leeches good for if not bloodletting, and Grian had long since been bled dry—disconnect the only thing left to do. 

He peeled each of his hands off the railing one at a time, slowly, wincing at the pull of his skin and the carpet-burn like feeling of its breaking free. But he only opened and closed the palm of each hand a few times to restore feeling and heat before wrapping around the railing once more. 

He looked down. You know, he almost couldn't see the water at all. 

The darkness of night in the middle of the ocean bore nothing to reflect off of the water's surface, and the promise of emptiness for miles and miles and miles below was all too clear. He could only find where sky and sea met if he were really trying hard, and he’d found he didn't much care to do that. Grian kind of liked the idea of a vast black expanse stretching out before him, imagined himself letting go and not falling quickly down but just floating off into that tricky void. 

He leaned forward, letting his arms pull taut, forming some weird triangle between where they connected to the railing, the socket of his shoulder, and where his feet were planted on the small lip of the ship's deck. He could do it—he could. He could let go. 

He could.

Slowly, the skin of his hands worked to refreeze, fusing him once more to the boat's railing. Oddly, he focused in on the toe of his left shoe where he seems to have scuffed it against something in his haste to get here fast. He thought about how Mumbo was going to have to buff that out later and then re-shine them all over again, even though he did it before he dressed Grian for dinner and also sometime last night, joking about how Grian probably stubbed his toe on purpose just to spite him, and Grian had giggled and promised he’d be more careful to spare Mumbo’s poor hands. And then his mind recoiled, immediately, intensely, at the thought.

There would be no shoes for Mumbo to buff and shine. 

On instinct, his arms reeled him if only slightly back in, his right eye involuntarily tightened into a cringe. Grian shook his head, firm, trying to work back to worse thoughts, something else, something more fitting. No Mumbo—for where Grian currently was, Mumbo was firmly off limits. 

When that didn’t work, he shut his eyes tight and let out a harsh, determined deep breath; felt his brow furrow in concentration, his lips set into a thin stern line. He forced his arms to let him lean fully back out, more of his body over open water than ship. 

And then, from behind, someone called, “don’t do it.”

Grian startled, looked back over his shoulder at the stranger ready to shout something like well then don’t startle me the next time, what is wrong with you, but found instead on instinct what came out was, “Get away from me. Do not come any closer—don’t.” 

The man, who’d been nearly within arms length, hand reaching out like he’d been ready to grab for Grian’s wrist, paused immediately. 

He didn’t know what the man was taking from Grian’s expression—if the look on his face was more anger and annoyance, disbelief at his interruption, or alarm and a frantic sort of unease. He was certainly getting nothing of the stranger besides prolonged eye contact and the sense that calculations were being run. 

Whatever conclusion was come to, after a moment the stranger shook his head a little and jostled the hand he hadn’t pulled back towards him, almost like he was reaffirming its placement (as if either of them could forget). 

“Just give me your hand, it’ll be alright, promise. I’ll pull you back over!”

Grian tried to shuffle to the side but there was really nowhere to go; the skin of his hands was once again firmly cemented to the cold metal, and to his right at the very center of the ship's stern was a flagpole. 

“No,” he hissed, “I told you to back off. Stay back or I’ll—” Grian looked away from the stranger, felt in his throat that he must’ve been shouting to drown out the sound of the water coming back together after having been split by the large steamer, the propellers that were somewhere under the surface. He swallowed but the air had dried all the spit from his mouth, doing nothing to soothe the ache. “I’ll let go.” 

But the proposition was slipping from him, his peaceful nothing getting further away like it’d jumped a few minutes ago and was bobbing somewhere in the boat's wake, Grian failing to follow. The more time passed, the more Grian felt like he’d missed his chance—and the more urgent he felt to prove this was what he’d really wanted after all, even as uncertainty over the fact grew.

“No you won’t.”

Grian’s head snapped up, blinking in surprise, the need to process the audacity in the statement delaying the understanding of what had been said. He turned his head, glaring over his shoulder at the stranger, who, for his part, looked entirely too sure of himself and relaxed, hands in his pockets now and shoulders paused in a shrug. 

“What do you mean no I won’t—you don’t know me. Don’t you try to tell me what I will or won’t do!” 

Usually that was a sure fire way to convince Grian to do whatever it was he’d been instructed against. Mumbo knew that well, quick to follow up instructions with a don’t even think about it and reasoning why whatever he was considering was probably a terrible awful idea. But none of the usual fire infected him—spite at the statement had grown just fine, but follow through was different here than in situations of the usual kind. The stranger seemed to understand that. Grian frowned at him harder, teeth grinding together. 

“I just think that if you were going to, you would’ve done it already.” 

“Well you’re distracting me.” 

“That’s kind of the point.” 

The stranger's lips made the kind of smirk that turned down instead of up, a gentle tease that was so out of place for the location and the night and the situation as a whole. Grian’s own mouth hung open a little in shock of it all, his brain failing to produce whatever response was supposed to be offered. Under it all somewhere, he felt embarrassed, and that offense fueled the frustration. 

“Go away,” he said, not opening his mouth enough to separate his teeth, head trying to turn away, needing to focus his attention elsewhere, desperate for the feeling that he’d followed all the way to the ship's stern to come back, losing hope that it would. 

