#but tws just in case

[joanofexys]

I've got like 10 minutes before I promised myself I'd get my shit together and I don't go to therapy anymore so I'm dumping it all here. I will be deleting this later dw

Life has just fucking sucked lately. And not in the way that bad stuff is happening I'm just being forced to deal with the bad stuff that's already happened

A week ago I told my friends about the time the guy I was seeing in October tried to corner me in the props closet and SA me and how I got out of there quick cause I didn't "want it to happen again" which was also their first time finding out I've been sexually assaulted ever. And we just didn't talk about it and we haven't talked about it and we're not going to talk about it. I just really don't know how to cope with the fact that I told someone. Verbally. With words. Not just writing "I'm an SA survivor" on some random vent post on the internet

My best friend ever is a completely different person and all she wants to talk about is her ex-girlfriend who she broke up with months ago and I still love her dearly but shit's just feeling really one sided and no matter how I try and shift the conversation it always goes back to her and her ex

I'm still living at home for college and I'm sharing space with a lot of people and I'm just realizing my family really doesn't know how to talk to each other. I know we love each other but I really don't think we like each other and if we didn't live in the same house none of us would ever be friends

My brother is falling back into the cult we were raised in. My family is still part of that religion, just not the cult aspect, we left, but he's getting really intense about it again. He has scriptures written on this like wall sized whiteboard and he wears a jesus necklace and he preaches to me about sin and how important missions are and church is. And it's just getting really fucking weird and i'm being forced to grapple with all the religious shit I don't like to think about ever

I'm never invited to hang out with friend group. In fact, they specifically uninvite me from these/invite everyone but me to my face half the time. the other half of the time they lie about being busy and then post pictures of them all together

I feel somewhat unloveable and really really fucking unlikable. Like I'm a nuisance to everyone I try to talk to and they just speak to me like I'm fucking stupid and I'm not getting something that they all already know.

All my safe foods taste like fucking garbage. and when you're recovered from an ED and you're autistic and adhd with hella sensory issues that's not a good thing. So I'm not really eating unless someone puts something on a plate in front of me.

I haven't been actively suicidal in a hot minute but the passive suicide ideation is definitely still a major problem and I'm trying to redirect destructive habits but it's really hard when nothing's in my control and I have nothing but those things to control despite knowing it's not good for me.

I'm just fucked up right now and becoming an adult and graduating and having to start all over basically has really just made it hit that I don't actually have the support system I thought I did and that makes it feel like I haven't been doing as good as I thought I was and maybe I didn't make very much progress at all and I've just been tricking myself into thinking that I'm healing and moving on and getting better when in fact I've just been stuck in the same place. And I really don't know how to function as a person out in the world without my usual structure and routines and people and having that change is really fucking scary

[candyje11yfish]

nacho ahhahaha (i hope this looks cool)

[trustymikh]

there are many benefits to being a ground-type pokemon trainer

[a-scary-lack-of-common-sense]

Gravity Falls was strange, and the townsfolk even stranger, it seemed.

The twins had been unceremoniously dropped off on the side of the dusty road, the roar of the bus engine fading away as the driver wordlessly drove off without fanfare. The poor man had almost seemed close to tears ever since they had entered the thresholds of this seemingly innocuous town, all too eager to speed off and away while leaving the two children coughing and wheezing in its dust.

It had not even been a full minute since their lackluster drop-off before they became well acquainted with the oddly sociable and irritatingly chatty inhabitants of Gravity Falls. A single conversation with a pair of boisterous policemen already told them all they needed to know about the history of the town, as well as the whereabouts of their Great Uncle Ford.

"The Mystery Shack," the townsfolk had called it. It seemed as though their distant uncle had earned himself somewhat of a reputation amongst the locals. He was the town cryptid; the ever elusive mad scientist that lived in the outskirts of town in this so called "Mystery Shack". No one really knew who he really was; but everyone knew exactly who he was.

So, when the twins found themselves stood hand in hand in front of the rickety old shack, they hadn't really known what to expect when door had swung open with a deafening slam.

He was a strange man, their Great Uncle Ford. He seemed nothing like the cackling looney lab-coated madman they had imagined from what meager hushed information the townsfolk had offered them. It seemed as though the tales of a scientist gone mad that experimented on stray children that wandered into his spooky "Mystery Shack" was but a cruel rumor.

