#but thank you for reading

[moonandris]

Omg, I actually did it! I finally joined a queer dating/friendship app!!! EEEEEEK!!! I'm sooooo nervous!!! I literally have almost no queer friends IRL so I don't have anyone to get excited with me!! 🥳

One of my New Year's resolutions for 2024 was to put myself out in the world more and try my best to be more social, meet new friends (as well as potentially find a partner), and explore all my passions, hobbies, and interests with like-minded people.

As a very shy bisexual woman, it's so hard to meet other queer people, especially when you live in a more conservative area. So when I joined a queer dating/friendship app I was was SO surprised to see how many other lesbian/bi women were located near me.

Also, for some reason I've always had this super toxic thought in my head that queer women wouldn't be attracted to me because of the fact that I'm S U P ER femme/girly and I think I look very 'straight' to the average person assessing me. Trust me when I say I was genuinely SHOCKED at the matches I was getting like??? Why did I think such terrible things about myself and my sexuality? I feel really silly for thinking that and I've realized that I have a lot of inner work to do regarding my sexuality and self-worth.

This is honestly such a new, exciting experience for me and was so healing for my mind and mental health to just be able to communicate and talk with other queer women. I know this isn't writing related but it's really not something I can share with other people or on my other social media (yet) so I knew I had to make this post bc I'm just SOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO excited!!!

It honestly makes me wanna cry a little. It's a very emotional feeling and also feels so freeing to just BE MYSELF and not have to hide my queerness or be afraid that someone is going to find out I'm bisexual and act really awful/disgusted towards me, you know?

Regardless of whether I find a partner or make new friends and whatnot, I'm super proud of myself that I'm not denying this part of myself anymore. I'm exploring my sexuality with people who know what it's like to be queer in this crazy world we live in. It's a really awesome feeling. 💕💕💕💕

Anyways, if you've made it this far thank you so much for reading this silly lil post and wish me good luck! Happy New Year!! 🎊

[inkblot22]

He Begs Not For Petulance

GN!Reader x Rook Hunt

I didn't really know what to title this lol, but I hope this fits

TW for: captivity, kidnapping, infantilization and feminization if you squint, allusions to past victims, yandere, mention of nonconsensual kissing, Rook (because he frightens me and I'm certain I'm not the only one,) stalking, slight blood, being hunted, rusty French.

It was unclear if his presence was something to take solace in. On one hand, they knew where he was, but on the other hand, he was right there. He was right there, and watching, bright, unsettling green eyes tracking each and every little move as he sat in his chair at the small table in the cabin.

They hated his eyes, they hated the way he’d stare at them. 

They swore up and down that he had a notebook or something equally violating on them somewhere, but they just hadn’t managed to find it, yet. All they’d found were several dresses, some skirts, plenty of shirts, and a few pairs of nice slacks. They didn’t want to know where they had come from. There were too many possibilities and only a few were good. 

As it was, they were trying not to drop the ingredients for dinner as he stared at them. He probably knew how creepy that was, but ever since he had declared them too frail to leave, regardless of how untrue that was, they decided he probably didn’t care anymore. 

“What do you want?” They sounded more sad than angry, but it was worth it. 

“Ah, so you do notice when I am gazing upon your most beautiful visage.”

That was another thing. He spoke like he was in a play or something, often lapsing into monologues as though they were soliloquies, his private thoughts on display in the form of ridiculous, nonsensical poetry.

They hated his poetry, how he’d read it to them, only waiting for their horror when they realised who the subject was.

“Okay,” They responded, finally, chopping squash with that silly safety knife he insisted they use, not like they had a choice. He’d replaced all the utensils and cutlery with children’s cooking tools. 

It was almost as if he knew how much they disliked him, how angry they were that he had kept them here in this stupid little cabin in the woods. The table rattled on the rickety wooden floor as he stood, hands coming to cup their elbows.

“Please, mon ange, one would assume you had a vendetta against the cutting board. What’s the matter?” He wasn’t smiling as he bent to look them in the eyes.

“I,” they chopped hard, the cutting board echoing with the harsh end of each word, “Want,” another thunk, the bit of gourd trembling with the force of the knife, “To go home, Rook!”

“Well, don’t be foolish.” He straightened, smiling, “This is your new home.”

“No!” They tossed the knife into the sink and scraped the squash into the pot with their hand, “No, it isn’t, don’t say it is! I’m a prisoner.”

“My love, you’re being ridiculous. I am not a warden, to keep you here against your will. I-”

“Are you crazy? That’s literally what you’ve done!”

He paused, then a smile crept along his face, eyes squinting a little as he grinned, “Ah… I see. Tu veux sortir. You want to go outside and be among the wildflowers and trees. Alas…” He summoned tears to his eyes, his knuckles delicately pressed to his brow, “I am a cruel warden indeed, to not notice how tired you are of being held within this most homely of cages…”

He was so obnoxious. They hated how often he would do this, voice echoing off the wooden roof of the cabin as he waxed poetic about some bullshit. 

