They also specifically contacted members of the leather community, used them as models iirc, and donated $100k to Outright International. They talked the talk and walked the walk and put their money on it too. I don't really care that I can't afford and don't want this merch, I love to see my community getting the respect it deserves. Levi's said, "We make jeans which gays wear lots of jeans? Oh leather daddies? Let's call them."
I think Levi's donates to Outreach International every year too, as well as sponsoring pride events and other community support. They were offering Same Sex domestic partner benefits to employees in the 90s, and have been very public about their support for pro-lgbt legislation all through the 2000s.
So, you know, a giant corporation that walks the walk pretty consistently.
𓍊𓋼𓍊 My piece for "Together from Afar: a How to Train Your Dragon" tribute exhibition at Gallery Nucleus! The show runs from April 11-26 and opens tonight from 5-8pm (free + no RSVP needed) 𓍊𓋼𓍊
I love Astrid and Stormfly, so I was really honored and excited to get to draw them🙇 John Powell was on full blast the entire time 🙇🙇🙇
Gotta tell you guys something wild in the Chinese fan sphere
So some fanartist drew a “sexy” (read: booby) version of a (cartoon) character who is traditionally very non-sexualised. Fans of the character got mad about it because it’s kind of groundbreaking how that character is written and portrayed and this art totally ignores the entire point of the character. They demanded the art be deleted. In response to that other people said, well what the fanartist did may be distateful but they have every right to draw what they’re into. The two sides fight for days and each starts a harassment campaign and even report their “opponents’” accounts.
So far so typical. But things eventually come to a head and they decide that this will be settled by votes - not through a poll. Through donations to a children’s education charity via each side’s portal. Whoever can get the highest amount of donation wins.
And that is how this charity received over 1 million in donations in three days lol. Oh btw the “freedom of expression” side won by a landslide (960k to 40k)
The Steve Harrington Summertime Spectacular (cherrychilli/Sylvie's Edition)
18+
Steve Harrington x reader, enemies to lovers, mentions of nipple play(f), oral sex(f), PIV sex
WC:2.7K
Summary: Steve finds you in a compromising position. You leave him in one that's just as bad. (it needs to be said that these two are hella sly and they absolutely love it).
Divider credit: @/cursed-carmine
Written for the lovely @jamdoughnutmagician's Steve Harrington Summertime Spectacular
It’d been one of those days.
Well, technically yesterday had been one of those days. One of those days where everything had gone wrong.
Your Friday morning began with you jolting awake to the shrill sound of your mother’s raised voice, your eyelids still sleep heavy as a fight ensued because you’d forgotten to do the laundry like she’d asked. The squabble stretched on and took up most of the time you usually spent on getting ready for work, forcing you to run out of the front door with your hair uncombed, your blouse misbuttoned and a slice of burnt toast clenched between your teeth for breakfast.
Things didn’t get much better at work either.
Your luck turned rotten and stayed that way when a bus load of tourists pulled up and promptly crowded into the diner, requiring you to pinball from table to table, your arms full of menus, plates and drinks.
Between serving orders you were caught up with wiping spills off tabletops courtesy of noisy, sticky-fingered toddlers, spit bubbles gathering in the corner of their babbling mouths. Then, you were forced to smile through the nausea building in your throat from being accosted by some of the older men as they attempted to flatter you, their eyes rarely on your face as they openly ogled your tits and ass in your uniform.
It didn’t help that you were being pulled in every direction, every table in need of something the second you think you might be able to steal one moment of reprieve in the walk-in freezer to cool off and maybe scream into a frozen rack of lamb.
But that moment never came. Instead. The whole day consisted of one problem dogpiling on top of the other until the worst of it happens when you lose your grip on a plate of lamb chops towards the end of your shift, sending the bloody red meat and shards of porcelain across the floor with a crash and splat.
Despite getting down on your hands and knees to clean up the mess, your palms and knees catching on the smallest of the shards that scrape through your skin, you still received an earful from your boss because of it, chewing your ear off like gristle before you could finally clock out in defeat.
All of that tension had made its way under your skin like snake bites, speeding through your bloodstream, muscles squeezing and aching with fatigue and your joints stiff.
And only one thing could remedy it all.
