#something nobody asked for

[guplia]

Here's something nobody asked for: How to pronounce Guplia

Goop-lee-aa

“oo” like how you pronounce it in “book” or “took”

Thank you for understanding bye

[inkskinned]

this is just my opinion but i think any good media needs obsession behind it. it needs passion, the kind of passion that's no longer "gentle scented candle" and is now "oh shit the house caught on fire". it needs a creator that's biting the floorboards and gnawing the story off their skin. creators are supposed to be wild animals. they are supposed to want to tell a story with the ferocity of eating a good stone fruit while standing over the sink. the same protective, strange instinct as being 7 and making mud potions in pink teacups: you gotta get weird with it.

good media needs unhinged, googling-at-midnight kind of energy. it needs "what kind of seams are invented on this planet" energy and "im just gonna trust the audience to roll with me about this" energy. it needs one person (at least) screaming into the void with so much drive and energy that it forces the story to be real.

sometimes people are baffled when fanfic has some stunning jaw-dropping tattoo-it-on-you lines. and i'm like - well, i don't go here, but that makes sense to me. of fucking course people who have this amount of passion are going to create something good. they moved from a place of genuine love and enjoyment.

so yeah, duh! saturday cartoons have banger lines. random street art is sometimes the most precious heart-wrenching shit you've ever seen. someone singing on tiktok ends up creating your next favorite song. youtubers are giving us 5 hours of carefully researched content. all of this is the impossible equation to latestage capitalism. like, you can't force something to be good. AI cannot make it good. no amount of focus-group testing or market research. what makes a story worth listening to is that someone cares so much about telling it - through dance, art, music, whatever it takes - that they are just a little unhinged about it.

one time my friend told me he stayed up all night researching how many ways there are to peel an orange. he wrote me a poem that made me cry on public transportation. the love came through it like pith, you know? the words all came apart in my hands. it tasted like breakfast.

[softaestluv]

Simon Riley who’s got you bent in half, fucking you within an inch of your life, plunging his fat cock so deep you can feel it bruise your cervix.

But he’s kissing you so fucking softly and tenderly, whispering sweet words and pretty promises against your swollen lips— s’fuckin’ pretty, gonna make you my pretty little wife. Keep you as mine forever.

The contrast has you so strung out, stretched thin pulled between each tether. It constricts your chest, has your mind gumming, pooling into each curl of his tongue, words coiling a vice grip around your heart.

But you don’t even have time to think about them or respond, not when his thrusts are so cruel, unrelenting, making sure the claim of his cock takes and makes his words true.

[bunnieswithknives]

As much as I love angst I think it would be funny if he just didnt give af

[tiarpopdind]

Painted this guy 🙄🙄🙄

[lustagel]

⊹ fuckin’ amateurs rick sanchez, smut

brief. feeding his god complex

rick fills his free time with inventions and fucking his sweet girlfriend—his sweetheart who laughs at all his stupid jokes, patiently listens to his endless rants, cringes whenever he makes a joke about their sex life around his family and adores his cranky moods cause she likes to be fucked silly while he goes on about his day.

“and oh, baby—the way i shot their heads off,” he drones on, barely paying attention to his own words as he watches your wetness cling to his pubs. he always does this, so consumed in the way your pussy is pulling him in, your hole so sloppy and wet that it’s damn near disgusting, that he barely remembers what he talked about after. you’re no better than him with how foggy your brain gets. he hears you hiccup, the soft sound snapping his focus back to you.

“are you uurrp listening?” he slurs, narrowing his eyes at you, the smugness in his voice impossible to ignore. it takes you a moment—almost too long—to nod, your breath shaky as you cling onto his lab coat. but he’d put up such a stubborn fight that you finally let him win. it doesn’t help that last time, he refused to wash the damn thing for weeks, claiming it smelled like you (not like he does anyway), and he wasn’t ready to lose that like clingy dog and its favorite toy.

“good,” he mutters, a grin tugging at his lips. “’cause I’ve got some news that’ll blow your tiny little mind.”

you hate this part—hate how he always demands a reaction to every word, every sound he makes, even when he’s completely wrecking you. it’s not like you can form coherent thoughts when he’s like this, but that doesn’t stop him. no, he thrives on the power trip, on making sure you’re there for every word he spits out. and when you tell him to tone it down, to maybe not be so loud for once, he just sneers, his voice dripping with arrogance. “i can do whatever the hell i want, babe. i’m rick fucking uurrp sanchez. let ’em hear.”

and you let him. you always let him because he’s got you wrapped around his finger, and he knows it. besides, if you don’t, he’ll draw this out for as long as it takes, leaving you dangling just out of reach. “mm, w-what is it?” you stammer, barely able to form the words. he grins, pushing himself closer, deeper, so you can feel every word reverberate through you.

"y'know, word on the cosmic grapevine is you've got the best uurrp pussy in every universe—at least, that's what all the other ricks won't stop runnin' their mouths about." he chuckles, the sound rough and guttural, before clearing his throat, his tone dropping lower. his hips move in deeper, slower rolls, and your eyes follow suit, fluttering back as he pulls every bit of control from you.

“but they don’t know what the real one feels like, do they?” his teeth grind slightly as he mutters under his breath, “amateurs.” you almost laugh at how ridiculous it is—him getting jealous over his own clones—but the thought barely takes root before his hips snap into yours, stealing the breath from your lungs.

through glossy eyes, you look at him, your voice trembling, thick with need as you reply, “no, no—you’re my god, rick.” you know it's what he loves to hear most, no matter the situation.

he looks back at you with bloodshot ones, his smirk widening as his ego swells with every shaky word you manage. “that’s right,” he huffs, his voice dripping his smugness. “means something coming from you, sweetheart. don’t let it go to your head.”

