#milk-supply!

[madamemachikonew]

54. What’s your favorite part about the fanfiction writing process?

I find it easy to immerse myself in your work, and wanted to know if you had a technique for consistency haha ( ´ ▽ ` ).｡ｏ♡

Aww, firstly thank you for the compliment! I'm so glad to hear you enjoy reading my work! And thank you also for the question.

Hmm, so I guess I should start with a broad overview of my process. My fics usually start with some kind of favourite scene that will then lead the concept and plot. Or there are certain dialogues that I want to happen and it's non-negotiable that they are cut. It's completely ass over backwards, I know. I will then often work backwards to plot the route of how we get there, sometimes by several chapters. Some of my fics are more episodic, so this doesn't really count because each chapter is almost like a stand alone one-shot but with continuity (e.g. my Enjou and Baizhu longfics). For the episodic fics, I usually keep a list of ideas or scenes for chapters that I want to include but the order is somewhat flexible because there's no real overarching plot as such.

But the Pants fic requires a lot more advanced planning (though I still keep a list of ideas for scenes). So with that one I plot a broad framework using the key scenes or dialogues as the markers and then flesh them out, not necessarily in the chapter order. For example, I have a chapter already written that is plot vital but won't occur maybe for another three or four chapters from now. It can't happen any earlier, but I needed to get it out of my system. And now I have a firm anchor to work towards. It also means I can make sure the intervening chapters are consistent and have subtle foreshadowing, etc. because I know for sure what is going to happen. I like to think that some of these details and foreshadowing also give the fic extra mileage on a reread, because now the reader can spot them (eg Pants's meeting with Signora and Zhongli with the gnosis hits different once you know his life story, which comes in a later chapter). So then I'll go back and forth fleshing out the interceding chapters little by little. I rarely sit down and write a whole chapter in one go or consecutively. The ending arc of my still ongoing Enjou fic was fully drafted around the chapter 10 mark - it's at chapter 39 now and over 100k, but I already know how it will end. But like any chapters I write in advance, I come back constantly and refine them before I hit post. 

As for my favourite part of all of this...I guess the descriptions (as if that wasn't clear enough lol)! Once upon a time I wanted to be a cinematographer and/or director (Narrator: she did not become either of these things, though she did do a lot of arty amateur photography over the years) and I think my writing is probably a subconscious reflection of this in terms of its 'staging' and 'close up shots' if that makes sense? This will sound pretentious af, but since I'm not very good at drawing, I want to convey a vivid picture in the reader's imagination that correlates as far as possible with how I've visually imagined the scene in my mind and the arty background shots that aren't necessarily of the characters' faces. Imagine stuff like a close up of Pants's hands as he throws some ice cubes into a tumbler or a lower profile shot showing how the trinket on his glasses dangles and sparkles off the stage lights in an otherwise dark theatre. That kind of thing. The only way I can do that is through the descriptions as I can't storyboard it like I would a film or animation. I think these subtle descriptive elements bring it more to life. I enjoy imagining the scene from a purely visual basis as much as the content, as I think it's important when you're storytelling.

Another favourite thing of mine is showing contrasting inner thoughts of characters in the same situation, for example the scene where Pants is 'grieving' for Signora. If I was working to a more orthodox 'xReader' format, I could only show you what Reader actually sees or hears from her own perspective (as I did when she sees Signora getting into the rickshaw with Pants). But I also like to show the actual fic readers (as opposed to the character) the full story.

My other favourite thing is integrating lore nerdery. So I love researching tiny details from NPC dialogue or quest lore or whatever and making them part of the plot, to give the whole fic more depth from a world-building perspective and show how they weave into the main characters' lives. Since I normally write for NPCs (Baizhu pre-playable era, Enjou, Pants...) I have to extrapolate a lot from the tiny crumbs we get. A lot of lore goes unintentionally ignored as well because we don't understand the significance of it in the early game, for example, Landa's quest is now more significant than it was when it was released. It's so interesting going back and seeing how it all comes together.