You didn’t need to prepare all that much as you stepped out of the house that Saturday morning dawn, nothing in your possession but the clothes on your back and a single rolled up towel tucked under your arm.
The fifteen minute trek to the lake didn’t feel all that long as you cut through to it from your back yard. The trees out there grew dense enough to keep you safely hidden from the eyes of anyone in the neighborhood, rustling generously as the breeze slipped between their leaves, your skin cooling as you carefully stepped through to the clearing.
Lover’s lake was as it always is when you come out there to decompress – peaceful, serene and most importantly, completely deserted.
Just how you liked it.
It’d become something of a secret happy place for you in the last couple of months. Not much else helped you to mellow out like the feeling of the cool, gentle water cradling your body as you swam leisurely in the early morning dark. Weightless as you floated, nothing but the sounds of the wind and chittering birds to serenade you.
During your time coming over to make use of the lake you never ran into anyone else. Not even once. And that was why you stepped on to the dock and left your belongings behind as you did – towel, shirt, shorts and flipflops neatly stacked. No underwear or even swimwear left on you as you stretch your naked limbs before diving into the water.
You liked being in nature like this. You liked swimming in the nude. No layers to contain you no matter how thin. It was just so freeing, a much-needed respite from the stresses of work, college and home life that overwhelmed you, already feeling the calming effect of being in the water as your eyelids begin to slip shut.
“So, this is what you get up to out here, huh?”.
You’re just barely able to stop yourself from screeching, your hands wrapping around your chest as quick as the snap of a rubber band to shield your breasts, your feet kicking below you to keep your head above water.
Finding anyone standing there on the dock watching you would have rattled you for sure but this was far worse. It wasn’t just anyone who’d caught you.
"Jesus, Harrington. Are you checking me out?”, you seethe as he sneers at you from the dock, his hands placed on his hips while yours slip away from your body. It’s unlikely that he’s able to get a proper look at your naked body as you wade around in the mostly dark but even if he could, it wouldn’t be the first time he’s seen you bare.
If anyone were to ask those who graduated with you and the rest of the class of '85 about your relationship with Steve, they’d all say the same thing – that the two of you despised each other. That you thought him full of nothing but himself and that he thought you wound too tight to be any kind of fun. But what no one else knew was that things between you two were more complicated than that.
It started after graduation. Getting in each other’s faces at parties and even at home – the downside of sharing a fence with Steve. It would start off harmless enough. Snide, snarky comments ping ponging between the two of you until things began to twist and turn into something more heated, words no longer enough to display your dislike for one another.
So naturally the next step was hate sex in the back of Steve’s car – both of you scratching and biting through it all, trying to make the other cum first to claim some kind of torrid victory. A terribly competitive show of desire.
It was an infrequent thing, neither of you putting a label on it but neither of you turned the other down either. The truth was, everyone else bored you and Steve. Steve was the only one who interested you and it wasn’t a stretch to guess that he thought the same of you. Everyone else failed to stir anything in you, none of them challenging you the way you and Steve challenged each other.
You didn’t find him any less insufferable though, especially now as he stared you down from the dock, looking all kinds of pleased with himself.
“Did you follow me?”, you asked with a clear note of irritation coming through in your tone.
It only makes him grin knowing that he’s begun to annoy you already. “Yup. Saw you heading off in those little shorts and I had to make sure you didn’t attract any creeps on the way”.
You scoff. “A creep did follow me”, you tell him as you eye him up and down, your glare so sharp you might just make him bleed. “You just can’t stay away from me, can you?”.
But so far, he continues to appear unperturbed, completely unshaken by the severe look you aim his way.
“Now now, you ought to be nicer to me. Especially since I’ve got these”.
Your spine turns icy when Steve scoops up your shorts and t-shirt with glee.
“Give them back, Harrington” you try to persuade him with something less heated but you’re so unused to being nice to Steve that it still comes out abrasive.
“Nuh uh”, he wags a finger at you, pissing you off even more.
“You’re going to have to earn them back” he tells you, loving the way your expression falls.
It was bad enough that he’d intruded on your ‘me time’ but stealing your clothes? You have half a mind to leap for his ankles and pull him in to hold him under.
