#What the fuck am I reading

[so-silly]

huh

#kyman #what the fuck am i reading

[tatsumi-rin]

So I'm reading Fire Punch

What the fuck am I reading

#husbandothings #fire punch #chainsaw man #no seriously what #I just got to the bit with that guy and the dogs #what the fuck am i reading #i don't plan to stop but what the fuck

[tommos]

so you are using an example of a queer person who was forced to come out because of queerbaiting accusations even though real life actual people cannot queerbait which resulted in negatively impacting their mental health and then go on to explain why H/L should come out when they literally DO NOT PUBLICALLY HAVE TO AND DO NOT OWE US ANY EXPLAINATION AT ALL???????????

#what the fuck am i reading

[abysslll]

kurogane becoming fai’s food source <333 homosexual things <333333

#lowkey really excited for fai to be a vampire tho that's gonna be fun #what the fuck am i reading #tsubasa liveblog #kurofai

[reel-fear]

me when I hates kids.

#ramblez #what the fuck am I reading #if u think like this stay AWAY from kids #at all costs #anyways this is why Frecklewish stans are the worst kind of people ever.

[cherrybombflash]

( ╥ω╥ )

#what the fuck am i reading #((dash comm

[notmuchtoconceal]

the abyss of a flat surface \\-.-.-.-// /larvaehood of a gruntboy (reprise)/the duel with the inquisitor (reprise)/Outro -- from "V" / "--II" [excerpt]

//.-.-.-.\\

you never wanted to see that part of you. you couldn’t. couldn’t describe it. the hideous smallness which was not malnourishment of the womb or field, but the spiritual malnourishment of your own hideous insignificance.

you knew who you were. was it yesterday

what did you forget. you’re too young not to remember.

what you remember. it must be enough.

you loved them. truly loved them all.

(by my deeds am i known -- and they are truly bloody)

it didn’t make sense to them. it didn’t need to.

the simple pleasure of wrapping your hands around another man’s neck. holding him close. grinding your bulge into the meat of his quivering rump. hearing him whimper. knowing he’s helpless. knowing he’s yours.

your captive. your prey.

the way they cowered. it made you need.

the smaller they made themselves, the bigger you became. they didn’t see. didn’t see they contributed to an equilibrium. that to withdrawal is to encourage advance into the vacant space.

that a particle moved from one sealed compartment to another could not move back to the compartment from whence it came. that what was woven, once frayed, could not be mended but by foreign thread.

that stones only fall downhill if one is not a source of gravity.

that fear was the season which whet your urge to feed.

nothing made the venom course through the bifurcation of your cockhead -- made the snake ascend the tree to kiss the lion in the branches -- harder than the sin of wrestling dominion from another man.

to make him go limp.

to make his eyes submit himself of his own volition.

to make him wince. root and stem.

fulfill him. desecrate him.

expunge his spent offering in the cheap glitz of motel rooms in border towns where ghosts deign to walk about contemptuous of the sun -- obscured only by wind and dust, his hand stirring up the dust.

you housed him. you fed him.

your body. your blood.

he tasted you -- and you tasted him.

(this is the way -- step inside)

to remove a player from the bounds of lawful play is to free up a space within a space, to leave the liminal at the border of the ecstatic and enter into the sacred. this is, when we embody ourselves fully as the carbon-polymer celestial body we are -- our tension is manifest in determination. we have surrendered doubt to follow a calling. you exalt yourself when you bring him to his knees. you exalt him with a recognition of himself as superior material -- superior sustenance.

your body is a temple. he is the horned buck upon your altar. when the blade comes down, the discus of your axman’s shoulder casts a schism to cleave air from sweat and flesh from bone

-- hydrogen from oxygen -- salt from saltpetre

to take him. to bear the weight of him.

rush. roar. satisfy.

when he gave in. you felt calm.

a flood of satiety.

safety.

the laurel leaves of your pleasure circuits.

if it was close, victory humbled you.

weak stock bore dull blades.

rocky stock shattered steel.

a knife honed by what it cuts, cuts what hones it most.

your precision. your texture.

i intersect you. i cut you.

you who slaughter too casually, you will grow reckless and cruel. your hollow victories will sway and shatter hidden away behind the high parapets of a tower with no foundation.

