#im making excuses

[vermithorn]

i cannot see xavier as a dom (me w every male character i like…) maybe as a switch???

[xenoblademisadventures]

I've been stalling on a fanfic for, like, half a year because how the fuck do you write Xord?

[pokeberry5]

boy hostage (spiritual successor to this)

big brother to the rescue:

[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.

[opikiquu]

iknow my comics are ugly please just hear me out

[yuzuuu4]

(post 2.1 quest) unexpected

[fallen-jpg]

it's december so it's time for me to stare at everything i drew this year and judge myself

some environments that im ok with! would like to draw more of them next year

[clearlydusty]

I really like the way Giyuu thinks he can make friends with Sanemi is by just hiding red bean mochis in his sleeve and giving it to him whenever. I can just imagine Sanemi having a bad day and it gets 10 times worse when Giyuu comes around because he might think he's making fun of him

Pretty relatable tho I get it Giyuu I get it

[slavhew]

look at this idiot not aware that his body is warm and his touch comforting everyone point and laugh

[kenjakusbraincum]

Sukuna is old. He is also weirdly cultured for the monster that he is. With so much time on his hands, he loves indulging in arts and literature, and as with everything else he tries, he's good at it. You wouldn't know this, of course, you are only his pet. The time you spend with him is limited and hardly consists of intellectual conversation. You are there to serve one purpose and you know that quite well. So when you wake up in his bed one morning, two things come as a surprise. First that you're even here. It's one of those rare occasions when Sukuna couldn't be bothered kicking or carrying you out of his chambers once your time together was up. Second, he's awake, bent over his desk and so concentrated on a little figurine in his hand that he doesn't immediately notice you've shuffled awake. Once your eyes focus, you see that he's holding a tool in his other hand. He's carving wood. You're almost hypnotized by the scene. The scene feels so private that even for a pet like you, who knows Sukuna in the most intimate way, it feels like you shouldn't be watching. But you can't look away.

"Awake?", he asks, without sparing a glance at you. You apologize for staring, and look for your clothes around the bed. You throw them on just precisely enough to cover up until you reach your chambers, just wanting to be as quick and innocuous as possible. You wait for Sukuna's approval to leave. He gives you a simple nod, once more avoiding to look at you. You leave feeling conflicted. Special, because he allowed you to stay and watch (even as little as you did), but saddened because he barely looked at you, once more solidifying in your mind that you're only interesting to him when you're naked and bent over. As long as you've been here, you could never stop wishing for his validation.

Sukuna knows when you get insecure too. He notices the way your eyes droop, the way you close in on yourself and seem absent in his presence. He justifies this excessive worry about you by telling himself he likes to be the only thing that bothers his pets. All the way until he realized he already is the only thing that can make you sad. This realization falls upon him one time he lashes out on you and sees the immediate change of heart on your face. Now, he isn't one to apologize, especially not to someone who is as low under him as his pet. But why does he feel guilty when he sees this one act of his ruin your day? When he catches a glimpse of you sitting in the garden with your head hung low, or leaving more food on your plate than you usually do. If only you knew the way you really made him feel.

He beckons you to his chambers, and you follow three steps behind him like a good pet does. You didn't expect this time to be any different than others. You've become used to serving Sukuna on days you loved him and on days you hated him. But when he tells you to close your eyes, you know something is different. You obey, of course, and listen to his footsteps as he fetches something from the room. His hand takes yours and opens it, placing a piece of wood onto your palm. You already know, but you wait for him to allow you to open your eyes. He lightly presses his thumb on your cheek under your eye, and when you look, you find a small wooden fawn, curled up and asleep in your hands.

"Master!!..", you start, but nothing else can leave your mouth. You turn the figure around in your hand, inspecting and admiring the details. He's given you gifts before, but not ones carved by his own hand. Not ones made with love.

