#Rooted in Jesus

[gazehaven]

[palatinewolfsblog]

"If our Christianity causes kids to go hungry, the sick to go without healthcare, the stranger to be unwelcome, the elderly on social security to be called a "parasite," all while billionaires get richer, we've profoundly misunderstood the most basic elements of Jesus' teachings." - Rev. Benjamin Cremer

[elodieunderglass]

does Killie manage to be a flat-and-jumps jockey all the way up to retirement/greyuncle era, or does injury (and Derek) force him to find some other occupation in between the two? fascinated to know what the second-choice job would be since jockey is so much what Killie IS

(Killie the jockey OC)

I don’t actually know! You’re very right! I have no idea!

The average retirement age for a flat jockey is 31 and jump is 33. Of this, the tough little lightweight jockeys, mostly of the previous era when people were smaller, seem to keep going for much longer than you’d think, many riding well into their fifties - which is actually quite old for any athlete. There seems to be a relationship between generational jockeys and longer careers/older retirements, too, though that’s probably combinations of family support, as well as possibly passing down the especially wiry/muscular builds that do a bit better in the context. It’s a topic that gets danced around a bit, but it’s known that being more muscular and better fed, with better bone health, means you can take more damage and bounce back faster. Also, jockeys frequently retire in their late twenties without injury or being forced, because they’ve achieved their natural adult size and it simply becomes incompatible with the job. So shorter ones do seem to last longer in the job; and as a bonus, turn into those wonderfully wiry little tiny old people that stump around the place in big boots and giant coats, muttering about their allotments. Killie is set up to be one of those.

I want him to be forcibly retired, though, and I DON’T want him to go the predicted trajectory of training racehorses OR raising another generation. Even though I find it a personal Special Interest and highly absorbing, it is such an incredibly STUPID sport. I think he’ll get dragged out of it by Derek by the scruff of his neck and maybe simply kept as a Kept Man. And there might be an interesting story to explore there in itself. Who the HELL is Killie without his job? (Crisis.)

We know he’s patient and kind with children, good at nature, excellent at mental arithmetic, and somehow ends up strangely wealthy (they’d probably settle in the UK, where keeping horses in the UK is NO cheap hobby.) maybe he simply earns and saves a true fortune of prize money, from tackling a career’s worth of astronomical purses, and retires honestly to be a surprisingly pleasant house-husband.

I think @eldriwolf has fond memories of a retired jockey who was a kind and patient beekeeper and science educator. Maybe he could do that. Maybe as a nod to Tark, Diana Wynne Jones’s retired jockey, and my own interests/hobbies, he could get violently competitive about village fetes/allotment shows, and enter his increasingly serious show tomatoes or something. Killie with his own Jam Saga going on, silently fighting psychic battles with his many enemies at parish council meetings that Derek drags him to because they’re doing their Civic Duty 😌 and Killie’s having a full wizard fight on the astral plane with That Bitch Agatha-who-strategically-shoved-his-Victoria-sponge-cake-off-the-table.

Who knows!! What do you think?

[torksmithtruther]

GET A ROOOOOOOOM

[frosting-surfeit]

Me too zim

Me too

[lrithill]

Undisclosed Desires

This is my very first fanfic / one-shot about our favourite clown.

I jump straight in, since I have been rooting for this freak for months, and inevitably, cultivating (oh…) so many twisted thoughts.

First of all I should introduce you a little about my idea of Art (at least in this post): This man has some serious sexual deviations, like cannibalism or necrophilia. Luckily for him, he has the most devoted girl ever (AKA you), and will make all his undisclosed desires come true. You live for his pleasure.

I recommend listening to the song "Undisclosed Desires" by Muse (one of my favourite rock bands), it kind of inspired me… but the majority of this aberration was born from my mind.

Warning: Smut, odd sexual practices.

Art is the sweetest guy around you, don't worry about him (or yes...)

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As usual, Art shows up at your door at the strangest hours. That man can go three days without showing his pretty face around here, only to appear at 3 a.m., covered head to toe in blood, as if it were nothing.

