#But I want someone to suffer

[p0tat0-g0ddess]

losing the battle against whump writing atm

[inkskinned]

at some point it's just like. do they even fucking like the thing they're asking AI to make? "oh we'll just use AI for all the scripts" "we'll just use AI for art" "no worries AI can write this book" "oh, AI could easily design this"

like... it's so clear they've never stood in the middle of an art museum and felt like crying, looking at a piece that somehow cuts into your marrow even though the artist and you are separated by space and time. they've never looked at a poem - once, twice, three times - just because the words feel like a fired gun, something too-close, clanging behind your eyes. they've never gotten to the end of the movie and had to arrive, blinking, back into their body, laughing a little because they were holding their breath without realizing.

"oh AI can mimic style" "AI can mimic emotion" "AI can mimic you and your job is almost gone, kid."

... how do i explain to you - you can make AI that does a perfect job of imitating me. you could disseminate it through the entire world and make so much money, using my works and my ideas and my everything.

and i'd still keep writing.

i don't know there's a word for it. in high school, we become aware that the way we feel about our artform is a cliche - it's like breathing. over and over, artists all feel the same thing. "i write because i need to" and "my music is how i speak" and "i make art because it's either that or i stop existing." it is such a common experience, the violence and immediacy we mean behind it is like breathing to me - comes out like a useless understatement. it's a cliche because we all feel it, not because the experience isn't actually persistent. so many of us have this ... fluttering urgency behind our ribs.

i'm not doing it for the money. for a star on the ground in some city i've never visited. i am doing it because when i was seven i started taking notebooks with me on walks. i am doing it because in second grade i wrote a poem and stood up in front of my whole class to read it out while i shook with nerves. i am doing it because i spent high school scribbling all my feelings down. i am doing it for the 16 year old me and the 18 year old me and the today-me, how we can never put the pen down. you can take me down to a subatomic layer, eviscerate me - and never find the source of it; it is of me. when i was 19 i named this blog inkskinned because i was dramatic and lonely and it felt like the only thing that was actually permanently-true about me was that this is what is inside of me, that the words come up over everything, coat everything, bloom their little twilight arias into every nook and corner and alley

"we're gonna replace you". that is okay. you think that i am writing to fill a space. that someone said JOB OPENING: Writer Needed, and i wrote to answer. you think one raindrop replaces another, and i think they're both just falling. you think art has a place, that is simply arrives on walls when it is needed, that is only ever on demand, perfect, easily requested. you see "audience spending" and "marketability" and "multi-line merch opportunity"

and i see a kid drowning. i am writing to make her a boat. i am writing because what used to be a river raft has long become a fully-rigged ship. i am writing because you can fucking rip this out of my cold dead clammy hands and i will still come back as a ghost and i will still be penning poems about it.

it isn't even love. the word we use the most i think is "passion". devotion, obsession, necessity. my favorite little fact about the magic of artists - "abracadabra" means i create as i speak. we make because it sluices out of us. because we look down and our hands are somehow already busy. because it was the first thing we knew and it is our backbone and heartbreak and everything. because we have given up well-paying jobs and a "real life" and the approval of our parents. we create because - the cliche again. it's like breathing. we create because we must.

you create because you're greedy.

[fiddlingford]

Gravity falls as onion headlines part II part I part III

[lucabyte]

On autonomy, and what it means to be Obliged to Help.