They hated his voice, how he’d look as he spoke to see their reactions.

“Mon ange, don’t glare at me so. I’ll let you out, and perhaps you will become more lively.”

They decided not to say anything, either a “thank you” or a “shut the hell up.” Instead, they stirred the soup and glanced at the door. It was chilly out, but the sky was slightly cloudy and the breeze was probably nice. It was hot and stuffy in the cabin, and everything smelled like Rook, which is to say it smelled like his natural scent, like cucumber, like musk. 

They hated his smell too, how he’d maintain eye contact as he bathed when he knew they were glancing to see if he was still there. 

He laughed as their brow furrowed further, opening the door, “Come, let’s go outside. The soup can wait.”

Stepping outside for the first time in however long they’d been stuck inside was ethereal. As soon as they ducked out from under Rook’s arm, they took off running, well aware he’d want them back later, but with no intention of following his wishes. The grass was cool on their bare feet, and were they a little less sane, they’d likely bend to kiss the ground. Climbing a tree, they relaxed a bit into the bark and scanned the horizon.

They’d come to him for help in the late autumn. They’d fallen off of a caravan, bleeding into the snow and frightened by the howls and worsening blizzard. How were they to know that that sweetened smile and blond hair hid a madman? He invited them in, politely drawn them a bath, given them a hot meal, but in the morning, refused to let them go until their wounds were healed. 

One morning turned into a full week, and a full week became a month, full of disturbing discoveries and strange advances. The first time he kissed them was during a fight on whether or not they could go home, and ever since then, they’d demanded he sleep in the cellar, to which he acquiesced as long as they made dinner, but they could tell he was growing impatient. He went on and on about how true and pure their love was, but they weren’t in love, and they had no clue how many other poor souls had heard the same rhetoric. Unfortunately, every time they tried to leave when he was home, he’d stop them, his grip growing stronger and stronger each time. When he’d leave, to go hunting or for groceries, he’d place a spell on the door to keep it locked. 

They stared at the sunset for a moment, then looked down and noticed something they hadn’t seen before. On the night they came to his cabin, they had simply been running aimlessly, but there was, in fact, a path. Paths usually meant other people, and other people meant they could finally get away from Rook. They scrambled down the tree, then began walking along the path. 

The cool air was like nectar to their lungs. They’d never see him again if this went how they wanted. They’d never go near cucumber, and they’d never eat squash again. He’d be nothing but a bad memory. 

As they came to a crossroads, they jumped as an arrow lodged itself into the signpost. They spun around but saw nothing, and kept walking to the left, haste in their steps. They broke into a run after a few paces, panic speeding their breaths. Another arrow hit a tree trunk and they ran faster. They couldn’t go back, not now, but when a bolt of ice froze the ground before them, they were forced to turn off into the woods and keep running.

The arrows stopped, since he probably paused to collect them. The twigs stabbed their bare feet like glass, but they kept running, panting like an animal. Something grabbed their arm and yanked them back, throwing them into a tree trunk.

“I must be honest, mon ange. I expected this of you, but I did not think your endurance was so wonderful.” 

They wheezed against the tree, “What the hell are you talking about?”

“Oh, my. If you do not understand, then who am I to break the illusion?” He knelt before them, tilting their head up, “Ever petulant, aren’t we?”

As he dragged them back to the cabin, all they could think of was how close they’d gotten, but it was unlikely they’d get another chance. 

He was always watching them, anyway, and that’s what they hated most about him.

Part Two: He Begs For Uniformity

[spymeister]

Trying to keep ahead of three growing bitlets is tiring on a relatively sole Polyhexian these days. His programming has him missing the bustle of his creche, and the flurry of voices and help that should have been there.

He's not a mechanism that is given towards regrets, or even towards sorrow. One learns early that life is not fair, and that to Live, instead of just surviving is the ultimate goal one should strive for. Still, even he has his moments of profound sorrow.

He thinks of the silken-smoke voice of his sire, harmonious with the rough, sultry one of his carrier. He can hear his elder sibling's dark honey voice, the boisterous laughter that had been Rico's signature.

The high, delighted chittering of Sonata's excitement at finding another cousin.

These sounds are recorded in his processor, and onto databanks hard-coded and hidden deeply in his archives. He plays them from the speakers at his hips, and on his shoulders. It soothes the ache in his spark to hear their long-ago presences.

And to let the bitties know, that even while they are something of an endangered species these days.

As long as he's there with them, they'll never truly be alone.

[dongiovannaswife]

Kinda feel guilty for not writing these last days --I've had free time but haven't felt okay physically nor mentally, and it's frustrating. There are only two requests waiting and some other pieces and I can't seem to work on them no matter what.

I know I shouldn't bring more stress upon myself and should just be patient and accept I need this time to heal —accept my own advice, take care of myself— but I still feel so bad over it.