you who win cheap know yourselves in your hearts to be cheap. may the inevitable come to he, with pretensions to master the wind, who stacks himself high in a castle of card stock.

the amazonian empire, in its heyday, produced hitherto unseen material and technological comforts, though culturally succumbed to a rather trite molecularization of style as their diversification of forms began to draw exclusively from thinner and more diluted pools of the same inbred influence -- overnight it seems, all divergence collapsed simultaneously into near-identical variations of the same stunted echinoderms.

change. they came.

he did.

in excess. in horror.

he went. became.

alive.

he was.

your eyes hurt when the light run over.

it was hard sometimes to remember.

\ _ . - : - ( . ## . ) *86^

“ = (  +  ) = ”

^98* ( . &$ . ) - : - . _ /

(all i want to do is forget)

you were lucky. you had a salve.

(you, friend)

in your microcosmos. you. balm as well as bitterness.

instinct. taste. motion.

rage. savory. need.

stir. nurture. fuck.

none. few. proud.

could follow. they leaked. they hurt.

you.

hard. brother.

you. yours.

own.

( _ . / o _ . o . _ o \ . _ )

you died every time you remembered.

)you died every time you remembered(

you craved him and he craved you.

you never needed to pretend with him. never realized you pretended.

you were awake to something.

something you knew was always there.

you. naked. wreathed in the serpent that is your brother’s insides -- you, the worm body which reveals itself to itself -- the golden leaves of your veins and casings. you would kiss him between his ribs -- his frail ribs which you would shelter from your pilfering father. the hum of the discus which swayed overhead. the discus which father the wind had coveted for he could no longer play. you watched and you watched and he split his skull with the current of your motion -- split him balls to brainstem up the thundercloud that was his skull. the trunk of his nerves he had rooted in his node -- the roots he had rotted in his collar.

(beluga sevruga come winds o’er prince caspian sea)

these were the days. the days of the lingering and the dead.

the days they unchained the dead.

when they closed the streets for the war games.

the stories you never told. voices of the unnamable.

songs mute in the light rippling through the weeds.

water under blue skies. skies rippling like crashing waters -=/=- the quake of a summer morn. they fell across the shoals far from the prairies, where the grays were dingier and the skies more rocky with cliff faces gallant with lethargy -.- the fractal branches of this glass effigy.

polývios polymorfía, incontrovertibly the greatest historian of late amazonia, was far from either an opportunistic flatterer or a sycophantic attention seeker -- though, indeed, as his reign grew in fame and infamy, he began to star more frequently in those upheavals which he would produce -- somehow, always, in that detached way which made it seem as though you were inconveniencing a disinterested third party who in no way instigated his own antagonism (but perhaps, let it be estimated, for a naive hope in the wisdom to recognize a joke) -- was in fact a sower of discord solely for the sake of studying probability. not out of any sadistic ideation, but simply for the sheer gamesmanship of processing the algebra of his own emotional being.

every twenty five (+1) years -- for the past two hundred and fifty .| years. in the arena of broadening discourse, the channels would flow with disease. the projections of their shivering minds fought amongst themselves and only the most carnivorous brainworm won. that which satiated the most lust in turn bred the most lust. the channels flowed and the channels spewed -- and the tidal walls of compounding processes rose and splattered on the banks of the cities.

(la voce to me)

|. (+100)

the final two would partake. the feast at the end of the world.

the feast has, of course, been abstracted and thus extrapolated from its original form. the feast no longer need be an act of physical consumption, simply any opportune indulgence which pushes the pleasure centers near failure, thus demonstrating the horseshoe-like adjacency of ecstasy and revulsion. the exhaustive duration of our contemporary ritual dances and filibusters -- the sheer arbitrary repetition and ferocity -- the relentless knowing absurdity of perpetuating a slant by systematizing it -- is, on some level, a tacit admittance that we give ourselves simply to be consumed. we wish to exhaust people with our bouquet. to dance across the roofs of their palates. to reduce them to a pliable stupor with reveries of our rich and textured flavors.

it was different when there were rules. it dragged things out.

dredged the consequences across the whites of your eyes.

it made you pointed. grinding your dick against the mattress. pinning him by the scruff of his neck. bouncing a knuckle off his jaw.