“No can do, unfortunately.” Hands in his pockets, the stranger waltzed a step or two forward, and Grian tried his best to lean away despite no move being made towards him and distance kept; all he did was bend at the waist, peek over the railing into the cold deep blackness. “Well, looks like if I can’t get you to come back over, I’m just going to have to join you.” 

“What?!” His breath puffed out ahead of him with the shriek, clouding his view momentarily, and Grian closed his eyes and shook his head like that’d restore his vision, or maybe jog some sense into the scene. “Are you insane!?”

The man was studying the railings, the slight curvature to the metal as it wound along the backside of the boat, his hand on his chin like there was a required technique other than stepping over one leg at a time. He stood up straight and rubbed his hands together, brought them to his mouth and breathed some warm air into them; then, inexplicably, he stopped to shrug off his coat. 

His coat tossed in a heap on the deck, he hoisted up onto the bottom rung of the railing and threw one leg over the top, hands clinging to what he could, and at that Grian could watch no longer. 

“No, stop—stop.” 

Their eyes met, and, to the strangers credit, he looked remarkably calm. The eye contact said more what’s the holdup than oh, thank god; his eyebrows were raised, his face paused waiting for whatever Grian was going to say next—all the composure of circumstances much more normal, situations where the consequences were far less severe. It would’ve worried Grian badly had he not also seen the way the stranger gripped the railing tightly, fingers turning colorless by use of force; the way his posture had gotten less lax by the second, casual hard to maintain. 

Something about it put things into perspective—Grian’s own breath picked up, his eyes growing wider by the second and the urge to not blink a bunch, rapidly, like in some odd number he’d find himself elsewhere, safer, getting harder to ignore. The dreadful realization of what have I done was familiar, but so was the stubborn pride that said bury it now before someone else finds out. 

In more comfortable circumstances, Grian would be willing to buckle down and insist that whatever it was was precisely what he meant to do—no matter how ridiculous. He didn’t have to break eye contact and remind himself of the view to know that wasn’t an option here—not unless he meant it, not unless he was going over. 

His torso began to tremble a little; the upper half, his chest, his shoulders. He couldn’t tell if it was the cold or the fear. 

“What are you doing?” It came out quieter than he meant it to. 

“Gotta be prepared to go in after you if you’re really doing it, don’t I?” 

“You’ll be killed.” 

“You don’t know that,” one of his shoulders went up in an approximation of a shrug—or as much of one as he could do considering his position and the need to not let go. “Besides, I'm a good swimmer!” 

Grian did actually, that was sort of the point of him being here. He couldn't tell if the stranger was grossly underestimating the danger or betting it all on the biggest bluff he’d ever heard—some combination of both. 

“Though, personally, I could do without the cold—I am not looking forward to that water. But it’s no matter! I am a gentleman, afterall.”

Carefully, he returned to movement, began the motion of swinging his second leg over the top rail, but Grian risked the removal of one hand to reach out and stop him, the skin of his palm delicate and raw ripping once again from the cold metal, the sound of its separation sickly as it permeated the air. 

The burn of it felt good, the feel of it like a kind of tether—another thing tying him to the deck and making sure he stayed there. 

He was supposed to say something, his hand gripping the thin cotton of the shirt on a stranger’s arm, its material rough against his already irritated palm, but, even here, Grian didn’t know how to give in and go back. 

The stranger spoke instead, unphased enough Grian could almost believe he hadn’t jumped in to save Grian from failing to do so himself—could choose to believe it, if he wanted. 

“I guess I’m sort of hoping you’ll let me off the hook.” 

It was hard to look elsewhere; like Grian’s hand on the railing—like his hand on the stranger—the eye contact was just another lifeline, something else that was doing what it could to hold him firmly in place. Of course, besides that fact, there was nothing else to look at; the sky and the sea were black black black. It was the stranger or nothing, and Grian was surprised and frightened to discover where his allegiance was seeming to lie. 

Because Grian could never just lose—not even when he didn’t want to win—he said, “you’re crazy,” a half-formed deflection that was mostly stolen by the wind, quieter than he should’ve said it to ensure he was heard over the commotion. 

The stranger leaned towards him, his face in some sort of wishy-washy wince, like he knew he was about to push his luck but couldn’t quite help himself anyway. “Says the guy hanging off the back of a ship. With all due respect, of course,” he tacked on at the end, taking in Grian’s stature, his clothes and altogether demeanor. 

Grian tried to swallow again and found his throat still dry as a bone. He choked at his first attempt of saying, “You first, I’ll follow.” 

The stranger nodded and made quick work of throwing his leg back over the railing, pausing only for a pointed glance at Grian’s hand, where he realized he’d have to let go of the stranger’s shirt for him to be able to complete the action. With nowhere else to put it, Grian wrapped it once again around the railing, finding himself much more frightened about the prospect of doing so than he’d been when he climbed over, the inch or so of metal not nearly enough to make him feel secure anymore. 