[pedro-pascal]

ZOMBIELAND: DOUBLE TAP (2019)

[ursulaklegay]

its so scary to put yourself out there but a SINGLE message saying "hi i loved what you made it touched me in some way" makes it all worth it 10000%

[britishmuffin]

ATLA sketches because I'm deep into it atm 8)

★ patreon || website || twitter ★

[stil-lindigo]

lead balloon (the tumblr post that saved me)

if this comic resonated with you, it would mean the world to me if you donated to this palestinian family's escape fund.

--

no creative notes because this isn't that kind of comic.

I know I don’t owe any of you anything but I still felt compelled to write about my long term absence. And I feel far enough away from the dangerous spot I was in to be able to make this comic. I have a therapist now, and she agreed that making this could be a very cathartic gesture, and the start of properly leaving these thoughts behind me. I am still, at seemingly random times, blindsided by fleeting desires to kill myself. They’re always passing urges, but it’s disarming, and uncomfortable. I worry sometimes that my brain’s spent so long thinking only about suicide that it’s forgotten how to think about anything else. Like, now that I've opened that door for myself, I'll never be able to fully shut it again. But I’m trying my best to encourage my mind in other directions. We'll see how that goes.

I am still donating all proceeds from my store to Palestinian causes. So far, I've donated over $15K, not including donations coming from my own pocket or the fundraising streams which jointly raised around $10K. In the time since I made my initial post about where this money would be going, the focus has shifted from aid organisations to directly donating to escape funds.

If you'd like to do the same, you can look at Operation Olive Branch, which hosts hundreds of Palestinian escape funds or donate to Safebow, which has helped facilitate the safe crossing and securing of important medical procedures for over 150 at-risk palestinians since the beginning of the genocide.

[professorcalculusstanaccount]

I remember discussing Tintin casting choices with a friend from Germany and remarked how it was odd he often has an English accent in adaptations rather than a Belgian one, and my friend just replied "that's because Tintin gives incredibly strong English boy energy (derogatory)"

Here in the UK there's a lot of weird classism tied into accents. Today accent diversity and representation in broadcasting is actively pursued but in Tintin's time there certainly was a preferred accent to have.

imagine this exchange happens between pages 28-29 in The Crab with the Golden Claws

[clarisse-doodles]

inspired by this post, in which Damian does not know what Vine is

[spooksier]

me when the emotionally repressed character is revealed to have had something happen in their childhood that was completely out of their control but changed them in a way they can never come back from

[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.

[irlwakko]

not to be all “think of the children” but the fact that companies can openly admit to using methods to intentionally form addictions in children and we’re not killing their ceos in the streets yet is astounding

[hattersarts]

a third old man yaoi has hit the lesbian

(acd canon dated, mostly based on granada series)

[ibtisams]

The student protests for Palestine have been an amazing show of solidarity and support and seeing the way that so many young people are willing to stand up for their values is admirable when so many others stay silent. But this is all to say that we are entering a pattern of glorifying these white “martyrs” from the global west to put all of this effort and resources and media coverage into instead of the actual cause they are fighting for.

I saw the same thing happen with Aaron Bushnell, when his self immolation was being talked about more than the actual genocide in Gaza (which went against everything he said he was self immolating for in the first place).

And again this happened with the prisoner from the US who worked 136 hours just to be able to donate his $17 check to Palestine aid efforts. In response to this, people wanted to help him and ended up raising over $100,000 in a gofundme for him. This feels almost satirical, as every gofundme to help Gazans evacuate Palestine and get to safety has a goal of less than $100,000 and most of them are not even close to reaching it.

And now, there are more and more posts on how to get aid to the college student encampments, and the “urgency” of getting enough bail funds for the students who have been arrested during them. Talking about Palestine itself and getting resources to Palestine has almost been put on the back burner in favour of making all Palestine related news about college students in the United States.

It think it is valuable to recognise the selflessness and importance of these protests, and getting these students resources but what is MORE important, and what these people are truly fighting for, and protesting, and make a statement about is PALESTINE. We have unsurprisingly reached the point where there are people who care much more about the white people fighting for the cause from the comfort of living in the global west than they care about the Palestinians undergoing a genocide in Gaza. It’s become almost blatant racism, the way people begin to drop everything the second a white/usamerican person does something in regards to helping Palestine, but will not put the same effort into a Palestinian IN Gaza who is telling their story or asking for help. I respect anyone who has done absolutely anything to help Palestine, but I hope people are starting to see the pattern of how the media gravitates towards the “white saviour/perfect martyr” instead of the first hand accounts coming from those in Gaza.

Anyway FIND A GOFUNDME AND DONATE TO HELP FAMILIES IN GAZA ESCAPE GENOCIDE

[nicktoonsunite]

misc NU doodles part tres

last comic is based off off my nasb 2 clip