#THIS IS SO FUCKING GOOD WOLF

[joffyworld]

WOLFSTEAX ART I MISSED BECAUSE MY NOTIFICATIONS ARE WEIRD NOOOOO

chained to a lie, we're the same, you and I, we're the same

[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.

[0fps]

VICTORIA HOUSEKEEPING CO. ❖ VON LYCAON

We have obtained the item you requested. But, it seems this area requires further cleaning.

[strawbie-doodle]

havent drawn all of them in a WHILE ✸

[hedwig221b]

Got tagged by wonderful people @patolemus, @demonicfaerie and @teencopandthesourwolf to share a wip, so here is a piece of my sterek twilight au (I'm going insane)

Stiles opened the door and was about to step out, when Derek called him.

“Stiles?”

He turned his head back, only to realize that Derek was very very close.

Stiles’ breath caught, his heart frozen in the sugar coating of trembling anticipation.

The sharp point of Derek’s nose touched his cheek, lighter than the wind. He inhaled deeply, taking the greedy lungfuls of Stiles’ scent into his body. Stiles fought the shiver at the thought of it seeping into Derek’s lungs, traveling with his blood, making Derek think of him, staying with him even when they were apart. It was a feral thought, new but so strong and lustful that it made his head spin from how pleasant it was.

Derek’s eyes fluttered open. His pupils were huge, with the thinnest thread of red wrapped gently around them.

“Sleep well.” His voice was a murmuring thunder.

Stiles swallowed against a dry throat, nodded, and got out of the car.

He walked in a daze to his house, his heart left in that damn Camaro. He stuttered through a weak explanation about his bruise to his Dad (he had to tell Lydia and Allison that he defended them from bad guys just so they knew), and stumbled upstairs.

The room was dark as he walked in. The soft light of the full moon lit the square on the carpet just below the window.

Stiles took a couple of minutes to glance over his makeshift board. With his lips set and his heart thundering in his ears, he tore it all away, leaving scraps of tape stuck to the wall. He then took a fresh sheet of paper, glued it to the wall, and wrote one word in bold black letters.

Werewolf

Stiles stared at it. The word glared back at him, standing out harshly against the white.

He capped the marker, tossed it onto the table, and took off his clothes. Thoughts swarmed his head the entire time, all at once, different and scary. The life and the death, the moon and the ocean, the secrets and their reveal. The thread of red wrapped lovingly around the black depths.

Derek.

Stiles thought about him the most. Something told him that it wouldn't be the last time, far from it. He thought about Derek's softness and his open desire to kill. Stiles’ hands remembered the heat of his hands. His neck longed to feel the coating warmth of Derek’s breath. His lips burned from the kiss that never happened.

Everything was so fucking complicated.

Except one thing.

It was the only clear thought in his head. The one that made his stomach clench from fear, his heart stutter from hope, and his lips stretch in a smile.

He was unconditionally and irrevocably in love with Derek.

[divider link]

[teddybeartoji]

heavily based on the puss in boots movie but sukuna x death!reader..

a bounty hunter, who has set their eyes on the infamous sukuna,, known for his bloody blade and his feracious smile, he doesn't even bat an eye when you show him the wanted poster. he makes a joke about it, he laughs in your face.

but he does enjoy the fight and he is amused by this ridiculous act of yours, so he decides to draw his sword just to humor himself on this late night.

"try me if you dare, you wouldn't be the first to— "

like a gust of wind, like a slap in the face – you swat the blade from his hand without even looking at him properly and his breath gets stuck in his throat.

the steel clatters against the cold floor, it glimmers under the dim lights of the tavern. sukuna doesn't get scared. he doesn't.

the corners of your lips quirk up and the room goes cold. a mean laugh ripples from your throat and his stomach churns.

"go on, pick it up."

he swallows the lump in his throat.

the few steps count as a walk of shame inside his head. he won't let you get away with toying with him like this. adrenaline pumps in his veins as he bends to pick up his weapon and the moment his calloused fingers wrap around the handle, he's swinging it at your back with a low growl.

the sound two swords make when they clash against one another is nothing new to sukuna, so it really shouldn't be as big of a surprise when you deflect his blow.

when you deflect it with ease, with a smirk on your face.

sukuna's eye twitches.

a second swing and then a third. you're unfazed.

"sloppy."

he clicks his tongue and forces down the raw anger bubbling up his gullet.

a fourth and a fifth. a sixth. sparks from the blades glimmer in your dark eyes as you blatantly laugh in his face, seemingly so far from his reach that sukuna trips over his own thoughts – he reacts half a second too late and pays the price for it immediately; the cold steel rests against his adam's apple, your breath fanning his face as you tug him closer by the collar of his shirt. stuck between the counter and the end, he glares at you. he snarls, he bares his teeth.

a drop of crimson runs down the side of his neck as you brush your cold nose against his cheek. too close, you're too fucking close. the quiet, honeyed hum you give him gnaws on his insides, it tears into them like a hungry dog. your lips ghost over his pulse point and he feels you smile.

you inhale and a shiver runs up his spine.