Grian’s eyes trailed over his shoulder, tried to keep the stranger in his sights and tried not to panic when he couldn’t. The darkness had gone from comforting to alarming, the nothingness from welcoming to just that—nothing, and at the sea Grian could no longer look. The urgency was beginning to return, but in a manner unexpected. He needed suddenly more than anything to be back on the deck, his feet firmly planted on the wood, that man-made and temporary replacement for land. 

Though unseen, the sound of the collision of water upon the ship persisted, almost enough to cover that of the stranger shuffling behind him, and on top of the lack of a sightline Grian’s nerves latched onto the idea that he could just be gone; leave Grian there to suffer the consequences of his actions, give him just enough sense to realize this idea was idiotic before sending him over regardless—rich bastard probably deserved it. What did Grian have to be miserable about, anyway? 

But like a life preserver on a line, that hand, the same one as before, reached out to him once more, coming back into Grian’s focus from his peripheral. It was like they’d started the whole scene started over, like a director had made them take things from the top. His hand trembling, trepidation in every part of the movement, Grian brought his right arm across his body and around to meet the stranger’s, the warmth of it scalding against Grian’s white-cold palm. Slowly, and not without help, he was turned back around. 

The stranger’s eyes were green.

“What’s your name?”

A chill racked Grian’s spine, the wind off the water beating against his back somehow worse than when he’d been facing it, the sight of the whole ship ahead of him—definitive proof that he was the person furthest to the stern out of anyone, passengers and crew and all—horrifying; he couldn’t imagine anything worse than if he went now, not falling into the black but falling away from the ship, nothing to do but watch it leave him behind. He was definitely passing his chill to the stranger, sharing the tremor between the two of them like splitting a piece of cake for dessert. 

Grian wanted to ask why it mattered. He said, “Grian,” instead. 

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, I’m Scar.”

Stripped of any excuse to hide it at this point and worn thin by the fear that’d been eating away at him by his own hand and without his knowledge, he near breathlessly whined, “just get me out of here, please.”

The stranger nodded and squeezed his hands. “Can do.”

Grian would never give control to an entity such as fate by believing in it, so he wouldn’t say that he’d tempted it by hanging where he was for so long, but he’d clearly tempted something—the darkness itself, perhaps—or at the very least pushed his luck to some limit, enough that he’d used it all up in his climbing over the first time and however long he’d stalled on the railing, enough so that, when it came time to reverse the action and climb back to safety, his dress shoe, slick against the metal, moist from the sea air, failed to find purchase and caused him to slip. 

He was falling—and then he wasn’t; with nothing beneath it to catch on, Grian’s foot was pulled down towards the sea by the strongarm of gravity, and where one went the other quickly followed, but a shout had barely ripped free from Grian’s throat before a mean tug upwards from his shoulder contested the force heading down. 

Scar, one hand still in Grian’s, the other wrapped tightly enough around his forearm that it hurt, stood with his middle braced against the railing. His green eyes were wide. His shoes shrieked against the deck where he tried to lean backwards to gain better leverage, take any small step away and pull with all his might, but he got little to nowhere. 

“Grian!” He shouted, “Grian, you’re going to have to pull yourself up!” 

His shouting was distant, the frantic look on his face—the gritted teeth and strewn from effort bunch to his cheeks—came from Grian’s vision to his brain separated, scattered; like he’d looked at them through frosted, mosaic glass. The hand that wasn’t being held half-heartedly reached to find the railing closest—the second rung from the bottom—but rather than grip it with force he could do nothing but get his fingers to curl around it. 

There was a part of him that would rather let go than risk failure in trying to pull himself up—that would rather die by his own choice than by something as stupid and ridiculous as hubris taking it upon itself to finish a suicide attempt he’d come to his senses in time to abandon. But, stubbornly prideful as Grian was, he hated giving up more than he hated to lose. 

He forced his mind to come back to himself—if not because he had to do something, then because Scar had not stopped doing something; seconds had passed with Grian as good as deadweight off the back of the ship, nearly unresponsive, and Scar had not ceased in trying to pull him up, even as his calls went unanswered. 

“C’mon, Grian,” Scar grit out, to himself more than to Grian it sounded, and Grian felt his hand tighten around the railing. He gave one small, experimental tug. His eyes met Scar’s.

“I’ve got you,” Scar said, as much of a nod as he could give without forgoing concentration. The confidence he’d worn the entire conversation hadn’t gone anywhere, the situation growing from concerning to dire doing nothing to damper his surety that he had this, and Grian wanted badly to believe that he did. “I’ve got you—I’m not going to let you go. Pull yourself up, that’s it.”

It took more strength than he’d ever really had the need to use to heave himself up enough to risk the jump to the next bar, and the entirety of his arm burned with the effort, the strain from the tugging on his shoulder from above only compiling. But where he did it once, he convinced himself he could do it again—needed himself to do it again, and with something between a grunt and some kind of yell he managed to leap another railing higher, climbing the back of the ship like some sort of pirate of legend. 

His feet re-found purchase on the deck, then the bottom-most rail as, finally within better reach, Scar let go of his forearm and wrapped his arm around Grian’s back, and between Grian’s crazed flurry of stepping up and up again and Scar’s lifting and leaning backwards, they reached a point where they were both more over boat than open water, and then tipped even further passed that until they collapsed backwards onto the deck. 