you didn’t care. you wanted to hurt him.

it was a part of life. this thing within you.

you are the way you are.

you have a purpose because you are the way you are -- you exist for no purpose other than to assign yourself purpose.

you exist to achieve your purpose.

what is your purpose, cadet.

sir, you have a receptivity to sensation which renders your mind as translucent as your flesh is opacified, sir.

you long to give and feed, give and feed, sir. you pledge allegiance. to your fag. who needs to give in and fight you -- he needs to fight you. to make him stand. to haul it out. his will to expire. like a certificate. he felt safe. so warm inside. he could only think it would hurt you.

one bite. one bite is all i need. you’re so rich. so thick and caustic. it makes me sick. i can’t. oh, please -- i can’t. stop. stop feeding me, please.

you wanted him to fight. wanted only to fight him back. he needed to be strong so you could gash him. the way you could never give in when you were with the ones you loved  -- the porcelain mask of your chilly gaze -- storm clouds on overcast mountains, hiding the bodies in snow.

he needed to fight. it would humiliate him without a fight.

he needed to suffer before you could claim the pleasure --

to lick his wounds.

he wanted a chance to fluke. to gore you on his horns.

it was different in the field. outside the city walls. the tongue-coral bled the polyp in the polar grass. when you saw them, it didn’t matter. the dust of you that could negotiate the ethics of complex engagement receded into desert wind. your cockhead lead you by tugs of neuronal flares. the cardiovascular tissue in your jaw and skull. you felt good obeying your cock. your cock spoke the truth. your cock was the cobra which bore the eye of providence. following your cock lead to you imbibe the venom of truth. these savvy men from foreign lands -- their lovely lilting voices, their guttural and charnel voices -- the graves of their outhouses and the velvets of their marble mess halls. you wanted to plant a seed which could never bloom in a man cunt too foul for soil.

they sometimes moved too swift and you were on them in the brooks of the tall grass before they could cry out before they could tell you to stop.

you needed to hear the crunch -- the pop out of place which stirred your bones when he no longer was. gnawing on the milkbone. your jaw so happy to feel your brain grow thick with hearty fats.

it made your cock throb to eat the viscera of the animal like the apex predator you were. you killed what you ate. you fucked what you skinned. you loved to feel your brain grow fat and your cock grow fatter, eyes rolling back in the stupor of your obedience to the supreme meta-cognition of your inescapable carnivore nature :-- that you are in service to the tripartite beyond structure of yourself -- and from the certainty of your own being you cannot waver, for to cheapen yourself parting the ashes of the herd is to desecrate the diamond studded mirror that is your own unvarnished reality.

[reprisal -- suite: childhood of a gruntboy]

it shot into your hole. a magnetic field.

the cold burn of vodka ice -- cracking your love nut.

- nice and plump, major. the big fat dong is peeking out. oh now just look at your cockhead. hello boy. so shy in major’s big floppy dick skin. aw i could just weach in and pway with you pwess my nail wight up in your hole -- make you dance -- make you dance -- i know he wants to -- plump, fat, smelly -- big veiny horsey cock, major. you’re such a god dumb horse, yes you are.

you were proud. his compliment could never sully your pride.

[drunk bloodhound bitch accosting a proud androphile marine cadet in a crowded hall, compelling him to spill whiskey on his leather]

she didn’t approve of you. the woman for whom you were a son.

[cadet tapping into lavatory to towel off]

not at the end, anyway.

you guaranteed. that man would never raise a hand to her again.

(he never did.)

you had no idea she’d think it’d gone too far.

(wouldn’t even let you get a change of clothes.)

their mother put her fear in them. you could see them huddling when you left. you wanted you call out. wished you could say something that would make it easy. something that would let them know.

it broke their hearts to fail to understand their brother is bad.

it made your cock hard that they thought you were bad. you cried in the rain and your cock got hard when you fell in the mud and thought you would die of pneumonia. it made your cock hard to think that you were a mentally ill loser who couldn’t control his violent impulses. maybe you could take advantage of scum-brained nobodies, raid their wallets and breed their stoopid slackjawed faces. maybe you could give in and be a stupid piece of shit like they were. feel it so good to slide around your cock, the lips of the milker machine. every day. nipples clamp. breathing mask cycling in plumes of resin -- getting hazy, getting shredded.

you thought about the way she looked to you. thought about the way you strained to meet her. it made no difference.

you were one of them.

next time you marched by the window there was no one there.