"this is always the best part... when the fear finally starts to bleed, when you can taste it. smell it." his free hand curls into the material of your cloak but he's unable to do anything. he can't push and he can't pull, a deer stuck in a trap.

you slot a thigh between his thighs and press your blade deeper into him. "isn't it exciting to be so close to me, hm?"

warm blood trickles over your fingers. the tall man before you shrinks under your presence, under the weight of your makeshift scythe. he holds onto you like his life depends on it and withers at your next words.

"i'll take good care of you, i promise."

[box953]

if you dont fuck w jacobi and maxwell being best friends forever you dont fuck with me. Highlight of s3 relisten for me so far has been listening to them banter. It’s such a different banter from what you get from everyone else butting heads it’s so bouncy. It tells you they do this all the time but like. They’re friends about it. They hate each other but they also do nefarious shit together theyre bonded forever . Until the incident of course but i digress .

[textsfromthetva]

Loki + tumblr [148/?]

[theaologies]

Me to everyone I know once again

[naivety]

scott mccall; nature & nurture.

[blueskittlesart]

deeply refreshing to see someone critical of Swift who also like, genuinely likes her. Like i'm neutral to positive on her, but the online discourse has been absolutely rancid. flipping between "Taylor Swift has never done anything wrong ever and she's a fucking genius" and "Taylor Swift is the worst lyricist of all time and also a bad person" is exhausting, so thank you for like. nuance or something lmao

not to make it serious for a sec but i genuinely think that being able to like things that are bad is really important. like I think that it's an important skill to be able to look at something and see what you personally enjoy about it and then take a step back and acknowledge that objectively it's flawed. and to also be able to acknowledge that liking something isn't necessarily an identity or a moral stance. and i think that fandom space in general could really benefit from more people taking the time to learn how to do that. it's okay to like things that are bad

[patolemus]

🐺 🐺 🐺

Oooooh I haven't talked about this one in a while, but basically it's about how canon would look like if Scott had died from the bite instead of turning, making his death Stiles' introduction into the supernatural. Now, he's looking for the thing that killed his best friend so he can kill it.

With that little intro, here's those three sentences!

It starts, like all things in goddamned Beacon Hills, with a body in the woods. Well, half a body.

Stiles, always more curious than it’s healthy, and way too impulsive, hears his dad talking on the phone with one of his deputies about a body and immediately decides he has to go look for it. And of course, he drags his best friend with him.

It ends in tears, a funeral, and a promise of revenge so deep it bleeds his ledger red in advance, so deep Stiles knows it won’t ever leave him.

[worm-in-a-trenchcoat]

Still thinking Zendaya would be good casting for a live action Clawdeen in 2025 is insane 😭

-

Editing to add- I think some of y’all might be missing my point. It’s not about Zendaya’s age, it’s about her skin tone lol

[foursaints]

I NEED YOUR PETER CHARACTER ESSAY ANALYSIS ASAP.

my peter pettigrew exists mostly in terms of gender transgression 🐀. i feel that the specific kind of envy he holds for james — the mingled love & admiration, the longing, the wistful psychosexualism of it— it’s the kind of jealousy that young girls feel towards other girls.

peter is more complex in his longing than someone like severus! he’s more cynical about it! because peter doesn’t even necessarily want to BE james anymore, he’s known for a very long time that it’s impossible, all he wants is to subsume him. it’s like— 19th century sapphic vampire romance levels of psychosexual. Carmilla levels.

because the tragedy of it is that he loves james! not even romantically: peter KNOWS him, better and longer than anyone else. and the insane duality of that love is slowly driving him mad.

peter might be the most romantic character in canon to me. he’s the only marauder that knows they’re all doomed! he gave up the idea he could ever be normal about james a long time ago, but he also can’t not be around him, because he loves him. so he’s resigned to giving his entire life away - just wants to be near him, let it consume him, let it ruin them both! let them burn up with it!

it’s shakespearean in the scope of it. it’s the slow horror of this psychosexual envy overtaking him, extinguishing all that he cares about. not wanting to hurt someone and being unable to let them go.

and i think he’s pretty. these are thin actors and my peter is fat but i picture his facial structure all mousy & angelic like these two:

[givemedamage]

gay lady species swap just to piss myself off

[allebasimaianunes]

“i can’t she said, i’d save you but i can't hide„

i feel it crawl up my legs

let me wrap you up in these thighs

it gets me out of my head again

†