The first of safety Grian saw was the stars. There were more stars over the ocean than there were in the city. 

The sky looked a lot less empty now that Grian was looking up and not out, his back against something solid. He wondered if they’d been there the whole time and he just hadn’t looked for them. For the first time since he’d boarded the ship, he took a minute just to stare. 

His throat burned with each time it sucked air into his lungs and it burned as he hurled it back out, overexertion and adrenaline both fighting for some kind of control within him. 

The hand under him stretched and wiggled its fingers, pulled itself free, and Grian immediately lurched the other way himself, turning to look at Scar on instinct but making sure to avert his eyes. 

The stranger named Scar had a smile on his face that threatened laughter, but Grian couldn’t imagine that anything was funny. He pulled at the collar of his thin cotton shirt, but it fell back to where it’d began after, the fabric nowhere near expensive nor stiff enough to listen to his direction, and the suspenders over it were frayed and the elastic of them showing signs of having been stretched out, but he had the look of a storybook hero about him regardless; never a doubt the dragon would end up slain and the damsel recused. The confidence that had been reassuring when he’d needed it to be grated against Grian now, reeking instead of an I told you so. 

But Scar turned his smile on Grian and leaned towards him like he was gonna bop their shoulders together without actually completing the movement. And all he said was, “Let’s not do that again.” 

Grian frowned at him and stood up, making a fruitless effort to soothe the wrinkles on his dinner tails. He sighed when it wasn’t working and dropped his hand, trying not to look directly at Scar, still smiling up at him from where he lounged on the deck. 

The click of a door opening pierced the—until this moment—blessed anonymity of the entire scene, and Grian stood up straighter and looked at it on instinct only to find Mumbo. That meant dinner was over, everyone heading back to the suite—Mumbo must’ve been sent to find him. He relaxed immediately and then winced as he remembered why he was there to begin with. Grian weighed his battles and then turned back to Scar, on purpose this time, hoping any shame Mumbo might’ve caught on his face would be attributed to this and nothing else. 

“Let’s not,” Grian agreed, and then his mouth stuck open against his permission on the idea of adding a thank you. It wasn’t lost on him that Scar had saved his life; it also wasn’t lost on him that he was the reason that Scar had had to do so at all—he wasn’t sure where that left them. He wasn’t sure a thank you was appropriate; he wasn’t sure what else could be. 

Scar sat up more but stayed sitting on the deck, drawing his knees half the way to his chest and dangling his arms off of them. Whatever weird glamor of generosity and sincerity that had befallen Grian, it seemed Scar remained immune, his cool still intact. 

Where Grian continued to falter, Scar said, “It was nice to meet you, Grian.” 

It made another time Scar had caught Grian out and chosen to cover for him rather than call the point. They’d only known each other for a few minutes, but Grian felt like he’d racked up quite an amount of debt. With nothing conceivably to do about it at the moment—with Mumbo to his back and his family expecting his return and a newfound and unusual weight to every breath that he took—Grian returned indoors. After so long outside, the bright lights of the ship's interior were blinding. 

[stellewriites]

Stelle, I just had to crawl into your inbox with thots™️ about butch!Simon. Hope you enjoy✨️ and please feel free to add on!

•Has a carabiner with a Lego skeleton keychain on it. Got it as a gag gift from Soap one year and has cherished it ever since (will never admit this).

•Has a small crush on Laswell and Farah (I don't blame him one bit. He will also never admit this.).

•Whenever the team goes out, they find themselves gobsmacked by how many women immediately beeline to him.

•Takes a low dose of T, mainly for the muscle growth and deeper voice. The extra body hair and bottom growth is simply a bonus✨️

•Decided on using he/him pronouns on a whim. People initially saw his hulking figure and immediately gendered him as male. Simon simply didn't care enough to say otherwise.

•Still feels a connection and appreciation towards womanhood and femininity, mainly in other people. Likes it when Soap paints his nails jet black. Likes the rare times Gaz will wear makeup. Likes to occasionally wear dresses and skirts (usually billowing, black frocks that conceal his figure rather than anything form-fitting).

birdy…. i loved every damn one of these. you opened a can of worms here lmaooo i love butch!si, not all of this will be canon for my fic but it might help me shape how he acts in it

• i’ve literally seen some art of carabiners and your lego skeleton idea really reminds me of it, lemme find it to post after this bc OMG !!!

• he can’t help but go a little weak kneed for a headstrong, no-bullshit woman,, having farah or laswell barking orders in his ear has had him swallowing roughly on the field one too many times before getting his head in the game. he’s glad his emotions can’t be read like a book like his sgt or he’d never hear the end of it from either women

• the jangle of his carabiner is like a mating call in the pub and it gets heads turning. interested faces peeking up from their tables like meerkats, eager at the pure bulk and size of simon as he makes his way to the booth the others are already occupying. price sucks his teeth when the pretty bird he had his eye on smiles and flutters her lashes at si flirtatiously not five minutes after he sat down

• i loooove the idea of simon being tall and beefy but having a surprisingly soft voice still, deceptively sweet if not for the rough accent and barking laugh. maybe it’s gotten a little gravel to it after years of smoking and maybe it started to change when he went on t - but he doesn’t actively deepen it, doesn’t feel the need to.

he loves seeing his progress in the gym since starting it, likes petting at his extra body hair as it grows in, hates the fact that his skin has gotten oilier though and reluctantly asks gaz for some skincare advice, and yeah… the bottom growth has him hissing on his sensitive days but he’s never had a gentle hand, never been patient with himself so he bites his cheek through it as he rubs one out.