He mostly just seemed unhealthy, to be honest. His sickly, pale frame utterly drowned in the thick red woolen sweater that practically seemed to hang off of his lanky body like a second flap of skin. It made him look almost child-like, like a kid trying on their parents clothes; which somewhat diluted the intimidating effects of his looming height.

Although, the townsfolk's apparent fear of their Great Uncle Ford seemed to have some merit.

For one, Grunkle Ford really didn't seem all too human. He wasn't inhumane, per se; just, not entirely himself, if that made any sense. Looking at him was like looking at an incomplete puzzle; or looking at someone who you remember all your life wearing a hat, suddenly coming to work one day without one, and it takes a little too long for you to remember what is missing.

It was like Grunkle Ford had lost pieces of himself. Somewhere, to someone. His eyes seemed... almost empty. They were a little too dull and a little too opaque, lacking the lively shine of life everyone else seemed to have.

Another thing was that Grunkle Ford wasn't entirely alone. There was... someone else. The twins couldn't exactly pinpoint where, but they could feel its stare, whatever or whoever it was. They could almost feel its stare, a non-existent eye trailing a weird prickling sensation across their skin. The twins recalled the words of one of the townsfolk, a tall bestacled man with haunted blind eyes; although unseeing they could have sworn his gaze never seemed to leave them, as all he said was:

"Don't catch IT staring at you"

The twins had an odd feeling that IT was looking at them right now.

They didn't even notice when the pale bony hand of Grunkle Ford suddenly reached into their personal space, barely registering his words at all, much less the extra fingers that adorned each of his rough, worn palms.

They didn't take the hand.

If the twins had thought the outside of the shack looked decrepit, the inside seemed somehow even worse.

Every inch of exposed wall, ceiling or floor were utterly covered by sprawling symbols, summoning circles, and indecipherable words that seemed to be in an entirely different language than any the twins knew. They overlapped and tangled into one another into big, messy, red splotches of clustered nothings.

There were notes, diagrams on ripped pieces of aged looking paper scattered everywhere, with hardly any room for post-it notes squeezed wherever there was room. Lit and unlit candles were placed absolutely everywhere; either hidden in the dark corners or openly stood in the middle of the floor; sometimes in a circle, sometimes not. The melted fallen wax had coagulated into a hard white mess onto the floor; the smell of cheap vanilla scented candles intermingling with the smell of halloween fake blood (and Dipper was convince there had to be some real blood there, too) to create a sour concoction that stung their noses unpleasantly.

The shack was sparsely furnished with rarely any furniture at all. Not even a couch, the tables and chairs simply pushed to the walls to make more space for the endlessly swirling symbols and pentagrams. The twins were hesitant of stepping on any of the summoning circles, carefully sidestepping the candles and walking over the line of the pentagrams.

The attic, where they would be residing, was not much better.

Maybe they did end up in a mad scientist's house, after all.

[mxmarsbars]

just some concepts ^.^ can’t wait for the next episode where nothing goes wrong :,3

anyways so uh. suit symbolism and stuff. i think it kinda fits them.

EDIT ; I DON’T KNOW WHAT HOMESTUCK IS /LH

[eydilily]

my favorite

[bamsara]

great, now they need a bath

[devotion-disorder]

featuring test subject Kuuya :D

[spophiearts]

soundwave and his delinquent kids

[kairamuwu]

🫵 gem art cause that one Chappel roan photo got me thinking about women in armour

[bluepandadraws-log]

The Amazing Digital COMIC #44-Ass Ahoy

☕Ko-Fi || [❤PREV] || [🧡START🧡] || [NEXT💙] || Full Comic🎪

[ruporas]

need to exist in your warmth (id in alt)

[seldompathic]

He can't say he didn't try

[gladiatorcunt]

- A ROTTEN TREE BEARS ROTTEN FRUIT | I.

god loves you, but not enough to save you

cw: kinktober prompt (whipping/flogging), blasphemy, inaccurate religious practices, lyrical sadomasochism (more so sadism on his part), erotic religious imagery and references, this dynamic is so weird, implied (as in in my mind) bi reader and charlie, plus sized reader, reader’s chest referred to as ‘breasts’ & ‘tits’ and their crotch referred to as a ‘hole’ but they do have a seperate one other than their ass, pregnancy fantasy, vomit mention, don’t know shit about the show fuck you ryan, blood kink, interchangeable ‘charlie’ & ‘mayhew’ based on pov

do not translate, repost, or feed this work to ai |

kinktober 2024

“Shh, let me clean you up, Father.” You smile, so softly, he could snap your neck if he squeezed hard enough.