“Earn them how?", you ask him instead, grinding your teeth.
He drops your towel on the dock in a heap.
“Put this on and follow me”, he answers, already making off with your clothes, making you paddle over to the dock and wrap your towel around yourself before slipping your feet into your flip flops. You follow him because you have no choice, you can’t risk getting caught coming home dressed as you currently are.
You tread a few feet behind him, your wet flip flops squeaking on occasion and it makes you roll your eyes when you notice him huffing a laugh because of it.
You’re not surprised to find his BMW parked nearby, instantly reminded of that first night in the back seat of his car just as you always are when you catch sight of him driving the stupid thing in the neighborhood.
“Get in”, he encourages, not unkindly, though not with the kind of warmth someone without devious intentions might give off.
You do so, slipping inside the passenger seat while he tosses your clothes in the back.
“Alright, this is what’s going to happen-", he starts, one hand resting on the wheel probably out of habit.
“You want your t-shirt back? I’m going to need something substantial in return”.
“Oh, I wonder where this might possibly be going”, you reply, rolling your eyes, silently hoping your wet body might ruin the leather seat you’re currently leaning against. Make it crack and flake and crumble in patches from soaking you up.
“See? Knew you were a clever girl this whole time. It’s just your attitude that’s fuck awful”.
You deadpan at him in reply, a stern stare levelled at him that clearly conveys that he ought to watch it if he wants to keep his nose intact.
“Come on, you have to admit, it is a little funny", he attempts to lighten the mood he'd soured just a moment ago.
You sigh, a flash of a smile pulling at your lips. “What can I say? You just bring out the worst in me, Steve”. But you’re not allowed enough time to savor a snarky smirk.
Steve hooks his index finger inside your towel, pulling at it until it comes undone, bunching around your lap to expose your breasts.
“Five minutes and then I’ll let you have this back”, he reaches back for your t-shirt, holding it up before letting it drop to cover his lap.
You were less so in the mood to argue though seeing your clothes lazily draped over his stupidly constantly bulging crotch filled you with warm irritation.
“Fine”, you position yourself with your chest facing Steve, fighting to keep your breath as even as possible as his right hand reaches up and closes around your left breast. You’d rather bite the meat of your own tongue in half than admit the warmth of his palm felt any kind of pleasant on your body, lips twitching as his thumb smoothed over your nipple, his fingers squeezing the rest.
“You looking for lumps or is this just your technique?”, you snipe, the only way to push down the gentle whimper he’d very nearly coaxed out of you from his touch.
It works, his eyes sharp when they connect with yours.
“I’ve had mammograms more pleasurable than this”, you can't help but jab again and he takes it as well as a knife to his side. God, you love the fire in his earthy eyes.
“Mmhm. This better?”, he warns more than asks with a cold smile, pinching your nipple before he twists it, pulling the sensitive bud taut.
Despite it, you know he’s not all thorny and sharp edges. Having perked your nipples up with pulling and pinches, Steve uses the remaining three minutes to soothe the sting he'd planted in your sensitive skin, sucking and flicking at your nipples, earning you your t-shirt back. His mouth all messy on your cunt for the next fifteen minutes earns you back your shorts too. Neither of which you’d put on yet. And while it might not have been part of the original stipulations of today's tryst, you consider the half hour spent bouncing on his cock in the back seat an unspoken bonus.
It’s rare that you spend much time together in the afterglow, always needed somewhere else to keep from any suspicions arising. You’re the first one to begin cleaning up this time, slipping on the clothes you’ve rightfully earned back before Steve can make a move to gather any of his own.
"Could give you a ride back", he offers casually. Trying to make it sounds like an afterthought as he stretches out across the back seat, cock soft and still plenty wet with you against his thigh, though not much smaller in size.
“I like the walk”, you turn him down, rolling your towel up into a messy, damp ball. There’s also the risk of being spotted together and getting out of his car, after all.
Before he can try again you promptly depart the BMW, making a brisk getaway as the sun begins to climb up from the horizon. You need to make it back before him so you pick up the pace, the lumpy towel tucked under your arm all the way.
