#i fucking struggled with these tags goddamn

[marylily-my-beloved]

You guys.

If it's marylily, then there has to be dorlene, and pandora x sybill.

If its pandalily, then dorlene and emmary (emmeline x mary).

It its marylene, then dorlily and pandora x sybill x emmeline.

If its lilylene (lily x marlene) then it has to be dormary (dorcas x mary) and pandora x sybill

If its Mary x sybill, then it has to be dorlily and pandora x dorcas.

If it's dorcas x sybill, then it has to be marylene and pandalily

If its emmeline x lily, it has to be marylene and dorcas x pandora

but no matter what, it's always emma x amelia

[gods-perfect-idiots]

something something blood-soaked hands cradling your face something something

anyway here's the post btw

[lordartsy]

Octokuber, day 4 - Sentai

Now while Gaoranger is technically the first sentai I sat down and finished, Abaranger was my first actual exposure to sentai because of. Well. Dino Thunder.

I can't reasonably be unbiased to Abaranger because that's MY show. It's got dinosaurs, Masaaki Endoh, and friggin' (gestures wildly) ABAREKILLER. I think this show sparked my love for pointy guy armor.

[silentwalrus1]

You know, i think the weirdest thing about people tagging my art “parental Royed” is that they clearly don’t mean it. it’s never about exploring any actual relationship these two characters have, it’s just a panic-label lest Someone online sees two men standing in the same image and instantly accuses the reblogger of pedophilia (never child soldier endorsement tho. Funny how that works). They’re like “if only I forcibly smush anything I see into the Found Family box then surely nobody can accuse me of homosexuality i mean being seen with the devil i mean UnChristian Thoughts. Surely this will protect me.”

Genuinely, if you see an image of two men interacting in any way and your first thought is “oh shit, I better make sure there’s no GAY PEDOPHILES in here!!!!”, consider who and what ideological position you are serving 

[triglycercule]

i want to headcanon the mtt having absolutely terrible hygiene and struggling to keep themselves clean (this MAY... just QUITE POSSIBLY.... only in the SLIGHTEST bit be projection) but i think it would be too gross and man EVEN I dont wanna think about that

also killer canonically smells good and i actually really LIKE that idea so oh shit there goes that idea out the window. horror and dust youre my only hope please let me make you smell bad for reasons you won't understand

[hauntingblue]

Hiyori is the most effective person to complete their kill so far

[the1trueanon]

every time i think "oh, twitter can't be that bad to share my art, other people use it, surely at least tweeting links to my work on other sites would be a good way to spread my art" twitter finds some way to announce it is, in fact, that bad and actually, it has decided to become much much worse -_-

[vigilaent]

my cat will not stop having asthma attacks so i may be a bit scarce

[orcelito]

genuinely tho me jumping right into reading volume 9 of trimax and then volume 10 (and then most of the rest of the manga) on the night before i had a presentation at 9:30 am (that was entirely not prepared) was literally one of the most unhinged decisions ive ever made

this is what a hyperfixation does to a person

[mysunshine-youremoonlight]

i get told "you choose what to do" and then get yelled at for choosing what to do

[crowsent]

pros of homestuck bitches taggin ships with the lil symbols: you know if youre readin blackrom or redrom

cons of homestuck bitches taggin ships with the lil symbols: you are specifically searchin for blackrom but ao3 does not discriminate and gives you 30k of the fluffiest toothrottin bullshit youve ever read when you want these two cunts to try and kill each other

[celestialmancer]

⛈️ ❌ ❌ ❌ // 2:09 am, tbd ;

[maskyartist]

*dips my toe in* hello tumblr minecraft community i have a problem and googling is only going so far with no answers :) i need gay people help,,,,

ANYONE KNOW WHAT TO DO ABOUT THIS CAUSE ITS DRIVING ME BONKERS

[slater-baby]

Welp, since absolutely no one asked

Here are the types of bodies I think the 141 have ✨

TF141 x Female Reader

Tags: cum eating, blow jobs, oral (fem receiving), cumming in pants, multiple orgasms

Warning: NSFW imagery beneath cut

Kyle “Gaz” Garrick

As far as sheer beauty goes, Gaz might top them all. I head canon Kyle as being pretty lean, body composed of sculpted, sheer muscle. He's got a slim frame, like a runner or boxer.