You run your nails over his back, trimmed to an appropriate length. Father Mayhew sighs the way Adam might’ve when Eve’s walls clenched around him, God never being more important than this bliss. You’re so devoted, so devout in your worship but he’s beginning to think that you cry out to a different God than he does. If you even believe in an invisible one anymore when you have a savior in the flesh.

“Thank you, dear. That’d be great.” The pulls are pulled from his lips like rotund wooden beads, as if he has no choice but to endure the stretch as they exit his body one by one.

You shuffle off the bed and kneel behind him, stroking your fingertips down his back like he’s a marble statue you just can’t help but reach out and touch. The opposite of Delilah cutting Samson’s hair, you only want to imbue him with your pure love from the inside out. Spooning milk and honey over the tender welts.

His eyelids crinkle as you kiss the nape of his neck, blotting your lips with rouge. There is no inch of his back left without, and when you arrive at the bigger gashes you lavish the cut with your tongue. Drinking his life away and cleaning him up like a good little whore, servicing the man becomes the only thing of importance to you. You dip the tip of your tongue in the recess of the deeper wounds, and caress his tensing abs from behind when he grits his teeth and traps a curse behind them. You only kitten lick him, but often he wishes you would get real dirty with it, caressing your tongue over his muscles in broad and messy swipes.

His scars from previous lashings glint in the low light of the candles surrounding you. You give them their just desserts of course, grateful pecks of attention and acknowledgement. Soothing his pain, that is the only excuse you have to encroach on the verge of breaking your vows. Father Mayhew gives you a purpose and stops your bleating with a heavy hand if you forget your place. Stern hand to raw and stinging flesh.

Sometimes there is no pillow when you kneel behind him.

The next step is that you turn around and face the wall after picking up the cattail whip off the bed and returning it to its rightful owner. You’ve already discarded your habit, no tunic, coif, or veil left on your person. They’re folded neatly beside you, only your rosary nestled in the embrace of your heaving breasts. Your peaks harden in the stuffy humid air, all the oxygen in the world confined to this small room.

He saddles up behind you, his sweaty chest so close to the flesh and contours of your back. Father Charlie breathes you in, taking whiffs of your debauched scent in between silent prayers. He never allows himself to be as forward as you are, his thread of control over his desire has not snapped yet. There are boundaries he can push, but lines he can never cross.

“Good lamb, God recognizes your penance and forgives your soul.” He whispers, dragging the strips of leather down your back until goosebumps rise to the surface.

When you least expect it, he strikes. You muffle a shout into the wall and Father Charlie’s cock jumps under his towel. Briefly he imagines slamming into your tempting body dry, with no preparation, making you sure you feel as much pain as possible. The way you’d wince with every step around the church, the begging in your puppy dog eyes when you’d take communion. How he could hold it above your head like a bone in the shape of a fractured cross, dangling just out of reach of your gorgeous mouth.

The devil gives him dreams of fucking your throat until you’re vomiting and hoarse.

Every droplet of bed peeking out from the cracks of your skin to say hello nourishes him. He shushes you when you’re unable to hold back your sounds, cooing when he notices you humping the air after the fifteenth hit. You just can’t help yourself, nerdy by nature and nurture.

You start soaking the pillow beneath you, imagining what he must look like. A man and his broad hulking body curling around you as he hurts you. Your hole suddenly feels so empty, you have a night of riding your pillow ahead of you, you just want to be good for him in all the ways you’re supposed to be.

As you let a demon of sex control your body, he spies a flash of a white lacy thong nestled between your plump ass cheeks. He knows that if you had also worn a towel, he would’ve hooked his fingers under the fabric and pulled it off. You don’t get to hide any part of yourself from your Father. And he knows he will have to give himself another lashing for those thoughts alone. Even the secret wedding he plans as he strokes his angry red cock, always edging himself, he’s afraid of what would happen if he lets go. How loud the iron gates would be when they creak open. Like the way he wants to spread your ass open and toy with the hidden puckered hole.