It wouldn’t be the first time you wake up to go to work and find a trail of blood from the door to the kitchen, and from the kitchen back to the door again (maybe that bastard just came for a drink of water).

Art rings the doorbell musically. You rush to the door, only to find a human blood clot, once again. He greets you with an uncomfortable hug—more uncomfortable for you than for him, of course—but you can’t refuse it. It’s then that you notice Art gesturing towards his garbage bag. He points at it, then drums his fingers with a half-smile, brimming with intrigue. “A surprise?” you guessed.

You lock the door, trapping yourself with the madness that makes you feel sane.

Art and you head to the kitchen, where he rummages through his bag. As you watch, you can’t help but admire how adorable he can be. You see him pulling out rusty weapons, a doll, a rubber duck, a wig (it looks way too real to be just a wig), etc… Until he finally finds what he was looking for.

A decapitated head is masterfully revealed on your kitchen counter, like some sort of collectible item—nothing less.

Art unveils it with a showman’s gesture, his smile radiant and his eyes gleaming with excitement. Your face… well, at least it’s better than when he brought a mutilated scrotum, you suppose.

-Why did you bring this, my king?- you ask, unsure whether to be worried or to laugh at the satirical absurdity of the situation.

Art responds by pressing his hands to the sides of his face, gripping them tightly, making it clear that he finds the head pretty. He takes it to the table, moving your fruit bowl aside and placing the head in its place. He finishes with a “perfect” gesture (a chef’s kiss) and then looks at you with the most convinced expression possible.

-If being a killer doesn’t work out for you, I see a future in interior decorating,- you can’t help but laugh. -Although I know damn well there’s no better killer than you, my love- you whisper.

You plant a kiss on his lips, which Art proudly accepts. You love his mouth, his lips feel like touching the sky… “hell’s sky,” you think.

Feeling altruistic, you run your hands along his figure. You don’t care about the blood—you’ll shower later. You feel Art’s body reacting to your touch, gradually relaxing. You caress his back, his sides, his abdomen, his thighs… He responds by deepening the kiss, leaning into you, pushing his tongue into your mouth… your tongues dancing in a passionate kiss.

Your eyes are closed when he grabs your ass, right near your pussy. You can’t help but jolt and break the kiss, a strand of saliva still connecting your mouths obscenely—an omen of what’s to come.

It’s then that your gazes, synchronously, land on the head on the table. It feels as if you’re being watched. Its expression… with its eyes still open and mouth slightly agape… almost looks like a mockery.

Art moves to take it away, but that’s when you stop him. -I think we can put it to a more… “interesting use”- you suggest, a dark tone seasoning your words.

Art’s eyebrows raise—clearly, you’ve caught him off guard. His imagination runs wild, and he’s not sure if you’re really thinking the same thing.

-You didn’t just bring this for decoration… I know you want it- you tease him. -I want you to do it- you add, looking into his eyes, biting your lower lip.

In fact, Art really did bring the head to masturbate with it, but he didn’t want you to know—he’s a monster with shame, after all.

You position yourself behind Art, pressing your body against his, making sure he can feel your tits. You wrap your arms around him, trapping him between your body and the table where the head rests. You smile at the fact that his cock is at the perfect height.

You find the zipper beneath his clown collar and slowly pull it down. As his back is revealed, you place soft kisses along it. With each kiss, you see Art’s skin prickle, shivers running down his spine.

Once you’ve stripped him of his suit, you grab a platform you stole from your workl—a theft made specifically so he could fuck you standing up. This clown is fucking tall. You set it nearby for when you’re ready to step up.

His cock is semi-erect, so you begin stroking it slowly while continuing to kiss his back, licking him. Your other hand roams his lower belly, pressing gently.

Art can’t help but let out a sigh of pleasure. His head tilts back, mouth slightly open. He loves being touched by you.

