#what's wrong with us

[new-austin]

Cas and I are so funny cause we were like "This is what I have planned for veilguard"

And we showed each other two elves named Lorren and Laurent respectively

[klapollo]

it's starting to really break my heart how relentlessly mean people are to lizzo. it's so sick and cruel. they never let up.

[raininmymorningcoffee]

What's wrong with him?

He comes to the sofa where I lie

A bridge of legs tease

Points of contact electrify

Hands chastly on knees

Movement defied

I just want him between my thighs

Shuffle and dip

Press my core against his hip

Hands won't slip

What's wrong with me?

What's Wrong With Us?

[mattsmemes]

[ink-the-artist]

Love the contrast between the Americans’ “Apollo” and the Soviets’ “Sputnik.” You got the Americans naming their rocket after a Greek god trying to communicate the grandness and importance of this rocket. And you got the Soviets naming their rocket “fellow traveler.” Like a friend you go on an  adventure with together. This rocket is our little friend lol 

[kyofloral]

[blueboyluca]

“When I first heard it, from a dog trainer who knew her behavioral science, it was a stunning moment. I remember where I was standing, what block of Brooklyn’s streets. It was like holding a piece of polished obsidian in the hand, feeling its weight and irreducibility. And its fathomless blackness. Punishment is reinforcing to the punisher. Of course. It fit the science, and it also fit the hidden memories stored in a deeply buried, rusty lockbox inside me. The people who walked down the street arbitrarily compressing their dogs’ tracheas, to which the poor beasts could only submit in uncomprehending misery; the parents who slapped their crying toddlers for the crime of being tired or hungry: These were not aberrantly malevolent villains. They were not doing what they did because they thought it was right, or even because it worked very well. They were simply caught in the same feedback loop in which all behavior is made. Their spasms of delivering small torments relieved their frustration and gave the impression of momentum toward a solution. Most potently, it immediately stopped the behavior. No matter that the effect probably won’t last: the reinforcer—the silence or the cessation of the annoyance—was exquisitely timed. Now. Boy does that feel good.”

— Melissa Holbrook Pierson, The Secret History of Kindness (2015)

[muppetfreak]

Mr. Riordan, it is truly a pleasure getting to experience your second draft.

[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.

[giantkillerjack]

Today my therapist introduced me to a concept surrounding disability that she called "hLep".

Which is when you - in this case, you are a disabled person - ask someone for help ("I can't drink almond milk so can you get me some whole milk?", or "Please call Donna and ask her to pick up the car for me."), and they say yes, and then they do something that is not what you asked for but is what they think you should have asked for ("I know you said you wanted whole, but I got you skim milk because it's better for you!", "I didn't want to ruin Donna's day by asking her that, so I spent your money on an expensive towing service!") And then if you get annoyed at them for ignoring what you actually asked for - and often it has already happened repeatedly - they get angry because they "were just helping you! You should be grateful!!"

And my therapist pointed out that this is not "help", it's "hLep".

Sure, it looks like help; it kind of sounds like help too; and if it was adjusted just a little bit, it could be help. But it's not help. It's hLep.

At its best, it is patronizing and makes a person feel unvalued and un-listened-to. Always, it reinforces the false idea that disabled people can't be trusted with our own care. And at its worst, it results in disabled people losing our freedom and control over our lives, and also being unable to actually access what we need to survive.

So please, when a disabled person asks you for help on something, don't be a hLeper, be a helper! In other words: they know better than you what they need, and the best way you can honor the trust they've put in you is to believe that!

Also, I want to be very clear that the "getting angry at a disabled person's attempts to point out harmful behavior" part of this makes the whole thing WAY worse. Like it'd be one thing if my roommate bought me some passive-aggressive skim milk, but then they heard what I had to say, and they apologized and did better in the future - our relationship could bounce back from that. But it is very much another thing to have a crying shouting match with someone who is furious at you for saying something they did was ableist. Like, Christ, Jessica, remind me to never ask for your support ever again! You make me feel like if I asked you to call 911, you'd order a pizza because you know I'll feel better once I eat something!!