The neighborhood is all yawns and outstretched limbs by the time you make it, a light sweat breaking out over your skin. The Devon family’s youngest boy has just taken to his bicycle, a tote bag full of newspapers slung around his shoulder, ready to be tossed at every doorstep with expert aim. Mrs. Dupree is out in her housecoat and house slippers, overlooking her hydrangeas and other blooming flowers with pride. Mr. Adamson is prepping with a bucket and hose to make his silver Mercedes gleam right next door. In minutes, more begin to emerge from their houses to start their day too.
So many witnesses.
You speed up the stairs and into your room, taking your place by your bedroom window. The one that overlooks the whole neighborhood. It’s then that you let the damp towel drop from under your arm, landing with a soft thud on the floor. Heavier than usual given what you’d so covertly managed to scoop up and wrap up in it.
It only takes a little over six minutes for the maroon beamer to come into view, three minutes more than needed, you notice. Your lips stretch out into a gleeful grin imagining how he must have spent those extra minutes agonizing over his return.
And yet, there’s no hesitation when he pulls into the driveway and kills the engine. You suppose he’s made peace with the situation already because there’s Steve Harrington, departing his car in the middle of your now mostly awake neighborhood, clothed in nothing but his summer best – his watermelon boxer briefs. The ones you'd laughed over when he'd managed to get his jeans off in the beamer.
"What? it's summer", he'd reasoned before peeling them off for you to come take your place on his lap.
You nearly squeal with delight as you take a quick glance at everyone else in the neighborhood. Mrs. Dupree’s hand shoots up to clutch at her pearls, a shade of pink darker than her camellias flooding her cheeks. Little Tommy Devon nearly bumps his sneaker into the spokes of his front tire when it slips off the pedal, some sort of mixture between a scoff and a snort erupting from him. Mr. Adamson is a little more reserved in his reaction, a simple, disapproving shake of his head before he turns his back on the sight of a nearly nude Steve Harrington to focus his attention back on his Mercedes again. You see a few other fingers shoot up to point from different households too. Others whispering intently with each other as they watch the scene unfold.
If it bothers him, he doesn’t show it. Mostly, anyway, striding up to his front door with the same candor as he would if he were fully clothed. But before he sticks his key in the door, before he can save himself from all these prying eyes he looks up, instantly connecting his gaze with yours.
Next time.
He mouths his promise to return the favor to you around a grin, the kind that makes your whole body come down with pins and needles. You waggle your fingers back at him, all pleased and unbothered, making him chuckle before he gets the door open and steps in.
Next time, you thrill at the promise of another wickedly carnal exchange with the man.
Just watched Adam Conover (of Adam Ruins Everything) make such a solid point that I think we should spread far and wide. Yes, having AI write your emails is lazy, sure, but people love being lazy. We need to really emphasize that sending AI emails (or using AI responses on social media, or publishing AI flyers, or or or) is rude.
It's rude. You're making someone take their time to read something you couldn't bother to write. You're telling them they were so unimportant you couldn't be bothered to actually take the time to say something yourself. And frankly, you're lying about it while you're at it.
It's not just rude to make me read something you didn't want to write. It is that you expect me to respond to your email written by Claude. You don't even want me to talk to you. You want me to talk to Claude so that you can make Claude respond for you. It is rude to expect me to talk to a chatbot when I wanted to talk to you.
please please please please reblog if you’re a writer and have at some point felt like your writing is getting worse. I need to know if I’m the only one who’s struggling with these thoughts
this is a common phenomenon. the better you get, the more you recognize flaws. the good thing is you can strive to get better. but the bad thing is that you see nothing but flaws. you are actually getting better, but your editing/critical brain is getting tuned up and can see more things to improve. someone post the graph, I can't find it
would love some thoughts and feedback on something new I'm working on (very very new) but i'm feeling rusty when it comes to creating content that's not already on this blog.
it's just vibes rn but I always wanted to do another fic similar to simmer. not eddie this time, maybe steve (probably), maybe another character from another show, maybe even something original. but i'm thinking a little moodier, a slow burn, enemies to lovers kind of thing, maybe some angst. I think? anyway, here's what I have so far, if anyone would like to read.
HONEY, SHOW ME HOW TO DO IT
The streets are close to dead at such an hour.
The glow of the traffic light outside of your bedroom window makes your walls look scarlet and the summer air that’s leaking in through the open crack is too warm for five am.