[constantly-deactivated]

The US Government Is At It Again, Raiding More Organic/ Raw Milk Farms. If You Don’t Pump Your Cattle Full Of Their Mandated Vaccine Poisons, They’re Coming After You 🤔

[hasello]

Baby Blue (18/25)

first/previous/next

WATCH OUT: FLUFF tehehe

[darkfluffydragon]

CRK Headcanon Ideas: Shadow Milk and his Sticker Collection + small story lol

The name pretty much says it all. Shadow Milk Cookie has these customised stickers with basically his face on them and sassy quotes, that he just randomly sticks onto people without prompting.

EXAMPLE:

Pure Vanilla Cookie sighed, his eyes heavy and his mind clouded. So much had occurred, his amnesia, meeting his friends again for the first time in centuries, the reveal of the truth about Dark Enchantress Cookie. All of it with the addition of White Lily's revival had stirred emotions he thought long buried, adding to his mental strain.

The buildings were lit aflame, the faeries had been twisted into mocking shadows of themselves, and the Beast of Deceit loomed over them dangerously. He was tired, and his current inability to trust the Light of Truth, trust himself, did not help.

In the midst of this chaos, Shadow Milk Cookie danced around, his dark demeanour a stark contrast to the grim reality around them. A mischievous grin played across his lips as he approached Pure Vanilla, a mysterious object in hand. With a swift movement, he pressed it against Pure Vanilla's forehead, leaving him bewildered.

He had shut his eyes tightly when the beast reached forward, pressing his hand and the item on his forehead. He waited a second, then two, and hesitantly opened his eyes. Adjusting his Seeing Staff, he glanced at what was now attached to him. It was a miniature version of Shadow Milk, winking with his tongue stuck out.

"...Womp...womp?" he muttered slowly, reading the small inscription on what could only be a sticker. What on earthbread was a 'womp womp?'

[iguessitsjustme]

This is off the top of my head of shows that should have had some sort of poly but instead were cowards. (im kidding i love these shows pls don’t shoot me)

[ms-spkhd]

thinking about a Blast From the Past steddie au tonight. like, think about it for a second--steve as the sweet, well-meaning himbo raised in a fallout shelter and eddie as the cynic who shows him the world as it is:

The year was 1962, and an atomic bomb had just dropped on top of the Harrington household.

Okay, not really. It was actually a fighter jet that suffered a mechanical failure just above the little plot of land the Harringtons called their home, but Walter Harrington took it differently. Far differently.

See, the thing was that the man was living in a state of paranoid delusion over the Cold War--terrified of the possibility of an outright nuclear holocaust over the Cuban Missile Crisis and the Soviet Union. He had been carefully building a fallout shelter under his home for his wife and possible children to live in with the works--canned food, running water, and even a working television.

And one day they went in and simply never left. The explosion right when they closed the door was tangible proof that the nuclear war was happening right above them.

A few years later, around 1968, a baby boy was born in a fallout shelter with no one but his mom and dad to keep him company.

They raised Steve the best they could, even if Walter Harrington was a mad genius and Madeline Harrington was a borderline alcoholic. Even if the boy was living in a perfect little time capsule of the fifties and early sixties. Walter made sure to educate him right and teach him how to be a sociable gentleman--even if he had no idea what swear words or the concept of sex were. That was for another time. Although, twenty-four years came and went for Steve Harrington, his father still owes him 'another time'.

Steve Harrington grows twenty-four years in perfect seclusion, but that changes at the flick of a switch.

The year is 1992: supplies are dwindling Walter is growing sick, and Steve is tasked to bravely set foot in the nuclear fallout to retrieve more material. (The only reason why Walter assumes they can even get more stuff is because he observed the outside world when the shelter unlocked and mistook it as a post-apocalyptic mutant society.)

The moment Steve made it outside his little bubble, he was utterly fascinated by the world--how different the people were outside of his television and his little books, how bright the sky was outside, how the irritable man on the bus wouldn't accept the money he tried to give him, how the bus moved and didn't fling him right off his seat.

(He even saw an adult bookstore. Dad told him that those things were filled with poisonous gas. How were they even to operate if they were filled with poisonous gas? That's dangerous and totally inconsiderate of the general public's safety.)

Anyway, he tries to follow the grocery list that Mom and Dad gave him the best he can, stocking up on poultry and tissue paper and the works. But by the end of the day, he doesn't know where he came from. Not a single sign or building or person can give him a single clue where to go.