Edit: crediting my therapist by name with her permission - this term was coined by Nahime Aguirre Mtanous!

Edit again: I made an optional follow-up to this post after seeing the responses. Might help somebody. CW for me frankly talking about how dangerous hLep really is.

[stellarspecter]

@pscentral event 20: antagonists ↳ THE LORDS IN BLACK in NERDY PRUDES MUST DIE

[bobcatblahs]

Anyone aspiring to hold any political office in any nation should have to be personally vetted and approved by David Tennant.

[akanemnon]

I don't like this place. It's turning everyone edgy and sad.

FIRST - PREVIOUS - NEXT

MASTERPOST (for the full series / FAQ / reference sheets)

[egophiliac]

since Eng is getting 7.5 soon(?), I felt motivated to go back to my Meleanor rig and make her a couple of lesson animations! ...except for alchemy, because the cauldron bubbles proved too hard to photoshop around, whoops.

maybe she just got lost on her way to the classroom...?

(credit: backgrounds are from the game, I just put her on top of 'em)

[angieloveshua]

In the light, a stack of explosives was fixed at the bottom of the box. The detonating device was extremely delicate, consisting of two small metal balls fixed by electromagnetic wires— “Keep going; don’t slow down.” Wen Shao’s tone seemed to have a little regret: “This is an inertial trigger device. The metal ball can detonate after three collisions. You just stopped and started again, and the inertial force has already caused it to collide twice. As long as you step on the brake again, you and I will be blown to pieces.”

“I love you, I want to live with you.” The voice of the King of Spades was heard clearly in the command car: “If it’s not possible, we can die together.”

Why are you so crazy? 😭😭😭 (And why am I so crazy as to think this is kind of romantic? 😭😭😭)

[captainfern]

Being an adult sucks so much. Having Price put me in a headlock as he grunts in my ear how he's going to breed me would solve all my problems.

in a put-me-in-a-headlock-and-fuck-me mood rn tbh

john price x fem!reader, 18+

john was a family man, and you knew that. ever since you met him, his team— his family— had been his everything and now there was you. you were his everything, his family.

but there was one thing missing. of course, kids weren’t for everyone. but price was made to be a father— made to have a family. his bones built to sustain, his heart scattered with holes ready to be filled with tiny smiles and happy giggles.

your husbands emotion about starting a family was a soft spot for you. a weakness. you, ever observant, clocked the way his hands roamed over the curve of your belly, or the way his eyes lingered on baby items whenever the two of you went shopping together.

so maybe that’s why you let him pin you to him. pin you beneath his weight like a butterfly beneath the point of a needle. on display, only for him, pretty and still and unable to fly away.

not that you’d ever want to do that. fly away. john’s soft nature and calloused hands had long clipped your wings. you had no reason to take flight. he’d fly you anywhere you wanted, anyway.

but just in case, in case your mind ticked over to something else entirely, he held you tight against his chest—

and fucked you deep.

you were breathless. underwater, lungs struggling to fill. he reached so deep inside you, stretching you out across his thick cock in a way that winded you. all you could do was gasp and mewl, moan his name as your body shuddered with each of his thrusts.

“john,” you whimpered, hands gripping the sheets in front of you. “s-so deep, john, fuck—”

your throat was nestled gently in the crook of his elbow, his bicep squashing the side of your face. his large body kept you weighted to the bed, thighs spread over his legs as he rutted his cock deep inside you. you were well and truly trapped against him.

the hair on his face rubbed against the sensitive skin of your shoulder as he rested his head there, lips dangerously close to your ear. you could hear each grunt and groan, the sounds sending your heart racing.