His erection grows until it reaches its full size. You bring one hand to his balls and squeeze gently. You know Art loves this. His cock is leaking precum, which you use to stroke him while massaging his balls.

Art is in ecstasy—if he could moan, he would, and loud.

Now, you grab the decapitated head and bring it to Art, guiding his hands toward it, urging him to hold it. Art obeys and presses the tip of his cock against his poor victim’s lips. At the same time, he feels you step up onto the platform behind him.

You begin kissing his neck, right in that spot where you know he melts. You suck on it loudly—Art loves it. Your tongue works wonders on him, you nibble gently, trailing kisses up to his jawline.

Meanwhile, Art has already started fucking the mouth of the head. It feels too good—it’s still moist and warm. The throat wraps around his cock perfectly, constricting its pharynx and esophagus. This man is huge, no doubt about it.

-This woman really couldn’t have imagined she’d end up like this when she woke up this morning- you mock.

Art chuckles—he loves when you make bizarre comments. And it turns him on so much.

-You’re now probably thinking about how you killed her, you bastard- you say, grinning perversely.

And it was true—Art did get off on remembering some of his kills. Sometimes, he fantasized about killing someone while fucking them in some way, but those were just fantasies… what he did with the body afterward was another story.

Muffled grunts escape Art’s mouth as his thrusts become more erratic. Just the idea of fucking a decapitated head was driving him wild—and adding to that, your hands exploring his body, your nails tracing his skin, and your mouth worshiping him… His body was trembling with arousal, his muscles tightening, his eyes rolling back into his skull.

You make him look at you and kiss him deeply, your hands cradling his face—that face you love so much. His sharp cheekbones, chiseled jaw, deep abyssal eyes, sunken cheeks… he is literally a work of art.

You could tell Art was close—his face was the giveaway. When he furrows his brow and shuts his eyes, you know he’s about to come.

You get off the platform and kneel. You don’t do this often, but the situation demands it.

You bring your mouth to his ass and begin licking his hole—first in circles, then pushing your tongue inside. You are truly devoted to this man, and you want him to know it.

Art is drooling, his long, thick tongue hanging out, panting like a dog. You drive him crazy.

After giving attention to his hole, you move on to his balls. You know this is the last thing he needs to push him over the edge. You lick them expertly—you’ve done this many times, and you love it. Running your tongue between his balls, swirling around them, sucking on one, then the other, then both at once. You love having him in your mouth, in every way possible.

Art’s thrusts grow more frantic and erratic until, with a sudden movement, he buries his cock to the hilt and stays there. From the way his body trembles, his back arching, and his balls tightening, you know Art is having the orgasm of his life.

You rise from between his legs and watch him breathing heavily, his chest heaving violently. He gives a few last, slow thrusts into the head as he comes down from his high, savoring the sensation.

At last, he pulls away, his legs shaking—he looks like a ragdoll made of sand, utterly spent. With the last bit of strength he has left, he kisses you once more—soft, romantic kisses, as if saying “thank you”.

Breathless, spent, he looks at you with adoration.

-We should shower, my love- you suggest, taking his hand.

The truth is, you’re both an absolute mess—blood, sweat, saliva, cum…

The couple heads towards the bathroom, where things will likely heat up again—you’re both insatiable, after all.

-Next time, you could bring a dismembered pelvis, darling,- you joke, though you know there’s no need to give him ideas.

With that, the happy couple walks away, laughing—and tomorrow will be a great day at work for both of you.

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I hope you enjoyed this thing. I will bring more if you like.

I would appreciate coments also, may i do some of your suggestions if you ask me.

Thank you and sorry for grammatical mistakes.

[exile-on-uwustreet]

people have said it before but i'm obsessed with hoshino subverting the dark and brooding rival trope by just making kanda a little silly.

[pipers-pixels-and-papers]

Warning: Entering ecological dead zone. Adding report to databank.

