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— Should I share with you?

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anyways soap obviously chewing gum and then he gets kissed by ghost and his jaw just stops moving after they break apart and everyone thinks that he must have swallowed it to kiss ghost but then they see ghost's jaw moving under his mask???

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It's called a Shema prayer. It's a declaration of faith in God. I lived with my grandmother when I was little and she and I used to recite it, every morning.

Even youths grow tired and weary, and young men stumble and fall; but those who hope in the LORD will renew their strength. They will soar on wings like eagles. It's Isaiah 40. I was an undergrad theology major...I don't know why I said that.

Noah Wyle as Dr. Michael Robinavitch and Gerran Howell as Dennis Whittaker THE PITT 1.14 ⟶ “8:00 PM” (2025)

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i’ve watched this like 8 times in a row

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With everything going around these days about generative AI (such as c.ai in fan settings, and chatgpt for everything else) I've decided to put together some banners for creators to put with their works if they like. Here are the ones I have so far:

(LET THE MACHINE STARVE - DO NOT FEED AI MY WORKS)

(KEEP ART HUMAN - DEATH TO AI)

(THIS WAS MADE BY A HUMAN - KEEP IT THAT WAY)

(NEURONS NOT WIRES - DEATH TO AI)

(HUMAN MADE HUMAN LOVED - DEATH TO AI)

(SAY NO TO GENERATIVE AI - DEATH TO CONSUMERISM)

(NEW THOUGHTS ARE HUMAN MADE - DEATH TO GENERATIVE AI)

(MADE WITH HEART NOT A CPU - DEATH TO AI)

Feel free to use these! I just ask that you reblog this post if you do, and tag me for credit somewhere on your blog (:

I've tried to pick a color that looked legible on both light and dark backgrounds, but feel free to ask for other colors (via askbox) if you're needing something else and I'll try to get to it!

edit: some other versions i had made as well but wasn't sure how easier they were to see, so I put them beneath the larger versions!

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Just remembering that the Color Out of Space gave us salt-and-pepper beard Elliot and I think that's very important

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cw dubcon anal, breeding kink if you squint. bite-sized.

alpha!price clamps a hand over your mouth, muffling your slurred cries and whines about how he’s not even doing it right.

hot tears track down your cheeks, a bitter mix of shame and frustration bubbling in your chest. low in your belly, a matching ache coils tight, pulsing with a need that almost outpaces the hurt.

but nothing compares to the raw, overwhelming burn of his cock stretching your ass. your words come out in broken gasps under his palm, high-pitched and frantic, but they do nothing to slow him down.

he fucks you with a detached but relentless efficiency, as though all of this is beneath him. tells you how it hurts him too, to do it like this. how he’s wasting a good knot, all because you went and did something stupid and tried to lie about your heat. lock him out.

he reminds you how could be stuffing your pussy, the way you need it, and putting his cum where it might actually do some good. but it seems you want to do everything the hard way.

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Mister Rogers

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and if i tell you all that i’m thinking about gaz and the girl he’s courting giggling over memes, his curls nearly brushing her hijab as they gravitate towards each other from opposite sides of the little table they share, completely oblivious to the chaperone’s annoyed expression hm?

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yeah, this is my pet knight, she's a rescue. i gave her a brief act of mercy and she followed me home and sat outside my door to guard me from intruders. she swore her undying allegiance to me in exchange for a gift of grace and now she sleeps at the foot of my bed and weeps when im late coming home. and yeah, she only eats wet food because she's a snob, also.

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I’m in Florida. The gulf, sand, salt, fishing piers and pelicans, all of it always makes me feel a certain type of way but today It has me thinking about working by the sea. You’re scraping by, manning the bait and tackle shop your dead dad left to you, shoving worms and minnows and rental rods out the door, nodding your head back to the converted chest freezers for the more experienced so they can find the right bait for their morning. It sits in the middle of the pier, a halfway point for curious visitors and a quick stop for the others. You’re there before the sun comes up, and leaving after it’s set.

You’re a regular in a world of people passing through. Beach vacations and charter fishing, scuba diving and long days lounging in the sun. Houses painted candy colors line the streets, a far cry from where you live in an apartment on the other side of the island.

But it’s home. And in your home you notice things. Like the Brit.

He comes every morning. Buys a bag of bait and disappears with his rod in tow. It’s not a tourist’s rod either. It’s something respectable, something you see the old heads with at the end of the pier. They’re the ones who speak to him, and vice versa. Short, choppy conversations like midday tide, about fishing, about what’s biting and about… war. All the old heads are vets of one time or another, they wear their hats proudly, their blurred blown out tattoos still stark on their arms, scars aplenty. But the Brit has that look in his eye, the one that matches theirs. There’s some sort of understanding there, a club you’ve never been apart of, all together at the end of the pier, old proud men in their sixties, their seventies, even eighties, and this behemoth who couldn’t be forty yet. Sitting side by side, fishing. Casting. Reeling. Passing around beers and bags of chips.

At lunch, they come back to the shop. They buy the ice cream in the freezer, sodas, forties of modelo or bud. Grown men and their ice cream snickers bars and beers, just like your younger brother. The Brit doesn’t speak but he often pays, even when the crew of old heads put up a fight.

Lately, he looks at you longer and longer. Studies you like you’re a puzzle. You catch him a few times, and others, it’s blatant.

You can’t decide what it’s about. You don’t want to know.

Still, months and he rarely says two words to you. Just the grunting in the morning when he buys bait and a nod. A gesture towards the lunch loot and a gravelly thanks. A question about what bait fish are in the back. A comment about the flimsy window.

It’s not until Jerry makes a comment about how he doesn’t like you locking up and riding your bike home every night on your own that he gives you more than two words.

“Those assholes on vacation are stumbling drunks you know. City folk have no respect, they just take.”

And the words don’t come until after sunset, when you’re halfway down the pier with your bike tick-tick-ticking beside you, and he’s walking your way.

“Gonna walk you home.”

“Oh, no, that’s not-“

“It’s not a question.”

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cod art dump featuring ghost and soap being trans <3

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oh youve been a yucky little parvert havent you. You will be rewarded

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happy out for a walk bitch day to those who celebrate