After a few hours of wandering, suitcase in hand, he comes across a store with WE BUY BASEBALL CARDS written on the window.

Golly, Steve loves baseball cards--could look at Dad's collection for hours, and with the collection he has, he could make a pretty penny selling them for supplies. Despite the little hobby store being beside an adult bookstore with poisonous gas, he scampers right in.

"I see you're looking to buy baseball cards," he says breezily to the gruff, scary-looking man behind the counter.

"That I am," he replies.

Steve pulls a few from his jacket's inner pocket. "Well, these are a bit old, you see, but I was hoping you still might be interested."

The gruff man yanks them from his hands, a spark in his eye. He looks delighted to see them, and it fills Steve with an excitement he hadn't felt at all today. Nobody has been this happy over something he's done today. "Woah," he gasps, then covers it with a cough. "Mickey Mantle rookie season...how much do you want?"

"I was hoping to sell all of my cards, actually!"

The man sputters incredulously. "All of 'em? Are you fucking with me?"

"I'm not sure what that means, but all I have are hundred-dollar bills and I need something smaller. Like, uh...ones, tens, fives..."

"Tell you what, I'll give you five hundred in small bills for all you got."

Steve smiles brightly. "Oh, that would be wonderful, sir--"

"Five hundred for a case-full of rookie season Mickey Mantles, Rick, are you fucking joking?" A deep voice cuts through Steve's thanks from the other side of the small store. He turns around to find a man leaning against a magazine rack, arms folded sternly.

The man is unlike Steve's ever seen before. Long, long limbs and big brown eyes that look traced with black and smudged around the edges. Pretty lips, too almost girl-ish, in the way they were big and plush like the women he'd see on the television. The strangest thing about him, though, was the curly hair that tumbled past his shoulders.

He looked mad, though. Madder than mad.

"Tell the poor guy you're fucking with him," long-hair-pretty-lips says to the man behind the counter, who bristles.

"Were you raised in a fucking barn, Munson? Who told you to interrupt on business?" Rick counters. Steve was really not appreciating the amount of f-words dropped in the conversation, it was uncouth.

"Sure I was!" Munson saunters towards the counter and Steve's eyes follow him like a moth to a light. "But my morals go past your business practices at this point. You remember the ninth commandment, yeah?"

"You shut your Goddamn mouth--"

"Excuse me sir, but I really don't appreciate how you're using the Lord's name in vain like that," Steve says firmly.

"See?" Munson smiles. It's like sunlight. "He gets it."

He plucks the baseball card from Rick's hand and holds it over his head when he tries to reach for it again. "See this little thing?" He says to Steve sweetly. "This guy costs six grand alone."

"Get out of town! Really?"

"Oh yeah, big guy. Selling the thing would give you a small fortune, and Rick over here is trying to con you out of it."

Steve frowns. "Is that true?" He asks Rick.

"Nothing but," Munson says in place of him. He slips the card back into Steve's hands and gives them a pat.

"The Hell is even keeping you here, Munson?" Rick sneers. "Did the gig you won't shut up about fall through like they usually do? Better to bum it out here than in your shithole apartment? Stop loitering in my damn store and make like a fucking tree. You're banned."

"Whatever helps you sleep at night," Munson says rolling his eyes. He looks at Steve, then the door, gesturing at it with a flick of his head. "I'll see you out, Beaver."

He walks them both out the door, stopping to gesture at Rick strangely--hands balled into fists with only his middle fingers up--before stepping outside onto the sidewalk.

"Well merci, Monsieur," Steve says appreciatively, because Dad taught him French was always to be used on such occasions.

"What, you're French?"

"Oh no, I'm"--he thinks back to what Dad told him if a mutant asks where he's from. Gosh, he thinks he's supposed to be--"out on business."

"And you don't even have a clue about the little business trick that Rick tried to pull?"

"No...no, I--"

"Yeah, doesn't matter." Munson shrugs. He smiles sympathetically at Steve before turning on his heel and walking off. Oh boy, what would he do without him?

He follows him like a lost puppy, that's what.

"...You going the same way?" Munson asks incredulously. Steve shakes his head.

"Well, I'm following you."

Munson stops in his tracks, blinking, and Steve almost runs into him in his state. "Me?"

