#its to fucking late for this

[nonebinary-leftbeef]

DEVASTATING the lyric you've been mishearing is better than the real one

[carry-on-my-wayward-butt]

having a child has taught me that every toddler is completely justified in their frustrations and tantrums because learning how to do something you have literally never encountered or heard of before is insane. and being expected to be completely calm in the face of this constant barrage of overwhelming information is doubly insane.

i got charlie a sticker activity book and it occurred to me i have to TEACH someone how to unpeel stickers. it's SKILL that requires DEXTERITY and FINE MOTOR ABILITY. i thought it was obvious that you have to curl the page a little bit to create a break in the cut so the sticker comes up.

obviously a fucking BABY wouldn't know that because they have no background experience to inform their thought process. OBVIOUSLY. and OBVIOUSLY the LITERAL BABY wouldn't get it right the first few times. it would OBVIOUSLY take practice. lots of it.

i hate this feeling. it's so obvious. why are children treated so badly when they're learning everything for the first fucking time. why do people treat children so horribly and expect so much. they're brand new. why didn't i get the same grace i give to my child? why did no one have patience for me? why, when it's this easy?

it's so easy. it's so fucking easy.

[pastadoughie]

[valc0]

When your rizz is so bad you make the sexy vampire crack up

[frogsinajar]

Happy almost 4/13, have some funnies

extra doodles under the cut

[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.

[wtfforged]

i like when hes squishy!

[carnivalcarriondiscarded]

so how about that update, huh

[tinkkles]

I really do love the fresh take on the dead wife aspect in scavengers reign like. She didn't die in some terrible accident or at the hands of an evil third party, she died because of you. Because of your ambition and carelessness and because you didn't prioritize her enough to even look for her as the ship was going down. You will carry this guilt for the rest of your life. She will haunt you forever. Pray that her ghost is enough to change you for the better.

[captainuranium543]

I think somebody needs to check in on natsu like mentally because between gray "active suicide risk" fullbuster, erza "nah I'll be fine" scarlet and Lucy "everyone wants to fucking kill me" heartfilia hes the only one out here keeping these people alive.

[splatbastards]

what if sea critters were GAY and AUTISTIC or some shit...

[thatweirdtranny]

one of the biggest lies social media has ever sold you is that you can’t be prejudiced against a minority if you’re part of that minority

queers can be homophobic

trans people can be transphobic

black folks can be anti-black

disabled people can be ableist

jews can be antisemitic

we all have biases to unlearn

all this to say, i would love if we could kill the idea that just because you have a few people from a minority endorsing your behavior or ideology doesn’t mean that your behavior/ideology isn’t fundamentally flawed or even bigoted towards that minority

tokenizing doesn’t become good just because it’s for something you agree with

[cloudabserk]

naruto is trying to figure out what he’s feeling

[fungerisms]

O'saa doodle page cuz ive been playing as him and having him on my party a lot and hes just the coolest

[to-shards-you-say]

miss when this lot actually got to have fun for once

[spideyhexx]

1 am thoughts with kit;

nsfw

gwayne hightower

How much more dishonorable can he get?

Gwayne's lips are already locked to yours, what's the harm in your hand caressing the front of his breeches? Or letting his hips push into your touch? His hand gripping to your waist in an effort to keep you close to him while his thoughts scream to push you away.

He tries to voice it aloud, "I cannot be doing this," his words rushed and sloppy against your lips while you simply moan, tugging on the ties of his trousers.

His words do not hold any weight and he knows it. Gwayne knows you know it. Because he urges your hand down his pants, where you hold the heat of him, heavy in your hand and aching for a touch.

You're too wicked good at it, he thinks. He almost wants to name call you. Ask if you've whored yourself for others, but Gwayne does not want the answer to that. Instead, he revels in the quick strokes you give his cock, his head dropping to your shoulder so he does not look you in the eye.

"Quite worked up," you jest, only to get a strangled moan in response from him. He preens against you, his hips looking for more, so you give it. A small squeeze to his cock and a thumb over his leaking tip and you feel Gwayne's fingers dig tighter into your waist.

"This is just my hand, sir," you whisper to him, and he lets out a scoffed breath, but you speak before he can, "this is just my hand, my cunt wrapped around your cock would much tighter. Wetter. Could fuck you so hard, Gwayne, just ask me."

Your last words border on begging, though you never were one to beg. But Gwayne's kisses and his eagerness despite his inner turmoil were throughly soaking you. His cock heavy, big in your hand only made you more needy to have it stuffed inside of you.

He cannot respond to your words, mouth parted and finally looking at you. Your eyes are pleading with him and your hand fastens its pace. All he can do is moan and lean his head back down.

Cowardly. Too cowardly to give in. You push your pleas aside for now.

And when he cums, he cums hard, making a mess of himself and your hand, biting to your shoulder on instinct to stay quiet. He's too embarrassed, utterly baffled that eh gave into you and how good it felt to give in.

When you take your hand away, his senses snap into him and he fixes up his trousers despite the mess, his eyes glued to your hand, where some of his release lingers. He wants to tell you to stop when you lick it off, eyes locked to his. But Gwayne still cannot speak, until he clears his throat, "thank you. Don't speak on this."

You give him a look, but a smile etches onto your lips, "Never."