• very much that scene from aliens between vasquez and hudson; “hey ghost, have you ever been mistaken for a man looking like that?” “no, have you?”

the pronouns are his as a fuck you but also yeah… they feel right

• omg that’s so cuuute!!

i’d say my vers of butch!si doesn’t wear dresses etc,, but he’d let reader paint his nails whatever colour they liked, could practice make up looks on him, if reader has wigs then he’d be happy to try them on so reader could see the length and style off of a mannequin. but it’s not necessarily for him, he knows he’s a woman, he knows he has femininity - he just doesn’t express it the same way as others might

[amee-racle-ofmyown]

one thing I love about iswm is that even though the Captain hardly talks, engineer Mark always seems to understand them

I'd like to think that in the monster captain au, the two of them would still find their own ways of communicating, despite being very different

[tashacee]

Question: If Aspect!Wild is running towards or away from something, does he ever go into a four legged sprint and use his hands as well to gain extra speed?

Speaking from animation experience, running bipedal on digitigrade legs is not easy, and looks very demanding on the legs.

~🐦‍⬛

Oh, absolutely he does! It's so much easier on his back than running upright and it means he can move so much faster. He also likes it for fighting, as it means ha can get a good pounce going.

The first time his brothers saw him doing it they politely looked away and didn't mention it, as they didn't want to offend him by pointing out how feline it is. But they've gotten used to it since then and are used to him zooming about on all fours

Wind tried to ride on his back once. It did not end well.

This art by @mmmn-thirsty-for-vinegar has some top tier Wild down on all fours. Looks like he's stalking a monster or something and i would NOT want to be his prey!

Thank you Birdie Anon! Have a great day!

[your-local-grinning-cat]

AR Speaks OOC

Going to be real with you all for a bit.

I’m not even really on Che’nya’s page right now - I’m making this post from my main and just changing the poster.

To be honest, I’m a bit nervous to change to Che’nya’s. Because I can see I have over 50 notifications, but I know I actually have even more, because I had more that got marked as “read” even though I hadn’t dealt with them before logging off the last time I was on.

😱😱😱😱😱

And that may not be a lot to some of you, but for me, someone who tries to answer as many of you as I can… that’s a lot.

As much as I want to pop back onto Che’nya and see what chaos Che’nya can cause and see what mischief all of you have for me, that’s… a bit overwhelming for me right now.

I may just have to drop some reblog chains that were going on if I come back today, unfortunately.

I hope that would be okay with everyone?

I put so much energy into every one of my responses that even one usually takes a lot of time. Even looking for the proper gif I want to use for the situation can take up quite a bit of time for me. I’m a perfectionist by nature. And it doesn’t help that some gif’s that come up with some “cat” keywords are uhhhhh… yeah. 😳 So by the time I’ve responded to one notification, I’ve often gotten several more.

And yeah, a lot of them are likes and things I don’t need to respond to, but still. Because of how much effort I put into the responses, I often take small breaks to chat to people in DMs and on discord between responses so I don’t completely melt my brain. But that takes up even more time…

Which all combines to mean that being on Che’nya is often a several hour straight event for me.

And that’s honestly why I get so burnt out so quickly - why I often appear and then disappear for a while. Which doesn’t help the situation, of course.

So that’s why I’m posting this.

Because I think that’s just how I’m going to have to do this from now on. As much as I hate leaving people hanging, I’m just going to have to choose some chains to end in order to focus on more recent ones and hopefully manage my notifs better.

That way, I can feel better coming back with Che’nya and won’t disappear so often and so frequently. He likes to disappear, but not as often as he has been. 😅

I won’t be getting on Che’nya right after posting this, but I will check my blog later and look at this post to see the general response of people before looking at notifications.

And sorry to those I was having dm convos with - @blind0raven probably, as well as @castaway-achlys because since I haven’t been checking I haven’t gotten your messages.

But hey! Foxy!

Extra message for you from Che’nya under the cut! :D

I got bnnuy Deuce. Twice. Ima steal yo man if you don’t hurry the fuck up and confess to him, you chicken. 😼

[postapocalypsemalone]

💬 + birdie :)

"Yeah, Birdie. Birdie's fucking right, she's like... what're they called? The small ones that sound like a fucking engine. Hummingbirds, I think? Anyway, they're small, hang around your fucking head, and they're loud as fuck, like their wings go a million miles an hour, it's insane. That's the kind of birdie I equate her with. In terms of getting on my nerves, that is, which she is incredibly good at. Almost as good as Ashton, in that regard. But............................ she's good company. She's direct, knows what the fuck she's talking about, doesn't care to lead people on, and... I don't know. My kind of people. Just say shit with your whole damn chest, you know? What's the worst that'll happen? People will dislike you? Oh no, the end of the world..."