“john,” you whispered again, his ragged breath tickling the side of your cheek. “so good, baby. feels so good.”

john grunted out, a growl as the head of his cock knocked up against the base of your cervix. your pussy clenched around him, warm and wet, drooling around the girth. you could feel it dripping out of you with each thrust, arousal leaking down your thighs.

john could feel it too. he groaned, holding you tighter to him. “fuck, such a messy girl. can feel this cunt fuckin’ dripping ‘round my cock, sweetheart.”

you whined, and he placed an open-mouth kiss to the patch of warm skin just by your ear, feeling your pulse beneath his lips. you were thrumming, alive, and all his.

your cunt gripped around his cock with each harsh movement, gummy walls moulding to him. you could feel the drag of his cock against you, too, and the way it sent little shocks of pleasure through the base of your spine and into your tummy. pleasure built there, bubbling and fizzing.

the fat of your arse bounced against his pelvis, rippling with each movement. he couldn’t see it, but he could imagine— imagine how beautiful you looked beneath him. every single part of you. his beautiful wife. his perfect wife.

he groaned into your ear, cock pushing deep towards your womb. god, he wanted to fill you up. pump you full of white gold. his ichor. you could create so much from that alone. a garden of eden lying in your womb, just for him—

john groaned again as your pussy clenched around the thick of his cock. warm and wet and tight. the perfect fit.

“such a greedy pussy. s’just so desperate to be bred, isn’t she?” john uttered, nosing at the shell of your ear. “fuck, an’ I might just fuckin’ do it, sweetheart. have too, don’t I? wouldn’t want to upset my favourite girls.”

his bicep tightened once more, and you released an airy moan. the pleasure in your stomach was increasing, your hips bucking to meet the heavy thrusts slamming against your arse.

wet slaps echoed through the room. his cock drawing obscene noises from your cunt, arousal sticky across most of your upper legs now. your body burned hot, and you could feel the way your husband’s cock slipped in and out of you.

“john—” you moaned out, hands fisted in the warm sheets, but he interrupted you.

“need to breed you,” he grunted suddenly, eyes screwed shut and arm firm around your throat, head nestled tight against the curve of your shoulder. “need to breed this tight fuckin’ pussy.”

your head was swimming. and now too was your orgasm, swimming in the base of your stomach, swollen clit pulsing as it drew nearer. you could smell john, the sweat and cologne, and that was setting you off too— a whimpered moan being torn from your throat.

john continued. “need t’breed this pussy, sweetheart. need to fill you up. get you nice an’ fat with my kids.” he stopped only to groan, hips stuttering, then continued again. “got to make you a mama, baby. got to breed this greedy pussy an’ make me a fuckin’ daddy—”

you came with a loud moan of his name, body shuddering beneath the sheer mass of his. your cunt clenched tight, whole body shaking as your orgasm rinsed through you, slipping through your bloodstream like adrenaline. it fizzled out in your nerve endings, though, clit pulsing in a beautiful synchronous rhythm with your heart.

john’s bastard mouth—

“now take it, sweetheart. be a good girl and take it all,” john quickly muttered into your ear, and that was all the information you got before he was coming inside you.

his cockhead was nestled right up against the plug of your womb, his hips to your arse, as he emptied himself inside you. moaning your name, his cock twitched inside the tight, wet clutch of your cunt, and he thrusted lazily a few more times to flush his orgasm from his system.

he dropped his body weight against you, even more than he had done before, and groaned in your ear, releasing you from the headlock he had imprisoned you in. he kissed along your shoulder, grounding himself, as his cock slowly began to soften inside you.

but something told you he wasn’t going to pull out any time soon. didn’t want to sever the connection. his connection to you. his garden of eden.

“alright, mama?” he whispered, kissing your cheek and then nuzzling you there. he could feel the heat of your face against his own, his beard rubbing against your skin.

“m’good,” you mumbled sleepily. “s’just so full.”

“mhm,” price hummed, pleased, like a content cat bathing in the sunlight. “full of me.”