[robin-vevo]

[marciaillust]

bro fuck it im workposting. i did illustrations, i storyboarded, i directed. I did many cool things in 2024 and millions of people all over the world saw em. that has to count for something

[plantingthepast]

chosen ones

[formulaonedirection]

what if we were childhood friends and started an irish language hip hop band and we got really high in our friend's garage and touched each other a lot while recording

Kneecap (2024)

[phoenixkaptain]

One thing I like is that the only people who really truly see Shinichi in Conan, the only people he drops his guard around enough to act like himself, are like: 1. Hattori, best friend, one of the first people to discover his secret, the human equivalent of a puppy dog. And 2. the Detective Boys, the literal young children he spends time with mostly against his own will.

And it's so funny because he TRIES to keep his guard up, he TRIES to act like a regular, boring child, but Shinichi/Conan has one fatal flaw that prevents him from pulling it off: he's too much of a perfectionist, he's too much of a completionist. Once a mystery has his attention he has to solve it, he has to get to the bottom of it, he has to solve riddles, he'll spend the entire day and night thinking about it because he NEEDS to know.

Hattori knows that because Hattori Gets It, he's right there with him, and he understands that the obsessiveness is what makes Shinichi a good detective.

But the Detective Boys do Not get it, they just know that sometimes their weird buddy gets strangely intense and normally it's because murder is involved but sometimes it's about a stupid map to treasure that he finds stupid until he finds out he doesn't get it and begins to obsess over it until he does get it. And sometimes their weird buddy starts laughing maniacally and they're all a bit concerned, but hey, maybe that's just how weird friend expresses himself? Sometimes weird buddy seems to pretend to be stupid, like he just spent fifteen minutes explaining something only to turn around and act like he's three. And this bothers them because, like, what? What's the purpose? And how is anyone convinced???

I love the Detective Boys plots, they are all Conan thinking that it's stupid only to then get way too into it. And just imagine how Inspecter Megure feels! This child yesterday explained the hows and whys of a gruesome murder, only to then be like "how does a clock work?" Like, bro must be SO confused. He and the Detective Boys are over there like, "I know Conan isn't stupid. You know Conan isn't stupid. Conan knows Conan isn't stupid. And yet, somehow, Conan just said the stupidest thing I've ever heard in my life. And now he's back to not being stupid, what was the poINT-"

All this to say, I like that Conan's friends know about Conan's interests and obsessions and accept those interests and obsessions as part of him, and even try to give him things to interest him and get him to spend time with them. Which is just something we never really see with Shinichi because Shinichi's only real friend seemed in the beginning to be Ran, and Ran in the first episode seemed caught off guard by the fact that Shinichi spent nearly an entire trip to an amusement park talking about Sherlock Holmes.

[grunklebongrip]

Every time someone uwu-ifies Fiddleford, I find a new way for him to cheat on his wife

[inkskinned]

you know, you know. no gods, no masters, no kings on pedestals. everyone is fallible. death of the author. you know! you are balanced about your intake of media - you allow the wiggle room, the grace, the gratitude, the skepticism. nobody above criticism.

but still. a weird gut-punch feeling, something akin to betrayal. you read the article. surprise! an author you love is actually: a serial fucking predator.

well, shit. what now. no, you knew he was a person (all people are), but now you're wondering - what have i overlooked by accident? what messages have i internalized that are strange and cruel? and also, like, what the fuck?

his actions lay a thick glaze on top of everything. like each place is now ruined, opaque in a new way. but okay, fine, you've done this before. you knew better, right? you've been betrayed by many a cherished childhood author.

still, this stickiness. fuck. can you pick up that book again. will you read it to your children. you've recommended it to others - will you ever do that again? and of course, of course, no parasocial relationships. you were theoretically above this kind of sentiment. but the artist informs the art, right.

so it's not something as clear-cut as feeling he owed you, specifically (a stranger) better behavior - just that you kind of, in a distant and odd way... sort of trusted him to do better. it's not like a real trust or something speakable, just the faint hope that the product (good books) was a thin representation of the soul. now it feels like the product (good? books?) was a mask. in some small or insignificant way, your previous support of this person lent them power. your money and your time and your laughter.

and the thing is - you have this terrible, echoing sensation. how many times will this happen? over and over. you find out that the singer you love is actually a predator. you learn over drinks that your favorite high school english teacher is in jail for what he did to her. you listen to the news idly and suddenly discover that a woman you used to idolize has been abusing her kids for an actual eon.

what can you touch without the static melting off. you can't even really complain about it too much (you were supposed to know better, and besides, you don't want the same re-split "it's not your fault, love what you love" basic advice), but now it's here. somehow, it feels like - you let him into your life.

it's not that things need to be pure or an artist has to be like, endlessly perfect, mindful. demure. it's more just this terrible truth that has been replayed through your veins so often it feels criminally vain. power corrupts, absolute power corrupts absolutely. did you want any one person to be worth that power?

it's just that he wrote books where he seemed to understand that. he seemed to know about hierarchies and unfair systems and bigotry and privilege. you thought they were books about what it means to struggle. you thought they were about having power and still using it for good rather than for control. he spooned you a narrative of being a good guy, a kind soul. you fucking bought what that fucking monster sold.

maybe that's why they were fantasies, after all.

[aangarchy]

The funniest thing about the boiling rock episodes is zuko telling sokka at the start how this prison houses the most dangerous and notorious criminals of the fire nation as well as war prisoners, and then at the end they just let one of them tag along without ever asking him what he was in for. Could have brought a serial killer to meet the fucking avatar and they'd be none the wiser

[inkyrainstorms]

got portal Ford on the mind as of late

[lesiasmadness]

Trinton werewolf AU real!!