Bonus:

[bedforddanes75]

im not american but some of you guys are just fucking stupid ong what do you MEAN youre not gna vote because you disagree with like one part of what youre voting for. like okay me when im fucking thick

[heartorbit]

billions must yuri

[mimiscappinisideblog]

Me throughout 2020-2021-2022-2023:

Me the moment AO3 has been down for more than ten hours:

[stil-lindigo]

Context: Israel “allowed” aid in the forms of flour bags to be airdropped into Gaza, waited for hundreds to congregate, and then opened fire into the crowd of desperate, starving Palestinians. 150 Palestinians were killed. Hundreds more wounded. This is being called “The Flourbag Massacre”.

source

Meanwhile, over on the other side…

[phoenixkaptain]

Everytime I think about Obi-Wan and Anakin it’s like- I don’t ship them so much as I think they should be together at all times. I think tcw had a point, actually, and the two of them should just. Always be together. I think Anakin is Obi-Wan’s hope in an increasingly difficult life and I think Obi-Wan is Anakin’s tie to humanity when he most feels like a monster. They are intrinsically combined, from the very first movie where Obi-Wan dies at Vader’s hands with a peaceful expression.

It’s Obi-Wan begging Luke not to see Anakin in Vader while Vader searches Luke to see some sign of Obi-Wan. It’s Obi-Wan calling Anakin another pathetic lifeform to Obi-Wan being unable to process the idea of Anakin being anything but good. It’s Anakin awkwardly (adorably) shaking Obi-Wan’s hand to Anakin awkwardly (adorably) bringing up Obi-Wan during conversations with the woman he wants to seduce.

It’s Obi-Wan knowing how to fix Artoo and Obi-Wan teasing Anakin about Artoo. It’s Anakin’s first thought on losing his lightsaber being “Obi-Wan’s going to be mad at me again” and Anakin laughing when Obi-Wan tells him to drive better.

The prequel trilogy is so fascinating because my favourite parts are always Anakin and Obi-Wan. The parts I think about the most often are those parts with Anakin and Obi-Wan. The relationship between these two drives the entirety of the plot of the prequels, to the point that the literal birth mother of the main characters of the original trilogy is all but forgotten in the third movie.

It’s. Obi-Wan spending years watching over Luke because Luke reminds him of Anakin, never approaching because what if Luke really does turn out to be like Anakin…?

It’s Vader assuming that Obi-Wan taught Luke to fight, because who else could teach a Skywalker?

It’s Obi-Wan accepting all the blame for the people he knew best, the people who were basically his family, all dying.

It’s Vader keeping Obi-Wan’s lightsaber in a parallel to Obi-Wan keeping Anakin’s.

They are just. Mutually Obsessed. Obi-Wan held up Anakin and said “this is my whole personality now” and Anakin responded with “neato, same.” They bicker like an old married couple. Anakin can’t imagine even thinking about leaving Obi-Wan behind. Obi-Wan tells Anakin point-blank that he’s a good Jedi who deserves to be a Master.

I ship them because like. The universe? Does?? They are destined to be by each other, in life and in death. They support and sustain each other. There was probably eepy Force magic stuff that made Anakin into a Force ghost because Obi-Wan wanted him to be one.

How else can I explain it? They were made for each other. Like. Literally. They should never be separated. Look what happened when they did separate in universe. They are a nuclear bomb. They have to stay together or the galaxy gets the worst of it, and that’s just canon, somehow.

[mobius-m-mobius]

loki in season two // mobius in season one (insp)

[adnrewminyard]

imagine being kevin day, son of exy, born and bred to be a cog in the well-oiled machine that is the edgar allan ravens. all you know being the routine of practice and practice and practice and performance and victory alongside those you call brothers.

-and then one day you wake up in your estranged father's apartment between a bottle of painkillers and a bottle of vodka and there is a knot of bandages where your future used to be. you don't wake up at 4am anymore. you sleep until noon and vomit the remainders of life as you knew it into unfamiliar toilets. you watch orange and white clash against each other from sidelines you haven't touched since you started growing facial hair.

your brother doesn't ask you to come home. you would come if he asked. the days are longer here and the food is too rich. the colors are too harsh, the language barrier is too much. you speak and no one understands.

they feel sorry for you, but not for what you have lost, instead for what you have suffered. you try to show them what belonging means, to sever parts of yourself to fit inside a uniform, but they don't understand the necessity of the blade the way your brothers did. they don't understand that suffering feels religious if you do it right.

