#and so is king

[heleeanthea]

Rules: put your music library on shuffle, then list the first five songs that come up in a poll to let people vote for their favourite!

Omg, thank you sm @octarineblues for tagging me, I'm always happy to be allowed to talk about music, ha.

Alright, let's see what we'll get!

and about the tags: @abignopefromme, @lunalunaris, feel free to join the game if you want, as well as anyone who stumbles upon this post by chance.

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Oh god, these are so random actually! But I'd say that I'm pretty happy with them, even though randomizing "Master of the house" out of all Les mis songs and aaaaaall the versions of them is... well... I don't even like this song that much.

I am however happy that "Tonight I Feel Like Kafka" found its way onto the list as it is one of my favourite songs ever!

Aannnnddd we also have a competitor from Poland - Lordofon!!

[churrotowns]

cockblocked 😔

[tariah23]

Oh…. Well, it’s over for Crunchyroll I guess

[mild-goth-sauce]

An informational comic I drew last year for my Comics 2 class, reposting it to my new account (had to jump ship from the old one unfortunately) with some minor grammar changes and learned my lesson in adding watermarks! Happy early pride :)

[yourfavecharacterisqueer]

hypothetical scenario for you all: the real king arthur returns. you meet him and you welcome him into your home. what is the first thing you do with him? keep in mind, this is a man from the 500s (he died in 542), and you are from the 21st century (2024).

[randomalistic]

Selfshippers who ship with weird/unappealing characters. I love you. Like hell yeah you go get with Mr Crocker. Go get with lord faarquad

[kingzombear]

Happy holidays, have some Gummiguy! 🐊

And Cuckatha

[theouroborosart]

"You can’t separate us, not unless we’re willing to do so."

[pangur-and-grim]

I got too excited while playing chess and told my opponent that I was going to slit his throat and slaughter him like a hog. something to work on for next time

[twinliches]

my (very white, very middle european, very protestant christian, very sixty-year old) father just dropped an inshallah in casual conversation. without precedent or without any acknowledgement. "inshallah they will send us a new internet router" he said. didn't even stutter. what did he mean by this.

[doyouknowthisdragartist]

"what's the appeal of drag kings" because women are my favorite guy next question

[hinamie]

10 years later

[nottspocket]

I cannot stop thinking about his parents making him take music lessons and how he probably HATED it

[millificent]

Every Nico Di Angelo fan focusing more on the background of the episode than the actual plot

[hamletthedane]

I was meeting a client at a famous museum’s lounge for lunch (fancy, I know) and had an hour to kill afterwards so I joined the first random docent tour I could find. The woman who took us around was a great-grandmother from the Bronx “back when that was nothing to brag about” and she was doing a talk on alternative mediums within art.

What I thought that meant: telling us about unique sculpture materials and paint mixtures.

What that actually meant: an 84yo woman gingerly holding a beautifully beaded and embroidered dress (apparently from Ukraine and at least 200 years old) and, with tears in her eyes, showing how each individual thread was spun by hand and weaved into place on a cottage floor loom, with bright blue silk embroidery thread and hand-blown beads intricately piercing the work of other labor for days upon days, as the labor of a dozen talented people came together to make something so beautiful for a village girl’s wedding day.

What it also meant: in 1948, a young girl lived in a cramped tenement-like third floor apartment in Manhattan, with a father who had just joined them after not having been allowed to escape through Poland with his pregnant wife nine years earlier. She sits in her father’s lap and watches with wide, quiet eyes as her mother’s deft hands fly across fabric with bright blue silk thread (echoing hands from over a century years earlier). Thread that her mother had salvaged from white embroidery scraps at the tailor’s shop where she worked and spent the last few days carefully dying in the kitchen sink and drying on the roof.

The dress is in the traditional Hungarian fashion and is folded across her mother’s lap: her mother doesn’t had a pattern, but she doesn’t need one to make her daughter’s dress for the fifth grade dance. The dress would end up differing significantly from the pure white, petticoated first communion dresses worn by her daughter’s majority-Catholic classmates, but the young girl would love it all the more for its uniqueness and bright blue thread.

And now, that same young girl (and maybe also the villager from 19th century Ukraine) stands in front of us, trying not to clutch the old fabric too hard as her voice shakes with the emotion of all the love and humanity that is poured into the labor of art. The village girl and the girl in the Bronx were very different people: different centuries, different religions, different ages, and different continents. But the love in the stitches and beads on their dresses was the same. And she tells us that when we look at the labor of art, we don’t just see the work to create that piece - we see the labor of our own creations and the creations of others for us, and the value in something so seemingly frivolous.

But, maybe more importantly, she says that we only admire this piece in a museum because it happened to survive the love of the wearer and those who owned it afterwards, but there have been quite literally billions of small, quiet works of art in billions of small, quiet homes all over the world, for millennia. That your grandmother’s quilt is used as a picnic blanket just as Van Gogh’s works hung in his poor friends’ hallways. That your father’s hand-painted model plane sets are displayed in your parents’ livingroom as Grecian vases are displayed in museums. That your older sister’s engineering drawings in a steady, fine-lined hand are akin to Da Vinci’s scribbles of flying machines.

I don’t think there’s any dramatic conclusions to be drawn from these thoughts - they’ve been echoed by thousands of other people across the centuries. However, if you ever feel bad for spending all of your time sewing, knitting, drawing, building lego sets, or whatever else - especially if you feel like you have to somehow monetize or show off your work online to justify your labor - please know that there’s an 84yo museum docent in the Bronx who would cry simply at the thought of you spending so much effort to quietly create something that’s beautiful to you.

[chocum]

nanami always overstimulates himself when he’s fucking you … walk with me .. cW. fem reader (she/her), overstim. squirting.

nothing turns nanami on more than making his girl feel good— it’s like he lives to serve you. to please you, to pull little whimpers of his name from your lips, your greedy pussy sucking him in, plush walls refusing to let go ‘till you’ve milked him for all he’s got.

so much so that even after he’s stuffed load after load in your abused little cunt— white cream dribbling out from around his fat cock to coat the backs of your thighs, he’s still going. his cock twitching angry red, aching as he ruts into you, treading the fine line of pleasure and pain.

almost like he’s drunk off your pussy, his weak knees practically crumbling underneath him, as he desperately drags you back onto his raw cock.

he’s whining. a pretty blush resting on his chest after traveling to his neck, reaching the curves and folds of his ears. salty sweat sliding down his temples where stray strands of hair dampened, sticking in patterns, almost.

“ it’s so good. fuck. feels so good when you suck— me in like that. give it to me. give it all to me, sweetheart. let me have it. letmehaveit”

you’re already spent— so sensitive and weak, vulnerable from cumming for him after he so gently prompted you to, over and over and over. but he knows you have more to give. knows your pretty pussy’s got something special for him.

so he slides his hand over your stomach— your limp body twitching at the feeling of his rough callouses grazing the softness of your skin to push down on your sweat coated tummy, the weight of him sinking into warmth

your pretty whines— your desperate pleases are barely registering for him at this point, he’s just too caught up in making his pussy squirt for him

:((