Graceful. Strong. Built for endurance and agility.

What's more? It's fucking effortlessssss. Like, legitimately. When he was a middle schooler, he might have been told he was skinny once or twice. But the minute he hit his growth spur and shot up like a bean stalk, no one could say shit.

Why?

Because Gaz looks like a goddamn male model and he doesn't even have to do anything to maintain it.

Perfect skin? Yep. He uses five dollar lotion.

Legs like a ballerina? Uh-huh. The only training he does is for work.

Sculpted, mouth-watering abs? Check. They were built by McDonald's fries, Netflix, and the grace of God himself.

Let's face it. Gaz looks like he walked off the cover of a magazine purely because the lord has favorites. Let's move on.

Now, Gaz might only go the extra mile when it comes to work training...

But those muscles didn't just come from anywhere.

And the first time Gaz gets you underneath him, cock pounding into you for what feels like hours, you finally fucking understand.

Gaz's body—slick, strong, and slim—is built for agility. For endurance.

It's built for trapping you beneath the length of his covetous frame until you're too exhausted to struggle. For holding you down until he's dripping with sweat, until every muscle in his shaking body screams for a break.

Until his long, aching cock is slowly dripping semen onto the flat of your stomach.....for the third time in the past hour.

Gaz might loathe running the track, but he'll have you fucking like bunnies until you manage to buck him off.

The man has stamina that could rival a racehorse, and god help any woman that found herself in his grasp.

"Sit still, baby," he pants loudly, wrenching the globes of your ass in two of his model-esque hands, "M'not fuckin' done yet. One more...I just—need one more."

Johnny “Soap” MacTavish

Now Soap? probably the exact opposite of Gaz.

When body building became popular online, Soap jumped right on the bandwagon. Perhaps he grew up as the youngest brother in a horde of boys...or perhaps he was just tired of being the shortest boy on the football team...

But the minute he was old enough to afford a gym subscription, he was there. From dusk 'til dawn, practically. To Johnny, the gym is more than just a hobby. It's a lifestyle, and one that he enjoys immensely.

Soap is bulky, built of bulging muscle, broad shoulders, and thin hips. Every inch of it, from his plush chest to his cut abs, was painstakingly earned by hours of pumping iron.

He goes lifting six days a week, tracks all of his nutrition down to the last calorie. Everything he puts into his body is tracked and monitored--and that's the way he likes it.

He'd never say it aloud, but if it were up to him, I think he'd be the type to participate in those fitness/body building competitions.

In simple terms though? Without all those fancy words? "Macros?" "BCAAS?" What the hell is that?

In layman's terms...

Johnny has arms like tree trunks and ass for fucking DAYS. With the bulk and cut cycle, he oscillates between beautifully fatty in the thighs....to shredded like a piece of paper.

You can't help but watch him go back and forth, mind reeling with the change.

In the winter, you rest your head against the soft plains of his stomach while you lap at the head of his cock, soft and squishy from holiday cookies and hot cocoa. You like him like this.

Full. Rosy cheeked. Cock leaking strings of slick in the dip of his belly button, semen thin and stringy in your mouth.

In the summer? God help you.

In the summer, Johnny's out more than he's in, running himself ragged between his diet, work, and the gym. When he comes home, he's grumpy and agitated, balls achingly full, and semen thick after months of careful water intake.

His caloric intake might be down...but he prefers a different type of eating, anyway.

Good thing he has all those muscles. All the better to hold you down while he fucks you on his tongue.

"Johnny—" you mewl, shoving at his head when his tongue curls around your clit again, "It's past five already—aren't you ready for dinner?"

