u guys,,,,,, actually want to fuck monsters? like literally actually for real??? u see a huge terrifying monster and think big sexy??? u wanna scary ass bloodthirsty beast to fuck u??? a mothman???? a wearwoof??? VENOM????????????? these arent just memes??? not just jokes??????? u guys arent joking?????????

i was in mitski's youtube premiere and the live comment section was a mess. mitski clearly performing a song about the frustration of being an artist in this century, dancing until madness a la black swan and people in the comments, unable to produce one coherent and original thought were chanting "mommy? sorry. mommy? sorry" like ... i'm sorry if you need to stan mitski so you can add it to your carrd.co

Hello guys, sorry for long time no art but I’ve been busy on my other platforms sharing resources and news for the Black Lives Matter movement, so art is currently on pause.

Either way, this is a guide I illustrated for user chivrik on Instagram on how to properly blur and de-trace protest photos. Many protesters have gone missing or turned up dead because they were traced through images they appeared on. Don’t help pigs and protect one another. ACAB and Black lives always matter.

If you need tips on protests, what is acab, defunding/reform of police, how to stay safe and links for charities/petitions, my Instagram is @/paperballz and there are saved highlights with the information. Or you can dm me.

WORKING FOR THE KNIFE - Mitski's Statement

S

i cry at the start of every movie i guess ‘cause i wish i was making things too but i’m working for the knife i used to think i would tell stories but nobody cared for the stories i had about no good guys i always knew the world moves on i just didn’t know it would go without me i start the day high and it ends so low ‘cause i’m working for the knife i used to think i’d be done by 20 now at 29 the road appears the same though maybe at 30 i’ll see a way to change that i’m living for the knife i always thought the choice was mine and i was right but i just chose wrong i start the day lying and end with the truth that i’m dying for the knife

i love thinking about my little fictional guy i understand him like no one else can

could you write a soft scenario with Bo🥰?? maybe reader is healing him?

Wow congrats anon, pure soft bo just for you, no evil this time inspired by this post since i think it captures Bo’s character perfectly. Hope you’re happy because you’ll probably never get anything this pure again.

You don’t have to kill just to be happy.

w: mild description/discussion of trauma as well as injury.

He hisses as you gently apply the wet cotton ball to his skin. You flinch and mumble a ‘sorry.’ He snorts, not clearly believing it. He peers at you, there’s an expression of concentration that he’s not really seen before, your brows are furrowed and the tip of your tongue darts out slightly. The grip on his ravaged hand is gentle but firm, he doesn’t think he’s ever had this much care given to him before. Not that he let’s anyone anyway. It’s been a tough couple of weeks however with spring looming over Bo’s hoping for something — even if it will be tiny.

The room is silent whilst you continue to fix him up and Bo despises it. All three of them do, a trait they all got from their wonderful mother. Bo remembers when she would fix him up after all the violence he would cause to himself. Bo doesn’t remember if she was really gentle or not, probably wasn’t given her track record but he likes to pretend she held a fondness for him, even if it was inflicting pain. She would tear her son down, rub fresh salt on his wounds and then would kiss them better, the purest kind of any mother’s love.

He stares at the wounds on his hand, they’re terrible, the worst he’s ever had, he doesn’t even know how long it will take to heal. He shifts about in his seat and then groans realising he’d forgotten that he’d been hit in the chest and arm by an arrow. You peek up at him through your lashes. He’s a mess, everything coated in a layer of sweat and blood, his hair is matted— he truly looks awful. A sight you’d probably relish in if he wasn’t right here in front of you. He breathes heavily — hasn’t said any dashing remark about you watching him, just watches you instead and licks his lips.

The cotton ball is disposed of now as you place the medical tools on the old rusty kitchen table, it’s dark green colour now turned muddy. (Bo didn’t think that was ever possible) he had always hated the colour.

You wrap the pure white bandage against his bloody gouged knuckles and across his hand. There’s no harsh nail in his wounds; no tight grip on his hand to bring the blood up and let it spill all over. He can even feel the tip of your finger caress the scarred skin. It’s a gentleness he isn’t really used to. He’s human (both you and him forget this) whether you both like it or not. There’s traces of humanity within himself, like now for instance. A man whose presence you’ve been so terrified of is now letting you heal his wounds. Allowing you to pull the splinter in his heart unraveling all of the poison and rot that haunts him. The whole town haunts, they gorge at his already leaking wounds like a dying animal who refuses to be put down by its merciful owner.

You think to yourself had Bo been born anyway else, maybe a big city, while his poison would still be there you imagine he wouldn’t be as hollow. Yet you’re both here, he’s seen you at your weakest, and now it’s him. Maybe that’s why he’s got such a tight grip on your hands, there’s no mistaking the tremble; whether it’s from you (you find lately it’s stopped trembling altogether) or his (almost died tonight after all). There’s a vulnerability between the two of you. He’s carved new wounds on you that you’ve had to sew up but you’re now sewing his wounds up. The needle hurts and you can tell when it’s particularly bad. However soon he’s in your arms and you’re rocking him gripping his hair trying to bring him back down. You love him particularly well those nights. You won’t ever have a thank you from Bo. The words die out on his throat before he can even register what he’s trying to say. He makes up for it with hot whisky kisses and a gentle but tight hand. You can’t remember the last time someone paid attention to you that way. It’s almost a curse that both you and him are affected by.

And when his bloody hand wraps around the back of your neck to bring yourself closer to him. Who are you to deny him?

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Nothing will make you evil like trying to find a specific tumblr post

rb with your love at first sight character, like as soon as you saw them, you’re like that’s mine

writing is like this is the best idea i’ve ever had that’s the worst sentence i’ve ever written i’m a fraud i’m a genius i’m unable to focus i’m going to sleep