"Well yes! Where are we going?"

"We?" Munson asserts. "I'm going back to my shithole apartment, and judging by that jacket you're wearing, you should be taking the next left and hop-skipping straight to the barber college."

"Oh, I'm lost, though."

"Aren't we all?"

"Say, did you just get banned from that hobby store because of me?" Steve says to change the subject.

Munson sighs. "Seems like I did, sailor. The place was shitty anyways, with that dickhead running the operation. Wayne could get better cards from a different joint."

...dickhead? Steve's never heard that leave the seams of anyone's lips before. "Dickhead?"

"Yeah, he's a real fucking loser. A walking talking penis capable of human speech."

Steve gets queasy at the image he's concocted in his head. He leans against the nearest brick wall, his suitcase tumbling to the ground as he drops into a contemplative squat.

"Dude, what is wrong with you?"

"Well, the mental image that I..."

Munson's eyebrows scrunch before he reaches out a hand to Steve. He takes it, letting the man haul him upward. "Look, man, where'd you park your car?"

"I came by bus."

"Aren't you full of surprises."

"I am?"

"Okay look." Eddie raises his hands, palms splayed in the air. "It's your first time in Los Angeles, right? Everyone wants a taste of it, I know, and you're out for business and fucking famished. You got the opportunity to see the great big world outside of your little bubble and you got excited--but you took a bus and got mixed up in the middle of San Fernando Valley without a clue in the world. Am I correct?"

Steve listens in wonderment. So far, Munson's been correct in a way. He's convinced he might be psychic. He nods slowly and seriously just to see Munson flash that lighting-strike smile.

"Great, great. Which brings us to here. Correct again?"

"Oh yeah."

"Where are you staying?"

Nowhere, at the moment. Steve opens his mouth to say so, but Munson interrupts quickly. "Holiday Inn?"

"Yes, the Holiday Inn!" Steve says totally truthfully.

"Okay, cool. Cool." Munson claps his hands together with finality and starts walking. "The nearest bus station is a couple of blocks away if you take a right--"

"Don't you have a car?"

Munson stops in his tracks again. He turns to face Steve once again. "What's your name, sweetheart?"

Something warm pools in Steve's gut at the pet name. Something about the way those pretty lips form that word sends blood rushing to his cheeks. "Steve," he says.

"Alright, Steve." Oh boy, his name sounds even better when Munson says it. "Rule number one in Los Angeles? Never let a stranger drive you anywhere."

"If it makes you feel any better," Steve says sweetly, "I don't have a gun."

Munson pales, then starts running.

"Hey!" Steve cries and makes haste to follow him. "I must've said something wrong, please forgive me!"

"Nope, nope--get the fuck away from me, man!"

He grabs Munson's wrist to pull him back, which is a bad move since the man starts writhing around in his grip. "I'm not going to hurt you, sir!"

Steve drops Munson's hand and raises his in surrender. "See?"

"...Just let me get to my car."

"I'll give you a Rogers Hornsby if you take me to my hotel," Steve reasons.

Munson stills. "...That's like four grand, don't bullshit me."

He pulls the card from his jacket and presents it as evidence. "See? I was holding it back." He wants Munson to feel safe. "I got two." He reaches for the other cards in his pockets and pulls them out. "And-and all these other ones, too!"

"Okay, okay. You'll give me four thousand dollars if I drive you to your place?"

"Uh-uh!"

"That's it?"

"Yep."

"And I don't have to give you a quickie in the backseat or anything?"

"Yes sir--wait, what?"

Munson blows past his question like it didn't even leave Steve's mouth. "Can you stop with the sir crap?"

"Well, I'm sorry, sir--"

"My name is Eddie."

Eddie...Eddie, Eddie, Eddie. Wow, what a name. It's almost like something he's heard on the television.

"Why, it's nice to meet you, Eddie."

"Tolerable to meet you too, Steve."

Steve smiles shyly, then asks, "So are you a girl?"

"Excuse me?"

"Well it's just your hair...it's so long." Steve points at his as an example. "I've never seen anything like it before."

"Dude, it's 1992, every other guy looks like this--have you been living under a rock or something?"

Something like that. Steve shrugs.