[clanging cymbal]

you were trash. you belonged in the trash.

the can came down. the coffee grounds. soggy. gritty. banana peel. ook ook. stinky. rancorous fiber. rot of sugar. ook ook. your cock got hard thinking about how you were a trash ape. your cock got hard every time you thought about your big stupid ape body because you were a stupid horny animal who only wanted to play with his big stupid ape cock and feel all the blood drain out of your lunky ludenite brow

-- player killer -- run another routine.

...>  o))

=-=

you thought you were beautiful, brother. you thought you had a spark of that which was the transcendent. they tried to muddy you.

you could see too clearly. the surface encrusted with muck enough to obscure the angle and the curve, the support of the standardized model harmonized with the slant away into vistas unknown -- that which was etched upon his plate, this which once had shone boundless in rays of the sun, and with spit enough would shine again.

[crescendo lilts into taurine injection]

he would dance as he would speak.

with every syllable, all was only the moment of execution. her erudition was rapier sharp. he cut the laces of fools and frocks with but a lash of his tongue. you could see vivisected trachea beneath their dead-bolted faces. people longed to jump in. they moved too fast. they wouldn’t stop -/- to risk misalignment would mean certain evisceration. she danced with him. they seemed inseparable -/- for she, like constantine’s glue, could not hold the two halves of a rotting whole together -/- constantine’s glue could hold nothing but the feet of empire builders to the filth of the lavatory floor. the head rush was too intense.

you almost lost-consciousness when you thought about the strong men of history fondled by their boy servants as your rod sprouted branches of cottonweed -. / . -

he made you see. he was highest among them.

he was most exalted.

he who issued decrees with something more than pity.

they bowed to him. the king of the opium eaters.

[   o  ]

with the sun luminous in the jewel of the tip of your cockhead - o - you aligned your scepter with the rays of the window.

you plugged your piss-slit with coolant of quicksilver. if stiffened to metallic latex down the chasm of the vein of your ox-horn -. p . - priming your pump and pulling air from the pump.

it would dry on warm. slick and waxy. it made your cock chub up to think about your cock chubbing up inflating with tendrils of liquid latex down the spongy tissue of your cockhead -- insulating you from filth and ensuring the sacral conditions regarding corporeality and cleanliness were upheld before the state and the father.

you could maybe get just the tip through the flap of your collar’s buttonhole without tearing a seam.

[praetorian guardsmen -- hypemen in back -- drowning out the orchestra with clang and gobsmacks -- deafening her nerve-baroness]

- major your fat stupid cock is not as fat and stupid as it ought be. what are you doing? -- ARE YOU OFF DAY DREAMING AGAIN WHEN YOU OUGHT BE IN CALORIE FREE SWEETENED OBEDIENT ENTHRALLMENT TO THE SNAKE SKELETON OF MY SPINAL AND UPRIGHT BEING ? . ? FIZZY AND LIZZY AND READY TO BURST ? . ?

when we got away from her, my brother and i, that night we were attending the formal, it felt like the good times were at an end.

it was an implacable dread -- hanging somewhere behind the solemn falsity of their smiles. i told myself it was irrational, and i knew it was irrational, but i knew what i knew, and i knew something was going down that night. the ill-portent hung over my head with no abatement for hours -- i felt i was no longer there, at that party, but rather that i was there and somewhere else. that i was aware of a moment which i would always know and never remember. that this was a memory of a moment that was a memory of many moments -- please bare with me -- the same moment chained together in a coil of knotted moments -- as though some rat had kinged himself reed among weeds, and i was cut to be bludgeon-studded with nails -- that i would come back, every time i’d remember, and i wouldn’t remember which me was the truth of me, and which me it was that i bore from my own matter -- for in truth i bare all aspects of myself. i am in endless divergence, unceasing in harmony, and in polar opposition to my own labor -- i ascend by nothing but the propulsion of my own unabating division.

,\ _

.    `/>

.     |..

. ?