"You don't have to squint anymore.", Sukuna says, almost jokingly. But his face is as serious as ever as he looks at you, his muse. He thinks of the first time he's exhausted you to the point of passing out right after your nightly meetings. You were relatively new and very unsure of your safety. He thinks of your small body curled up in sleep on the edge of his bed, knees pressed to your chest in a primal, subconscious attempt to protect yourself. His little pet, his fawn.

You slur on and on about how beautiful it is, how you don't know how to thank him, the usual when you receive a gift. And as usual, Sukuna shuts you up with a kiss. You welcome it and wrap your arms around his neck, giving yourself in to him and letting him take you to the bed.

And he takes things slow tonight. He's gentle and so, so giving. Every sensation is delicate, prolonged and heightened to exhaustion. You cling to him, pull him impossibly close, and come apart under the comforting weight of him. Afterwards, you hold his hand to your face and kiss it softly. His hands, so large and strong, capable of such violence, yet for you they craft gifts, cradle, caress, love... in a very subtle and distant way, of course. With these thoughts your hands slip away from his, you turn around and quickly drift off.

He looks at you now, sleeping so close to him. Trusting him with your back, and turning your curled up form to the outside world. As if he is no longer a perceived danger. He smiles to himself in victory, and plants a chaste kiss to your shoulder to wish you one final goodnight.

[soosoosoup]

snowzone

[orange-coloredsky]

a development team that looks like this could not possibly have any preconceived biases against Black people. noooo way. its just a mistake that all of the Black people in fo4 are slaves or named after fascist colonizers or murdered or stereotypical conspiracy freaks. there is no way that the reality of this team is reflected in the art they create over and over and over and over and over and over and

[ID 1: A photo of the Fallout 4 development team taken from above and forward, showing a large crowd smiling at the camera, made up apparently entirely by white people, and almost entirely by white men. End ID.]

[carnivalcarriondiscarded]

im a simple guy! i think about puppy Barnaby. i promptly explode into bloody heart-shaped confetti

[beescake]

shit. two dudes

[shushmal]

Eddie shakes the foundations of Steve's world on a Sunday evening, at 6:44 p.m.

Steve knows the exact moment because he's standing at the stove, stirring pasta sauce and watching the time to make sure the garlic bread in the oven doesn't burn. It's June and it's hot, and they've got all the windows thrown open to let in a cool breeze. Eddie's sitting at the little kitchen table, probably messing with his D&D game notes, Steve would guess because he's focused on making dinner so it's ready when Wayne gets back from his shift. The three of them will eat together tonight, like they have Sundays past since April, a new little tradition that Steve's always craved to be a part of.

Except, when he turns, after Eddie speaks, he finds Eddie leaned back in his chair, like he's been watching Steve the entire time.

But before that, Eddie says, "I'm in love with you."

Steve stops stirring. The numbers on the stove tell him that it's 6:44 p.m. If he looks, the calendar would tell him it's a Sunday in June. And Eddie just told Steve that he was in love with him.

The numbers change—6:45 p.m.

Slowly, like he's moving through water, Steve turns, looks at Eddie over his shoulder, finds him leaned back, watching, smiling soft and wistful. Steve turns a little more, looking closer.

Has anyone ever looked at Steve like that before?

Eddie's eyes are bright, round and relaxed, as he gazes at Steve, those pretty lips curled up just right, a happy little smile. He doesn't say anything, even though there's only silence between them now. The sauce on the stove simmers, bubbles rising through the thickness to pop in shushed bursts. Steve drops his spoon.

"What?" he asks, turning further now. Steve's bread is going to burn under the broiler and his sauce is going to be scorched if he doesn't focus. He doesn't know what time it is anymore.

"I'm in love with you," Eddie says, again. That smile grows a little more. "I'm so in love with you, Steve Harrington."

And Steve is good at moving on instinct, good at chasing the ball down, good at finding himself in the right spot to make the right decision. He moves now, floats across the little kitchen, until he's in front of Eddie, leaning down, breathing his air, tasting his lips—

Their dinner burns.

[pretzelgotze]

Miami 2024 || Spa 2024

or: are you a Charles' lingering arm son or a Max alone and confused daughter