the therapist tells you it's survivor's guilt but the only survivors you can see are on the court in black and red and they read your eulogy after the game at a press conference. you are not a survivor in any way that matters anymore. how treacherous your heart is for continuing to beat when you can't even hold your lifeline in your hand without dropping it.

you want to go home but your key doesn't open the same door anymore. you want to sit beside your brother but there is no space on his side of the table. you want to be a raven but you are a fox.

you grieve for connection until there is a knife where your neck guard used to sit. you grieve for your life until a boy offers to show you how it feels to survive. you offer to show him how it feels to live. he tells you he won't sever parts of himself to fit the uniform, but there are telltale bloodstains in the fabric from long before you asked.

you wake up at 4am again. you take turns vomiting in the toilet, you when the alcohol level dips too low and him when his smile runs out. he doesn't speak your language but he understands it. he keeps the car running when you visit the therapist. he keeps an eye on your back to watch the 02 on your jersey turn orange. the colors don't seem as harsh anymore.

he offers you safety. he offers you belonging. he offers you the only thing he knows how to give, the only thing you know how to take.

he offers you a lifeline. you pick it up with your right hand.

[dontbelasagne]

desperately need to do a presentation on why the Twelfth Doctors journey perfectly represents the transfem experience

their previous eleventh incarnation being suave and hypersexual (i know moffat is mostly to blame but!) is reminiscent of attempts to fit into heteronormative ideals of masculinity. whilst it is not completely insincere, there are obvious signs this does not fit you as a person, it is acted out of desperate need to being seen. as Vastra put it, eleven wore that face, and subsequently that form of masculinity, to be accepted. on becoming twelve, realising even an "idealised" masculinity does not inherently serve them, they retreated into themselves as a person for self-reflection and trying to understand why they feel so detached from who they are.

the "am i a good man" arc mirrors being closeted and having to present as something not inherently tied to your sense of self, but still wanting to be the best of your perceived gender as any failure could leave you spiralling into self-doubt about simply being like any other "man". you ignore your gender dysphoria/questioning by trying to claim a moralistic view of gendered expression. made even more clear by Twelve rejecting Clara's heroic view of them, establishing that even though they have made efforts to be a "good man", that is just a placeholder for their loss of identity.

Missy appearing as she does, who as a character serves as a parallel to The Doctor on what they could become, and her eventual arc in trying to become good is symbolic of the fear around transition regret that internalised transphobia can create when you are closeted. Missy never gives importance to their fem existence other than nonchalant jokes, rather showing a more free and expressive personality devoid of any frustration. this immediately dismisses the transphobic assumption that trans people are only focused on their gender. also, Missy representing trans femininity is inherently tied to chaos and upsetting the status quo, she is the embodiment of what society considers accepting your womanhood as someone previously labelled masculine. what many others, and The Doctor themselves, saw as a need for attention and senseless disruption is Missy not needing to serve a false version of who they are, that they can now focus on becoming whoever they want to be now without losing energy to performing a gender that society has imposed on you. Missy could never have made the decision to stand with The Doctor if she had not given importance to her own queerness.

it wasn't coincidence with meeting Bill, she was the perfect foil for The Doctor to finally let go of their anxious attachment to masculinity. i would even argue for the majority of s10, The Doctor is largely ambiguous in their gender identity and does not fit into any construction of masculinity or femininity. whilst they still present as something socially labelled as masculine, they do not internalise that gender expression. they are uncaring about and not needing the validity that comes with heteronormativity, and thus is free to finally accept the decision they have to make. as Bill says, it is so hard to let go of The Doctor, and that rings true for twelve themselves. but they begin to realise The Doctor can be anyone. yes, they are tired, it would be so easy to simply rest and not give value to who you can become. but choosing to let go of everything you once were to survive is better than oblivion. it is better to let go, to choose another lifetime where the only person that dies is your falsity, to finally get it right and choose kindness. for yourself and for those who you love. they regenerate, not just into another person, but into someone who (if only tv scripts...) can now move forward.