The brainrot is returning so here's a Ryley

[moonshynecybin]

the earnhardts are such a fascinating intergenerational racing family bc its like. dale's dad ralph earnhardt was also a really successful NASCAR racing driver, but he refused to help dale race AND refused to give him any approval and then DIED young at age 45, which EVERYONEEE who knew dale was like yeah that drove him insane. that gave him issues. lifelong ones. so dale went into debt trying to race and make him proud/prove him wrong, and then dale wins a championship in his second year but because hes so focused on racing (because of HIS father...) he himself ends up not having too much of a relationship with his kids. apparently barely saw them for years and left their mom to raise them alone in poverty. (he did this to two women and three kids but one of them got adopted by his stepdad. oop) but anyways. so it looks like. a pattern might be continuing. father’s inflicting poverty on their sons. generational cycles.

but then. the kids house literally burned down! and when they were in a tough spot because of that, he took them in to his big house on lake norman to raise them with no questions. which okay bare minimum but still. notable that he takes em in. and they have a tough relationship bc his son isn’t so much a tough guy. doesn’t quite fit in with what the mold of masculinity should look like to a race car driver from rural north carolina. so it’s tough. and he sends him to MILITARY SCHOOL… which to me is like. an i don’t even know what to do with you move. utterly unequipped

but even more notable: he starts to miss his kids and he brings them home from school. has another baby. and he starts bringing dale jr to races to ‘help’ with the crew. and then helps him start to race on his own. and dale gives him the support that his dad never did for him, and then to boot— its a way that his stunted north carolina working class rural ass can actually RELATE to his son in a way he never could before, and they DO bond through it. again unlike dale sr and his father. and dale sr wins 6 more championships. and finally daytona. and proves his dad wrong. he CAN race. he CAN win. he CAN help his son race. and maybe, FINALLY, he reaches some peace inside himself with his lineage and he soothes some of that wound in his soul.

but then its the twilight of dale sr's career, and dale jr joins NASCAR. and its 2001. and his son is running p2 in the daytona 500, the biggest race of the year. the one it means the most to win. and dale sr is in p3, and knows how much this means, and knows his own career is coming to the end sometime soon.... and hes the guy famous for racing every lap like its his last. doing anything for the win. the master of the bump and run. the intimidator. and literally as his last act on the earth, he IGNORES that same desire to win a race that has defined so much of him as a competitor and has been created in response to the approval his dad never gave him, and he defends his son's p2 for lap after lap from the cars behind. and then on the last lap, one corner from watching his son podium, he dies. and his son climbs out of the car after finishing p2 in the daytona 500 because of his father. and just has to deal with all of that.

and idk part of what is so fascinating to me about this family is that its two generations of people who SHOULDVE been nepo babies (and in many ways were), but who also lived in periods of poverty because their father's failings. and ralph earnhardt died before he could see his son prove him wrong, but dale earnhardt, despite also doing so much harm to his son and not understanding him for a lot of his childhood, managed to eventually carve through the daddy issues and the history and his own reputation and the particular brand of southern working class repression that can FUCK people up, figured out how to tell his son he loved him the only way he knew how: through racing, and he died trying to give his son a better chance at success. and i think there is a very interesting aspect of tragedy to that

[p0w3rslav3]

Real asf Corey taylor

[robinsballs]

Guess who’s back….

[memobread]

his norman reedus era😩😩😩😫😫

[tiredgirlvent]

This is beautiful ❤️

[the-two-who-grip]

What are your thoughts on those who don't have one or more limbs, yet choose not to get a prosthetic?

By doctrine, those are the purest of souls. To struggle is human. To suffer is human.

They face the most temptation, though...would be easier to give into the desires of the flesh than to stay pure. So we like to keep a close eye on those types~

even still, i take pity on them...

[holy-sweetsour-milk]

Being a long time viktor fan in 2024 is a blessing. Imagine going crazy for a robot cyborg man who claims he got no feelings but is so gay for his stupid ex-husband with no face and JUST a hair color to work with back in 2012. God aren’t we blessed

[thingsmethinks]

Can McLaren shut the fuck up for 2 minutes, my god get a grip on running a team