"But no, I'll be honest and say that I'm glad Birdie annoyed herself into my life. I don't really think I had much of a choice in it anyway. What Birdie wants, Birdie gets."

@birdiedrake

[gftimelord]

"Hi again Stan!! Snazzy new outfit- whered the pin go?" she tilts her head and frowns a little at the fact Ford isnt wearing Stans mackerel pin, not yet realizing theyre two seperate people.

@magpie-prime

*Stanford blinked, the woman’s words lingering like an echo in his mind, taking a few moments to fully register.*

“Hm? Pin—?”

*He repeated, his brow furrowing slightly as he mulled over the word in his head, trying to place it. The realization struck a beat later, his confusion melting into mild amusement. She’d called him by Stanley’s nickname— his brother's nickname.*

*Even after all these years, people still managed to confuse them? A familiar pang of exasperation mingled with a begrudging fondness. Sure, their shared resemblance made sense in their youth, but now? The differences in their appearances were notable. His sharper features, now more pronounced with the age difference, contrasted against Stan’s rugged, well-worn charm. And yet, somehow, the mix-ups persisted.*

*A soft chuckle slipped out, unbidden but genuine. It was a sound edged with interest, amusement flickering in his gaze as he gave a slight shake of his head.*

“Haha… you must have mistaken me for my brother, miss—?”

*He said, his voice warm but probing as he let the question dangle. His words were polite, but the faintest edge of intrigue seeped into his tone as he paused, waiting for her to fill in the blank.*

*The moment stretched, but inwardly, his thoughts were already racing. Who was this woman? And more importantly, how did she know Stanley well enough to use his nickname like this? An old friend? But it wasn't anyone he recognized. It wasn’t often strangers mistook him for his brother like this either— but there was a level of recognition in her voice, a sense of knowing that went beyond a simple passing hello.*

*Stanford’s mind churned with possibilities. Had his brother crossed paths with her while he was off-world? Doing interdimentional errands? What sort of impression had Stanley left this time? His twin had an uncanny knack for leaving behind wild tales and connections wherever they went, even in the most unlikely corners of the multiverse.*

*His curiosity was piqued, and a familiar spark of intellectual intrigue flickered in his chest. And while he wasn’t about to jump to conclusions, the temptation to unravel the thread of this mystery tugged at him.*

*The Doctor’s expression softened as he awaited her reply, his stance casual yet poised, a quiet intensity lurking just beneath the surface.*

[randomnameless]

#Willy smut was written by the masses who ignored how manipulated he was! House Hresvelg is 100% human!!! I headcannon (in a comedic way) that it is Agarthan proganda. Thales after taking over Adrestia‚ comb through his diaries and discovers it has no secrets to exploit. Mostly boring things that happenned‚ something related to Seiros‚ something related to Seiros in a graphic "Please go back to writing anything else" way‚ and about Lycaon (and his relatives). Thales burns them and swears that no one can learn that he lost to someone who would rather write down smut than anything he considers important. And thus the "Willy" who sat back as Seiros puppets the continent was born (and also totally had a hard time fighting some pale guys that mysteriously show up‚ but "his words not mine" - Thales)! Also to play off your 120 children headcannon‚ Willy (way before Lycaon was a pincushion) said to remember him not as an emperor but a lover.

10k years of lore being what they are, the "poor dumb willy was manipulated by the evil lizard lady" could be Agarthan propaganda... or propaganda coming from the hresvelg themselves lol

Poor Thales having to read through pages and pages of "theological" discussions ("Seiros said the Goddess created her children in the image she took to resemble humans, but Cichol doesn't have big bazongas? Or he hides them using a transformation magic? Will Cethleann grow big bazongas too or not?") decided to take revenge against the Hresvelgs and swore to bring their demise.

After all, their line was founded by a beast who was much closer to a clown, and who willingly mated with an abomination and kept on writing about this sin, and the resulting monstruosity born from their fornication!

(infiltrating early Adrestian society where every human was horny about the saints was a challenge, even after their departure he couldn't escape the horny Macuil poems or graphic theatrical representations of "Saint Cichol's Holy Spear and the Blessed Maiden").

Willy thus became a moron - it wasn't difficult to convince his descendants since they resented the evil lizard lady who kept on calling him the "greatest" (what about them???) and, after the barbarian rebellion, it was even easier to instill hate and resentment towards the evil lizard lady and her viles who manipulated poor dumb willy (tm).

Sadly when Thales tried to slander even more Willy's memory by saying he was an inconsiderate horndog, Adrestian Emperors saw nothing wrong with that, and tried to hide this "achievement" to make sure no bastard would knock at their door to ask for the throne, and also, because "measuring one's worth based on their virility is something those barbarians do not us enlightened Enbarrites", even if some "romance novels" started to spread around 580 all around Fodlan about "Great Emperor Wilhelm" that were written by an anonymous author who was apparently so famous and popular that that author's style was well imitated and copied through the ages, until 20 years ago where people imitating the first novelist basically stopped writing about him.

they still kept on having several concubines for some reason that is totally unrelated to any competition they could have with their stupid ancestor.