. )

(- bro we got twenty pages of dialogue left and this premieres in three hours.)

that night -- when we got back to the cave.

that day -- when you got me through the buttonhole.

completed basic. the final contest. close of the educational year.

eyes rolled back. bared your teeth.

aquamarine. swamps and aquifers --

(please be the way)

he watched you change first.

cock so plump it couldn’t fit inside your briefs. cock so plump you could barely clasp the buttons of your leather fly. the shirt scratched your nips.

made your eyes slink shut. smelled good.

you watched him change. it hugged his ass

he was plunging the deep tissues of your ass.

[SAVING -- DON’T TURN OFF THE POWER]

in his shell. he looked so thick in his leather. he looked thick always.

you held his shoulder, and he held yours.

for the first time he looked complete. he knew himself as he walked. the excitement of his teeth. his teeth so much like yours. you wanted to hold him. it was better padded out in heavy leather.

(i’ve fought night and day)

you took him. he gleamed in the quiver of your throat. the vicious luster refracted with rivets of silver. his breath tasted of your blood. his tongue tasted of your ass. you overpowered him. the scorch of your woody incisors. you let him lick your teeth. you let him nibble your hand.

>.   ,<

vvvvv ^^^^.

he don’t wanna hurt you, bro. he wantsta give himself to you. curl and surrender. accept your acceptance. your unconditional strength. he defers to you. embrace him. fill him with your vital charge. endow his exhausted matter with the certainty of your gaze. you constrict him like a python. bury his mouth in yours. your stony brush entangles as two plains inseminate -- what stony crags, these virgin lands -- these oilfields unblemished -- what vibrant springs will one day blister forth to stain the skies tangerine and cream. it’s okay to want to do to your fellow cadets what you both want to do to enemies of the state.

(for my land and my king)

it wasn’t that night. you controlled yourself. many, many times. you were both so young. you could still see him. see him after what she did?

the sound drained from him. the sound drained from the image.

- drench me, major. irrigate me like a ditch digger.

you were still here.

his head leans back. he twirls the drape of his net.

slick the way his hand moves up to stroke your cock.

the ring. coming loose. the way it tugs your halo and crown. his mouth was moving, he was trying to suckle. trying to kiss. down on his knees. his chair bent back. his legs spread wide. he tongues the head and belly of the shaft. slurping your balls in the warm glow of the lamp through magma blooms in the bowels of your blood lights.

you took him. you couldn’t hold back.

your backhand descended. it collided with his cheekbone. an antarctic glacier wall crumbled into lukewarm waters.

it came again. this time against the jaw. he looked at you. the dim of a rainy midday. he never would have thought. never would have thought his nerves would work again. the arrogance of existence to betray him.

it went out when your backhand became a third.

-major.

you yanked him by the hair.

- major -- major how --

you yanked him off the floor. you draped your balls across the bridge of his nose. there would be no doubt he loved the smell. no doubt the savory would sting where his tears had scarred him. you made him work for it. sniff and prod. drive deep with his tongue. you cut off his air supply when your legs arched onto your heels. the pressure shifted. you straddled his shoulders. the half-saddle of his shoulders. you pressed upon him and permitted his pitiable tongue to soak with spittle the marshlands of the base of your cock. you could keep going. you could crush his throat. he was pawing his way up the base of your shaft, stroking the pearls with the pathetic lurches of his lower lip -- triggering speed, triggering vacancy -- a geyser ruptured forth a shotgun blast as you banged your meat upon his skull like a club against the drum that was his skull.

you couldn’t tell what was tears. or what was nut.

a downpour stained the scenery. over the desk. his chest of drawers. his robes. the plush of the carpet. your boots. your pants. your jacket. your chest of abs. cum gutters chuggin from a downpour to nourish the lowlands in the chafe. opalescent in the half-light.

like someone been shucking mussels.

you mixed his tears when you mixed your nut. stirring your big floppy cock around his stupid faggot face. it splattered and spit when you slapped him with your cock. his face was so wet from being drenched with your cock. you could get it all the way down. all the way down his gullet. get your piss slit to peek in on his lung. here is the rain.

here are the riches. come, bountiful.

you rocketed back out. spraying amber waves of brain against the wall. still some grit in the pan. the foam of your brawny testes.