His words are in his actions, reopening your old wounds and bringing the warm leather across your back one last time, he hopes your blood soaks through the material. Staining it, the way you have already stained his heart. Father Charlie grins despite himself when you slump against the wall, sliding his bible-roughened hands over your love handles and sticks his pecs to your shoulders.

“You did lovely, today. The Lord thanks you, and I’m so proud of you, you know that?” His thick fingers brush along the bottoms of your tits, never going higher.

He wants to slap them, wrap the beads of your rosary around them until the flesh bulges, painting your nipples in a mix of both of your blood. Marking your souls irreversibly. Marriage of the spirit, a ritualistic wedding in the eyes of the beholder. You shiver like a mouse in front of a snake, and beads of precum fall from his cockhead.

Did Saint Teresa have these feelings when she had the vision of an angel piercing her heart with their golden spear? Did Saint Sebastian when he was pierced by those arrows under the order of the Emperor? Did David when he wrenched Goliath’s head back by his hair and bested him into humiliation? Did it compare to the covenant he formed with Jonathan?

He kisses your glittering scars in thanks and washes your blood away with his lips and tongue too. But unlike any other day in which you’ve done this, he stands up with a grunt and pulls you up with him. Father Mayhew falls backwards onto his bed and so you follow dutifully, and because the hold he has on your wrist is strong to the point of bruising. You lay your head over his heart and pant into his skin as he teases your plush thigh, tracing crosses into the chubby expanse of skin.

“No one has ever seen God; but if we love one another, God lives in us and his love is made complete in us.” He cajoles, walking on that burning tightrope with you.

He wonders if your cunt would be just as chubby, if you’ve ever thought about humping the organ bench, riper than the forbidden fruit, and he mentally catalogs an extra long session of repentance. To be fresh and clean again. Father Charlie will go through his sermons with his lighthearted tone and charming personality, desperate to hide that he’s thinking of plunging his tongue in your asshole. Sipping and slurping up your musk like it’s the only holy water he needs to live. Or entice you into eating his ass, you would love being able to serve him properly, no doubt.

To nourish you with his fragments, his vertebrae and viscera. The body and the blood. The teeth and the testicles.

He’ll sit in quiet contemplation in front of the pulpit, pouring wine over your body in his mind. Following the red trail with his tongue as it trickles down the valley of your chest and dips in and out the folds of your belly. He’ll leisurely open his mouth on a silent moan at the top of your mound, the hairs like yellowing blades of glades against his philtrum, in a perfect paradise there’d be blood there too. His own personal, pervertedly literal, red sea.

You’d look so beautiful, swollen and fat with a child growing in your womb. A shame that can never happen, but a blessing that no heretic of a man could snatch you up and take you away from him. Your flock is here, and the heavy crook of his staff is all you need to guide you back home when you go astray. Trapped in his thighs, molded by his hands, punctured into line with his cock.

[shotmrmiller]

tw:somno

living next door to ghoap and while they (mostly Johnny) like to strike up conversation with you whenever you're getting your mail or tossing out the trash, lately, they've been catching you at every opportunity. even before work and they'll keep you around long enough to almost make you late.

maybe that's why you've suddenly started having raunchy dreams about them both. (but what makes it weird is that they're never together. it's only ever one or the other.) it's hard keeping the shame that sits hot in your chest below the collar of your shirt when you always end up cornered by either johnny or simon just to ask you how you've been recently, if you've slept well, that your skin is glowing.

how can you tell them that you've been getting the best sleep you've had in months because every other night, you've been having an actual orgasm or three to your wet dreams? that you've been waking up in the morning with release sticking your inner thighs together, your sex hot and tender to the touch because (in your imagination) he and his boyfriend eat pussy like it's the last one on they'll ever have?

none of this would be an issue if you just had you a nice boyfriend to give you the attention your neighbors have been forcing upon giving you.

(you don't. you give them a shaky smile, a weak excuse and run straight to your flat. it prompts johnny to chide simon for being so overzealous with you. "told ye to give 'er a few to recover, ye'd gone into 'er room just two days ago," as if he hadn't lapped up all the slick you'd left on simon's face after an hour of eating you out. as if johnny wasn't the one to suckle on the sensitive skin of your inner thigh long enough to leave the mark you'd confused for a bruise. hypocrisy at its finest.)

[weirdplutoprince]

"My friends don't care about me" < bro doesnt know he's being swayed by the darkness in an attempt to further isolate him from others and facilitate his corruption