[lvebug]

DISPATCH TO THE 118! YOUR PRESENCE IS REQUIRED AT THE ZOO!

"no, here, take these." andie turns away from the stand and with one hand pulls her sunglasses back down over her eyes and with the other shoves two ice cream cones balanced precariously in her grip bobby's way. they've been out of the freezer for about 12 seconds, but already they're going a little soft at the top from the relentless sun. there's not a single cloud to offer respite from the endless blue sky, but that hasn't stopped a single family from piling their kids out of the house, into the car, down to the crazy parking lot, and through the front gates of the los angeles zoo. "that's for you and eddie." it doesn't stop this family, either.

she waves a distracted hand between bobby and eddie that says you give it to him. "i gotta..." and then hustles off back to the stand to pick up the last two (and most important) cones for her and chris.

[birdietrait]

hello! can i please ask how your CAS pictures are so HD i take mine with srwe but obviously i want to capture the whole fit but i feel like the quality decreases as i zoom in! any helpful tips would really help!🫶🏾🤍

hi!! do you mean zooming in in photoshop or in cas? bc i recommend getting the full body shot and then zooming in to get a bust/close up shot while in cas! i put srwe in taskbar mode and adjust my relight settings to fit the new shot. i also take my screenshots with geforce experience rather than reshade, which i think helps a bit with quality. and also adjusting your graphics rules settings helps too!

[bobthedragon]

Does everyone know Elliot is also Riven?

handwrote the whole thing and then realized it was going to be Awful for everyone to have to read it bc it was a lot of text and very little art, so!

Riven used to be a much more separate identity for him, mostly because no one knew who "Elliot Abernathy" was. Unfortunately for his anonymity, overthrowing a local government and accidentally becoming mayor an untitled, but prominent political figure and social activist has made it much easier to link events to him.

While he does his best to remove all traces of his personal life from the internet, despite this, anyone who has been to city knows at least his name, (as well as his orientation, and anything else he's put on his dating profile.)

Most people Don't Know, though, but with a bit of digging, you can turn up a bit, and with a lot of digging you can turn up a Lot.

illustration transcript under cut!

--

Elliot, in a smoking jacket, lounging unimpressed and browsing the computer while his eels hold his mug of coffee. "oh come On that line is Completely out of Context"

text around the panel reads "Not Intentionally... To save My Hand + Your Eyes, more details in text" with an arrow pointing down

the mug is an obviously copy-pasted design that reads "the chain of my Mood Swing just snapped"

[robinssongs]

" you have nothing to worry about . i promise you , nothing at all . " // virused animatronic pg? 👀

-- [ asked by @mute-call ] --

Robin knows what's going on. Knows exactly what's happening, what's been months in the making. Watched the familiar code – introduced by someone they'd once trusted – slowly creep its way through the Pizzaplex systems. She'd been fighting it, where she could, but there was a definite risk involved. Too much interfering with the systems risked exposure, risked bringing this all crashing down on him before he could figure out what the Glitch had planned for this place. As such, she'd been stuck helplessly watching it take root, one by one, in the Plex's animatronics despite her best efforts. It just spreads too fast for her to control. So far, it's only gotten a few of the S.T.A.F.F. — dormant code lying in wait in the recesses of their preprogrammed brains.

Unfortunately for him – and probably anyone else involved with the Plex – it doesn't take long for him to start catching traces of that same infected code in Phone Guy's communication logs. Phone Guy. The one animatronic with connections to almost every single one of the Pizzaplex's systems in some way, shape, or form. Pretty much the most effective viral transmission device in the history of ever. Not to mention the fact that he was the one and only animatronic that could expose all of her efforts to contain this virus with a single transmission if he discovered her.

It went without saying, but that was bad. That was really, really bad. Robin needed to go on the offensive if she wanted to have any hope of containing this thing.

Hence, his current position. He glances over to the animatronic that had fallen into step beside him, offering the 'bot a weak smile. Arms crossed, shoulders hunched, her body language was a perfect picture of the stress she felt being in her current situation. At least — the situation Phone Guy thought she was in.

"Yeah, yeah, I know, PG. I just... I don't want them to scrap the little guy, y'know? It didn't do anything wrong."

As far as Phone Guy knows, they're on their way to Parts & Service to evaluate the state of a damaged S.T.A.F.F. Bot Birdie had found — he'd spun a tale about noticing it acting strange when he clocked in, and he said he wanted Phone Guy for his opinion on whether or not to call a maintenance tech in. Birdie only worked with code, y'see, and none of the maintenance crew were scheduled for the rest of the night, but she didn't know if the damage was severe enough – or too severe – to try and repair. Phone Guy knew, like, everything, she'd reasoned. He probably knew the protocols on stuff like this.

"I hope it's gonna be okay. I know it's just —" and they stopped themself there. Not finishing that sentence. That wasn't what they meant at all. "I just feel bad. Really bad." Sure, it was mostly just acting – they needed PG to believe their story, after all – but there was some genuine emotion in their voice. They did feel some attachment to the 'bot they were speaking to, and the hope that they could fix him was genuine. PG had been... Surprisingly helpful during their first few days working at the Plex. It was a big place, after all. Big, overwhelming, and usually full of people. Knowing a 'bot with encyclopedic information about the layout of the entire Plex inside his head had been incredibly helpful.