you brought the storm. doused him with a torrent of rheumy running thunder. it soaked through his every pretense, his defilement clinging to the beams of his ribs and the arches of his pelvis, all adornments stark revealed in clingy sin. the brothy swamp of the carpet. his face meditative beneath an overflowing beer tap. smokey urinal smell overpowering the dust and cherry-flavored plywood of the set.

his mouth overflowed. he was your font. he couldn’t breathe. only taste. hanging in his face. the shawl of his own anguish.

he’d stroke his clittie to this every day the rest of his life.

i would like -- if you would be so gracious -- to take the time to prove to you that i wish i didn’t need to be away as often as i am.

you pointed. he didn’t glance up.

he handed you your jacket.

droplets of piss rolled off and anointed him.

you watched him. he didn’t get up. you got dressed. your nut was caking down the splatters of your leather.

you were ready to go.

they glimmered in the wetland ambiance. rolled up high on their hills. nestled on cozy plateaus.

you nod. he collects them without so much as a glance.

one. two. three.

you grab the loser by the throat. in the soft hay, you sniff him down to the roots. you corroded the floral notes of his shampoo.

pure pigboy.

not gonna wash out. people’re gonna be smellin dog on you for awhile. fucker.

pry open those lips. your soft pearly baker’s teeth.

bring forth the viscid lozenge of my diamond thorax.

[loogie hawked into the faggot’s mouth]

i exalt you, brother --

i break you.

no current hovered where his silence lingered. if you were a kinder brother, you would care for him. if you were a kinder man, you would not leave him the way you would.

kindness was wasted upon the unkind. they must learn to make themselves kind -- or they must learn to make themselves mind.

you extend your hand. it was soft in yours.

you lower your eyes to meets his. he reaches out. he holds you.

you grab him by the handle of his throat. you pet him.

his eyes are bulging. the reek of goat cheese.

he’s starting to whimper. openly. without shame.

one more for the road, fucker.

THE LYRE OF YOUR WHIMPER COWERING IN MY WELLSPRINGS

[    ]

as you were no longer of any use to this man, and a quick survey of the scene saw to it that your talents would be wasted on such menial chores, you took it upon yourself to -- at long last -- dismiss yourself.

with his oil, the oil of sacraments and tawdry cabarets, you mixed, in the fragrant wood of his private bath, these with your black fox, and polished the proteins of your nut deeper into the pores of the proteins of your leather. for you, you were anointed. you glowed in the flattering panes of his soft focus glass. your glossy black praetorian regalia.

you lived your lives in these uniforms. steeped them in your brand. saturated them in your smell. then you took them off.

it was in them all. you knew. the rock and roar of the crowd.

the urge and the ability to kill. they had buried it deep.

you pushed aside a rock. dug through the garden. you had excavated yourself like the ruin of an ancient temple, mosaiced and choked. beneath the reliefs, the columns parted the grooves in the floor where the blood once flowed. the rust-colored brick stained yellow to copper.

it did not bring you an inordinate joy to refund the life of your own countrymen. it was simply a job.

agony for the rule-breaker -- ecstasy for the rule.

people thought they were good. they wanted to feel they were good, but seldom did they wish to work to be good.

you could see it in their eyes. the hopeless yearning trembling through the pain of their cyclical oblivion. a prayer to ward off malediction. prayer which never could never graduate to the level of ritual.

there was no doubt what you were. you became good when you went from a weapon to a tool. what we had already was always enough. it was why we claimed so many territories in the names of those we loved.

if there existed higher good, it was to be found nowhere on earth, save the blood of the lionhearted. you knew them. you became them. saw them from the far corners. laudanum blooms growing at the edges of our walled oasis -- the ice float rimming the heat wells of the nitrogen spring.

i knew you didn’t care for me that first day. that inspired me to be good.

goodness could be nothing but a pose. it did not come from the roots of a lived history or an adherence to a doctrine, but was assembled piecemeal by scraps and symbols to patch the cracks in a broken mask.

to men who abhorred thought, not out of lack of inclination, but to preserve their own fragile self-assessment, good could be nothing but what was already known. your uniform was the flag of the nation-state, laying claim to an undiscovered continent.