It’s July and it’s early and there’s clothes scattered over your floor, a shoe by the door, your bra hanging over the back of your desk chair. Your sheets are twisted into a gingham green lump at the end of your bed, there’s a pillow slumped into your nightstand, nudging precariously against a half drunk glass of water.
The town outside is still sleeping, the AC unit is whirring, your head is aching and there’s a man in your bed.
𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟
You try not to audibly groan as your feet find the floor. The body sleeping next to you is lying on his front, his face buried into one of your pillows, his arms wrapped around it like it tried to run away in the night. He’s tanned and dotted with freckles, a summer scene across the skin on his back, broad and taught with muscle. You frown as you look over your shoulder at him, trying to place a name, a face, any memory of the last few hours.
The only things that come to mind are bare skin and a lot of touching. Teeth and lips and hands and calloused fingers that dug into your hips as you rode him. You rub your face, clearing the sleep from your eyes, the tequila and the taste of sex from your lips.
You try really hard to walk quietly to your bathroom, padding softly across the wooden floors, avoiding the board that you knew squeaked like it held a deadly disease in its whorls and knots. The bathroom door shuts with a squeak and a click and you hold your breath, forehead braced against the cool wood but you hear nothing, no sheets rustling, no feet on the floorboards.
Your reflection stares back at you from above the sink with disdain and disappointment and you’re not in a position to disagree with her. Your hair is a mess and there’s leftover lipstick on your neck of all places, like you’d gifted it to someone who’d pressed it right back onto your skin. There’s the beginning of a hickey on your chest, purple and pink and blooming under the bright fluorescent light that’s humming above you.
The shower starts with a groan and a hiss, the pressure battering the floor of the tub and you shed what little clothes you had on before clambering into it, skin prickling at the chill before it rocketed to almost too hot. You hit the temperature dial with an annoyed indifference, hiding under the cool spray until your hair is stuck to your head and it doesn’t hurt as much as it did when you first opened your eyes.
You think back to the night before, eyes closed, your stomach starting to turn with tequila and vodka and cheap beer. You remembered the sticky floors of the new bar you’d been dragged to, nothing more than a basement room filled with sweaty bodies and with brick walls covered in band posters and beer mats from places around the world. There were more people than tables and an oversized disco ball turned slowly overhead, entirely out of place as some indie sleaze song leaked out from the speakers in every corner.
You’d danced with your friends, nothing more than your hips moving in the crush of bodies, skin on skin as you tried to take shots without it spilling over your fingers. You remember licking raspberry syrup from your thumb, your eyes on a guy who stood across the room from you, his brows raised when you grinned.
You remember a song passing, maybe two, before he came over. There hadn’t been any bravado, no cheesy lines, no faux nonchalance. He’d bent down to your ear, a large warm hand hovering over the small of your back as he leaned into you. Someone had bumped him, his lips brushing your ear and he’d told you that you were pretty.
You’d grinned, shyness disappearing under the taste of tequila and when he’d asked you to dance you’d handed your empty glass to your friend and took his hand. It got blurry then, his hips against your ass as he moved to the music, moved against you. His hands, warm and big, laying on your hips, fingers settling into the crease of your upper thigh until you were too warm and the only answer was to pull him outside for some air.
He’d tasted like beer when he kissed you, your back against the rough brick outside of the bar. But his hand had cupped the back of your head to save it from becoming sore and that alone had you arching into him, his free hand around the back of your thigh as you hitched your leg to his hip. There must’ve been a taxi ride to yours and there was a fuzzy memory of your couch, the man pressed into it as you shed your shirt and straddled him, his lips dancing across your throat, your sternum.
You stayed under the spray until the water turned too cold and your head felt less like someone had jumped on it. Your hair was clean and your face had been scrubbed, your toes minty fresh as you spat leftover toothpaste down the tub drain and when you got out, wrapped in a too small towel, your bed was empty.
realizing many people don't know about infinity train creator owen dennis' among us show from years ago, which has been trapped in unreleased limbo all this time and was just dumped on streaming this morning with no advertisement. they don't even know about its weirdly stacked cast
gummygunk
blakekathryn
kianamaiart