"Well guys having long hair doesn't mean that they're girls, Steve, that's a given. It's not 1962 anymore." Eddie backtracks. "Well, I mean, dudes can have long hair and be chicks and chicks can be dudes too but that's not--"

"Oh, wow, my dad told me about one of those the last time he went here!"

"Oh that's fantastic, sweetheart," Eddie says, sugary-sweet. "But how about I drive you home?"

"That'd be a pleasure, Eddie."

[marypsue]

I finished reading Emily Nussbaum's Cue The Sun!: The Invention of Reality TV (fantastic, densely layered, beautifully written, highly recommended) and chased it with Craig DiLouie's How To Make A Horror Movie And Survive (fun, popcorny cursed-film meta-horror) and noticed an interesting parallel.

Nussbaum talks about reality TV contestants, after the concept becomes mainstream, no longer signing up to compete simply out of interest or curiosity and ended up stunned or traumatised by the genre's artificiality and artifice. As the contestants get savvier about what they're signing up for, she repeatedly talks about them as seeing themselves - or at least marketing themselves - as collaborators with the editors and producers in creating a great show.

DiLouie's fictional director, shortly after committing (spoiler!) to slaughtering his entire cast on camera to create 'the perfect horror movie', has a line about how he thinks of the actors: "More, he regarded them as fellow collaborators."

[headcanonthings]

Jason: Out of all the drinks you could've picked, why milk? Tim: I refuse to have a weak skeleton for the Skeleton War Jason: Jason: I keep telling myself not to ask you questions and yet here I am

[magicalshopping]

♡ Strawberry Milk Frog Stationery Set from Claire’s ♡

[jamboreeartsupplies]

from Saturday's Solar Eclipse :) only partially visible for us

they are too tiny for the glasses so they shared one side each hehe :) so cute

[brehaaorgana]

People joke about ADHD all the time, even swear up and down they totally think they also have it, but then if you ask for an accommodation, to please please please provide things in fucking writing, EXACTLY what they want and need, you will even work it out WITH them, like they promised they would do — repeatedly over and over, and then you don't get it people really will fucking be like:

I am using the incorrect bathroom (TM) to place my shelving and store my things. Homegirl literally removed various sundries and toiletries from a CLOSED CABINET and SHELF because she's interested in boundaries and accountability for my mess.

I said months ago I wanted to improve things for her comfort level and needed a written list of what precisely that fucking looked like in order to achieve it and not miss anything she deemed important. I explained how ADHD works, why I needed a written reference. Why I had to have it laid out, and if something needed changing we needed to write it all out. I would've made the list myself, but they said they would make it for the whole house to hold up their end of things. And, thinking this was a very reasonable adult solution to keeping the house in good shape, I said okay, come up with the list of expectations and what is needed and that way we can update how we handle chores. Awesome. I will do that to uphold my end.

No list ever gets made or drafted or anything despite my bringing it up, knowing we need to do it, but I DO get berated for failing to meet expectations and boundaries that were never fucking provided or delivered and include "don't store toiletries in this particular bathroom because I don't like it."

I can't believe I am a goddamn adult who gets treated like an idiot child for expecting adult communication instead of snide ass passive aggressive bullshit and basic respect for my things.

Because when I fucking get home, my shelving has been removed and a cabinet emptied of my things and placed in the "correct" bathroom.

🙃🙃🙃🙃🙃🙃🙃🙃🙃

Oh shit she solved it, this doesn't look cluttered at all!

What a vast improvement to storing things in appropriate storage!

[leafmealonetodecay]

do you think I can live off of monster energy and the handful of blackberries I collect on the walk to and from school?

[whentherewerebicycles]

also I can’t believe he learned how to breastfeed (without a nipple shield or anything) right when I was ready to be done. like come on kid. read the room. can’t you tell this emotional journey is over

[milkandhoneyfemme]

to the butches with facial hair I am gifting you beard oils and vintage straight razors for the holidays here’s a platonic femme kiss mwah 💋

[dailygunpowderboys]

[andrigyn]

the fact we’re not in the same fandom anymore makes your reblogs so funny. i see your posts about pegging homelander and support them 🫡

All you need to know is that he’s the greatest superhero in the world ❤️ so kind and gentle ❤️