- i’m taking the entire gram, i feel like i’ve had my ass scrubbed out by toilet brush from the wrong end -- god, i don’t know my back from my front any more. i am the void of my cored-out gut. i am hollow. i broil nothing. nothing kindles within me. please fill me. please stuff me. please rend my guts from the inside to wring from me my own -- my own faithless depravity -- i am ugly. ugly.

the way he spoke. it made you dread.

wrath without cause. wrath without recourse. wrath without sense.

his words rang far, his jumble of discordant polysyllables cut -- agitated by another man’s yearning for destruction.

the way his eyes lingered -- in their frenzied convulsion -- it seemed as though those who loved him became as opaque as he was to them, though it occurred to you not long ago, that perhaps he lacked even what they saw in him, or what he saw in them.

you saw his eyes when he met the glass. he went still. everything inside him settled. he was looking at his face.

looking at it like it wasn’t his face. when you could meet your reflection, you could see the tension. you were faded. you were printer toner. for a moment you too were surprised. you could see you the way they saw you -- they could see you the way they saw you. how broad your shoulders looked in your uniform. tightly bundled. a barrel of hay in the shape of a man. he continued to look. he looked and he looked and you wondered what he saw -- if he saw anything at all.

maybe you looked at him. maybe you thought about him.

maybe it was easier to focus on him -- than it was to focus. on the man standing straight ahead of you.

this man for whom you felt nothing but contempt. than the man who bore down the barrel of your gun with such familiarity.

no, i don’t need to say anything either.

you couldn’t see. couldn’t see past their pink and wounded faces. to the depths of deprivation in the souls of men willing to beg for a love that needed to be begged for.

love, you knew, belonged only to those willing and able. love must be bold. love must be forward. love is strength. love is law. love is god. you love so freely, so intensely, you could love only the highest, the freest -- surrender to it. give yourself body and soul, trans-substantiated out of reason into vortices of obliteration which are your purest self. ( o ) the war-being encoded into you by the androgens you conformed to within stagnant quarters, deformed from your pre-male state by the tumult of the beast at the center of it all -- shouting :--love is wrath. love is loss. love is the fire / the slithering sinew, veins stirring pulsars in tumescence the nights you lay awake boot-bludgeoning type-slugs til dawn. you must be taken. taken by love as a sow is taken by a wolf. brought down, dragged kicking and screaming, bare-ass through sticks and stones and broken bones, along with all those names that never hurt you.

tonight’s probably gonna wind up being better than hell week.)

#V #--II #[excerpt] #i don't remember that night #uniform #body warm leather #military industrial complex #what the fuck am i reading #bromeopathic remedies #dumb as a box of rocks #this is what you asked for #golden retriever instincts #dog brain #woof woof

[katyspersonal]

Why every single time I take as much as a week long break from social media I return to a goodamn something

#/vent #personal #what the fuck am i reading #i honestly keep forgetting how unspeakably creepy people on this hellsite are #block button is now some 99 Insight knowledge I suppose

[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.

#every time someones like ''AI will replace u" im like. u will have to fucking KILL ME #there is no replacement here bc i am not filling a position. i am just writing #and the writing is what i need to be doing #writeblr #this probably doesn't make sense bc its sooo frustrating i rarely speak it the way i want to #edited for the typo wrote it and then was late to a meeting lol #i love u people who mention my typos genuinely bc i don't always catch them!!!! :) it is doing me a genuine favor!!! #my friend says i should tell you ''thank you beta editors'' but i don't know what that means #i made her promise it isn't a wolf fanfiction thing. so if it IS a wolf thing she is DEAD to me (just kidding i love her) #hey PS PS PS ??? if ur reading this thinking what it's saying is ''i am financially capable of losing this'' ur reading it wrong #i write for free. i always have. i have worked 5-7 jobs at once to make ends meet. #i did not grow up with access or money. i did not grow up with connections or like some kind of excuse #i grew up and worked my fucking ASS OFF. and i STILL!!! wrote!!! on the side!!! because i didn't know how not to!!! #i do not write for money!!!! i write because i fuckken NEED TO #i could be in the fucking desert i could be in the fuckken tundra i could be in total darkness #and i would still be writing pretentious angsty poetry about it #im not in any way saying it's a good thing. i'm not in any way implying that they're NOT tryna kill us #i'm saying. you could take away our jobs and we could go hungry and we could suffer #and from that suffering (if i know us) we'd still fuckin make art. #i would LOVE to be able to make money doing this! i never have been able to. but i don't NEED to. i will find a way to make my life work #even if it means being miserable #but i will not give up this thing. for the whole world.