His lips pop when he pulls off of your swollen clit, eyes glazed over while he watches the way your pussy leaks.

"M'not hungry, doll," he mutters, "Got more than enough to eat here, anyway..."

Simon “Ghost” Riley

Simon Riley....

Now, he's just a big fucking boy. Like, 6'4, over 250 lbs type of big.

Hear me out. Contrary to popular belief, I think Simon has more trouble keeping weight on than keeping it off. I wholeheartedly believe that when he was a teenager he was a thin guy.

Like, he'd fully grown into his height, but just didn't have the nutrition to support it. Simon doesn't cook, and...for lack of a better description, he's not great at taking care of himself. When he was a teenager, still trapped in his parents house, he probably skipped more meals than he ate. And before he joined the army, I think it's safe to say he was a lanky, underweight kid.

But the minute that man starts eating three meals a day?

GODDAMN DOES HE GROW. Like, I'm pretty sure by the end of basic training his drill sergeants were terrified of the monster they'd created.

Simon's fucking heavyyyyyy. Built equally of fat and muscle. He likes the gym, but his body isn't built for the magazine. It's built for utility. For war. For fucking blood. He doesn't care about appearances. He needs strength than can kill.

Barrel chest. Biceps bigger than your head. Stomach muscled and heaving. A trail of wispy, blonde hair leading down from his belly button into the hefty bulge at the front of his pants....

Simon's a behemoth, and anyone whose fought him on the mat knows better than to stand within his arms' reach.

Now, his weight fluctuates pretty heavily, too. A rough few months in the field could see his weight dropping quickly, in which case his hard earned muscle would show through.

But when he's on leave?

...homeboy sustains himself on granola bars and ramen noodles. He gets soft around the middle and also should probably drink more water but...good luck trying to get him to eat more than convenience store junk. He’ll set the kitchen on fire if he tries to boil some water.

Simon's big.

And he's big everywhere.

The zippers on his jeans are remarkably tight. His fatigues look almost like lingerie on his thick thighs. And if he's wearing grey sweatpants?Simon's a lethal fucking weapon at that point.

Why am I telling you this?

Because the first time you see him naked, you might be tempted to reconsider opening your legs for a man like him...your cervix will be bruised to hell and back--not to mention your ass and thighs, too. His hands aren't kind like Kyle's, nor are they careful like Johnny's.

He'll rough you up, pound into you like any reasonable woman could ever manage to take the full length of him without crying.

He'll bite his identity into your collarbones, burn his fingerprints into the fat of your ass cheeks. And when it's all said and done, he'll bully the fattened head of his ruddy cock between your lips and watch the tears drip from your eyes, swollen mouth quivering when you try to swallow his cum.

And if it's all too much to handle? Good luck getting out from under him. Because once you're there, you're not leaving unless you can push him off, match his strength, or make him cum fast enough to leave before he's hard again.

Though, nobody's ever managed it before...not like they'd ever want to.

"Mm—Simon, you're—“

"Shhhh, love," he grunts, your body shoved flat to the mattress beneath his massive frame, "Don't move. Don't fuckin' move. I'm almost there, just....fuck, sit still and let me fill you up, yeah? Then I'll let you go...I promise this time."

Captain John Price

Now, if there is anyone in the 141 that actually enjoys the food they eat, it's Price.

HEAR ME OUT HEAR ME OUT

okay so, Price, as a Captain, probably makes substantially more than the other three. That, and he's a good bit older too. He's past his prime (or so he thinks), and whether or not he has a perfect six pack when he looks in the mirror is the LAST thing he could ever care about.

Price isn't one for keeping up appearances--at least not as it concerns his body shape.

Is his beard trimmed and oiled? Always. He's damn near neurotic about it.

Is he always freshly showered, groomed, and cologne-d? Without a doubt. It's a point of pride.

Does the watch he's wearing compliment his clothing? he spends a STUPID amount of time thinking about it.