Robin had specifically requested an evening shift, after the Plex closed, for this plan, figuring that there'd be less risk to others if there was nobody around, but as they approached the bright red doors to Parts & Service he started to regret it. Nobody around meant nobody there to help him if he needed it. He truly doubted Phone Guy himself had the potential to be dangerous, but pretty much any of the other animatronics he could call very much did.

She considered herself a whole hell of a lot harder to scare than she used to be. Still, as she holds the door for her animatronic companion, she finds herself studiously avoiding thinking about what might happen if her plan fails.

"It's, uh, I got it in the protective cylinder, but I couldn't quite get it up on the seat. Go ahead and take a look at it." God, they hope this works. They just want their friend back.

[rosysins]

please say something. ( Byakkomaru & Gekkouin)

Prompt: Miscellaneous Sentence Prompts.

♣ Gekkouin.

The world was spinning and little by little Gekkouin's usually impeccable vision blurred, melting the images of his surroundings to mere blobs of color. His whole body throbbed with pain that he wasn't sure where exactly he was hurt.

Although, what little senses he had that were still intact was telling him someone was nearby, someone was talking to him. Where his hearing and sight failed him, Gekkouin knew from the touch on his skin, calloused large fingers, each adorned with not a sharp nail like the other demons but claws.

In this state of ruin, Gekkouin felt a sense of calm wash over him and all he thought of at that moment was one name. A name that brought him this sense of calm and peace, even in such a moment.

"By...byak...byakkoma...ru."

[tashacee]

Blue, black, and pink?

~ 🐦‍⬛

Blue: Am I haunting you or are you haunting me

Black: The figure staring at me in the dark

Pink: you are just a friendly creature. you cannot change this.

-

Birdie Anon, you have actually captured every single vibe i have ever wanted to get across and i am flapping with joy right now. Hello. Yes. I am the bog witch, the figure in the dark, and I am here to make you a nice little cake and make sure you get enough sleep.

<3 <3 <3

[booasaur]

Spoilers incoming

Spoilers for The Show:The Company You Keep ABC

Thank you for the gifs cause now I'm hooked on The Company you Keep haha!! It's funny to see the dynamic between Birdie and Daphne though like I know I read your tags but truly was not prepared for how tense their interactions are. Also getting context for that ASL line bro Daphne knows no bounds and i love it. If this show was fun we would be getting 2 types of cat and mouse type of a storyline with the main m/f couple and then these 2 women but alas but they are fun because their hatred is strong but they are also so alike with their bonds to their families. So thank you cause man this show is fun and these actressss are sooo good in their roles and very pretty!!

Ps: spoiler - There was a throwaway from Birdie where she was like she's a sucker for Irish accents even if they are a gangster and 1) no pronouns, no "I love a guy with an Irish accent" and 2) considering Daphne's potential family ties....👀👀👀 minus the accent of course but who knows lol me being silly over this never gonna happen ship the things your gifs do to me !!!

Thank you again !!

Haha, right, I was afraid people would see the gifs and be like, oh, this is a light, fun thing when actually it's quite intense and a little scary.

Even as I KNOW they won't happen, I'm also like, but what if...? Every ep, I'm like, hmm, do these interactions suggest anything? A part of me feels like if they were going to go there, they would be a bit more obvious, but I'm also looking for other potential love interests and they don't have anyone yet.

For Birdie, I guess her ex is still an option, and then Emma's brother, David, and I really hope it's not Connor, who, lol, fits the Irish accent but he seems quite threatening and brutal. I suppose it's possible Daphne might fall in David's circle at some point, especially if he becomes corrupt, and actually, it kind of feels like Emma's assistant has a huge crush on her, lol, but mostly I just hope she doesn't have a thing for Charlie, that'd be so trite and tired for a fun show like this.

In terms of what dynamics are at play, indeed, if you have Charlie and Emma as crook and cop, you would have Birdie and Daphne as crook and...crookeder, lol. Birdie and David would be crook and politician, which, perhaps some people would call that the same, but outwardly, it feels too close to Charlie and Emma, and presumably, whatever one finds out, the other sibling would too so that reduces a lot of the drama and suspense.

Birdie and Connor would be crook and crookedest because so far Daphne seems much more humanized and sympathetic than any other bad guy, so even though she's currently the antagonist, it feels like Connor's even worse, it would have to be a big pivot to make him suddenly good enough to root for him against Daphne, though of course anything's possible.

I'm just curious in general about where the show will go, even with just Emma and Charlie. It's going to become a bit ludicrous if neither finds out about the other the more time passes, especially when both are so heavily involved with Daphne. Like, she literally left the bar a minute before Emma arrived!

In ep 3, we didn't have any Daphne and Birdie moment at all, but just like you spotted that line about the Irish accents, I really zoomed in on that scene early on, when Birdie's ex calls, she changes the subject with THIS segue:

Like okay, okay, okay.

But yeah, it's such a fun show and already, aside from these main ladies, we've had guest spots from Bridget Regan and Jes Macallan, it's been very easy on the eyes. :P