[dxmoness]

sometimes I wanna delete my oc stuff

#ESOECIALLY #THS FICS #WHAT THE FUCK AM I READING

[madeofstardust17]

Hey, who wants to trash the sun and the star with me? I havent even finished it, I'm 25% done, I don't have to read much more

#what the fuck am i reading #like im gonna finish it #but its making me mad

[madscientistenthusiast]

Personally I think that Azula should have been redeemed simply so that she can become Zuko's horrible little advisor who whispers evil little plans to him so that he can do the exact opposite

#the only reason she gets this job is bc he doesnt trust her anywhere else in the palace #its like enrichment for manipulative girls #also so that he can set her on asshole deligates like a rabid little lapdog #she just has mean fuckin pomeranian energy that thing bites then lights you on fire w flames so hot theyre cold #i think their sibling dynamic could be sooo fucking funny its insane #azula #azula atla #atla #avatar the last airbender #zuko #atla zuko #firelord zuko #DISCLAIMER I AM YET TO READ THE COMICS SO IDK WHAT HAPPENS TO HER IN THEM #also long overdue for a rewatch of the show its insane

[superconfusedcoryn]

What the fuck, Patrick

#you ever just read a book an be like #what the fuck am i reading #what

[deep-space-lines]

okay but like. I just had the weirdest thought about that ‘don’t look I’m naked’ comic. Which is that that’s essentially the same thing Adam and Eve did after they ate the fruit of knowledge of good&evil. So I feel like the theological implications of that could kneecap Gabe if he doesn’t think V1 is a being with free will.

yeah ok. i dunno man. is this anything

((side note. this isn’t necessarily meant to be in-character or story-accurate or take place at any particular point in time, just a way to explore some Thoughts. i was also imagining more that V1’s words aren't actually spoken, more like Gabriel’s more articulate interpretation of whatever garbled mechanical noise V1 is using to communicate. I think an angel could do that.))

and then they fucked nasty the end

#my art #my writing #who fuckin sent this. fuck you. come off anon so i can kick your ass. (the thoughts this ask sparked consumed almost 3 days of my life) #i dont know what this even is #i just work here #disclaimer i don't come from a particularly religious background so like. #most of my knowledge of christianity comes from when my mom sent me to vbs for cheap babysitting in middle school or absorbed via osmosis #so i have no idea what im talking about except for when i do! hope this helps #i love how i say that like i expect biblical scholars to tear apart my ultrakill gay fanfiction #if you are a biblical scholar and you want to tear apart my ultrakill gay fanfiction please know i am not going to read the bible for this #ultrakill #v1 ultrakill #gabriel ultrakill #gabv1el #blood #love tagging ultrakill stuff with blood. hmm yes the floor here is made out of floor

[protectoroffaeries]

house of leaves

#what the fuck am i reading

[carnivalcarriondiscarded]

Sally is the real neighborhood Rizzler... you all know i'm right...

#she knew what she was doingggggg #she Knew!!!! #'youre going to make me blush' yes poppy i think that was her intention <3 #popstar is A tier ship you cant convince me otherwise #fuck now im tempted to make a For Fun ship tier list.... no im not. the exhaustion is just making me insane #popstar is theeeeeee lesbian pairing tho #fingers crossed im onto something with them #cmon cmon i love being right #i love clocking relationships before they happen its my fav hobby when watching/reading stuff #i know im delusional with laughingstock but Popstar? i! am! so! correct! #probably. maybe. if im Wrong... dont light your torches im just a lil guy #scribble garnish #welcome home #wh popstar #sally starlet #poppy partridge #THAT TABLE SHOT MY WIFE AND ATE MY LEFTOVERS #i rarely scribble objects and the like and its For A Reason #it was fun for like... ten seconds and then it got tedious but i was Committed #although. i will admit. #scribbling the misc items was nice. love me some Stuff and Things