[piowasthere]

shark comfort for Ruin pt. 2 bc he's been through enough and deserves love and affection.

made based off of the recent ep in which we learn more of his backstory by Nexus getting into his head AGAIN and reopening trauma like a wound

also design update for him after that, i wanted to 'mess up' his eye a little bit cuz even tho he resisted, i like to think his eye still got damaged a tad and he's not really in a position where he's able to fix it

[EP: How Ruin FOUND The WITHER SHARD! In VRChat (SAMS)]

[keferon]

Howdy!

I think your Monster Hunter AU is really cool and I wanted to know if you’d be cool if I tried to write something in the universe? (Specifically about Prowl haha, I saw him once and thought 👀 “man i wonder if tarantulas was in this au how spooky he’d be given he’s spooky enough in canon”)

Would also love to know your thoughts/if you had any of what Prowl could be up to, I know the au is Lost Light focused so I totally get it if you don’t have any/etc.

Hope you have a good day! Love your art!

Hoooo boy okay okay. Prowl.

He's a Golem created by Orion.

In mythology, Golems are essentially living statues made of clay mixed with blood and animated by magic. They are stupid and exist for primitive manual labor.

In my universe, a Golem is basically the same thing, but made of metal.

Orion assembled his golem from empty armor, parts stolen from the medbay, and his own energon. And then he went and got a Wisdom artifact and put it in the golem's head, because the rules strictly forbid giving golems internal organs like sparks or processors.

As a result, the golem was very light because it was essentially empty inside, so even when it moved it did so very quietly for a mech its size. Orion had been startled the first fifteen times the golem would appear completely silent beside him. On the sixteenth time, he called the golem Prowl.

Prowl is basically not a real mech. He has no spark, he has no need to eat or sleep. His only and primary task is to serve Orion. Thanks to the artifact, he is freakishly intelligent, not only compared to normal golems, but to normal mechs as well.

Orion keeps his origin a secret from everyone except Ratchet and Shockwave (because Shockwave was the one who taught him how to create golems), so all the mechs in the Order are convinced that Prowl is just Orion's very tedious assistant, not...you know...a walking puppet who has incredible intellectual abilities, but almost no emotions or conscience:)

[earfgoddesss]

PLEASE BE MACHINE HERALD VIKTOR. PLEASE BE MACHINE HERALD VIKTOR. PLEASE BE MACHINE HERALD VIKTOR. PLEASE BE MACHINE HERALD VIKTOR. PLEASE BE MACHINE HERALD VIKTOR. PLEASE BE MACHINE HERALD VIKTOR. PLEASE BE MACHINE HERALD VIKTOR. PLEASE BE MACHINE HERALD VIKTOR. PLEASE BE MACHINE HERALD VIKTOR. PLEASE BE MACHINE HERALD VIKTOR. PLEASE BE MACHINE HERALD VIKTOR. PLEASE BE MACHINE HERALD VIKTOR. PLEASE BE MACHINE HERALD VIKTOR. PLEASE BE MACHINE HERALD VIKTOR. PLEASE BE MACHINE HERALD VIKTOR. PLEASE BE MACHINE HERALD VIKTOR. PLEASE BE MACHINE HERALD VIKTOR. PLEASE BE MACHINE HERALD VIKTOR.

[vi-visected]

in my head after the events of camlann merlin returns to camelot and, still riddled with terrible guilt and grief, confesses to leon about everything that had happened and everything he had done, magic and all. and instead of outrage or betrayal or scorn or judgement (or even death, as he had briefly considered) leon shatters him with a deeply apologetic expression and a whispered “my friend… you must have been so afraid, and so tired.” and merlin collapses into heaving sobs against him and doesn’t get back up for a long time.