Will he gain another pound if he eats the Oreo cheesecake at the end of the night? Yep. And he'll enjoy every. Single. Second of it.

Price is as close to a foodie as a purebred military man can get. He loves cooking, and he recently remodeled his kitchen. He has GREAT taste in wine and spirits, and has spent a significant amount on amassing a good collection in his house.

If there's one word that describes Price, it's this: DECADENCE.

This man drinks, smokes, and eats as much as he pleases because he's lived long enough to learn the value of hedonism.

Why skip the cigs for the cigar when you could smoke both? Why stop at popping a just a single bottle bottle? Why not order the most expensive steak on the menu? Or the thickest slice of chocolate cake you've ever seen? What, like he'll regret it?

Price doesn't regret anything, and his body reflects that.

Of course, due to his profession, he never truly falls out of athletic shape (he's ready to be called away at a moments notice, after all). But he's LONG SINCE ditched his glory days. Like the others, his body fluctuates between highly cut to soft around the edges.

Price is thick around the ribs and plush in the chest. His weight settles around his hips and arms, making his biceps fluff up if he eats enough. His stomach is soft and sweet. So are his thighs.

The only thing that doesn't change?

The hair. Holy shit this man has a lot of chest hair.

All in all, Price likes a good meal, but he's still in elite fighting shape. Though, unlike the other three, his age stops him from being purely athletic. If anything, he looks more like a construction worker or landscaper. Someone who spent a long time building things with their hands instead of running laps around the track.

Now, what was that about decadence? Drinking, smoking, eating...

Price was indulgent in every sense of the word. Indulgent to himself, to his friends, and to his family.

But in bed?

The way Price fucks makes you understand why people let their teeth rot for another bite of Halloween candy.

Price wouldn't know moderation if it hit him in the face. And when it comes to your pleasure, to your body in and of itself, Price will be damned if you walk away without a smile on your face.

He's a service Dom through and through. Hell, just feeling your cunt clench around his fingers, your voice crying through another orgasm, is nearly enough to make him cum in his pants.

He'd done it before, too.

Was he embarrassed about it?

Not at all.

"John," you gasp, watching his length twitch rapidly beneath his jeans, a wet spot appearing at the top of his bulge, "Did you just..."

"Yeah," he groans between kisses, "So what?"

"It's—It's just that...isn't that a little—"

"Embarrassing?" he chuckles, "Hardly...Not if you'll go as red as I think you will when I let you lick me clean."

To John, watching you lap at his softening cock--and enjoy it too--is more than enough to get his blood pumping.

He'd always give you exactly what you want...even if you didn't have the guts to ask for it aloud.

[fettuccin-e]

Honey-Sweet

Description: You're far too sweet for him. He's determined not to ruin you, despite the fact that he seems to ruin everything, and everything about you just seems to make his fantasies worse. But one night can change everything, apparently, when Miguel finally sees how completely not sweet you can be.

Tags: Miguel O'Hara x Reader, afab!fem!reader, hoooh boy a lotta smut okay, oral (m and f recieving), unprotected piv (pls oh pls wrap it up irl fuck them kids), riding, doggy, missionary, some fluff bc i'm not completely deranged, light degradation (w/c: 2.1K)

A/N: oh lord the Miguel brainrot is REAL folks okay this is fucking crazy. I WANT THIS MAN TO **** ** **** * ****** ******* okay he has me fuckin frothing at the DAMN MOUTH actin like a DAMN DOG okay so please enjoy a bit of a miguel smutfest

You’re too fucking sweet for him. That’s what he tells himself. Miguel O’Hara doesn’t do sweet.

You’re fucking sweet with the way you bring cookies in for the other Spiders that accompany you on missions. You’re sweet in how you brought in a ridiculous hand-made baby blanket for Mayday when Peter first brought her in, emblazoned with his Spider-Man logo to wrap her up tight in. You’d kissed the baby on the head, whispering tiny sweet nothings into her bright red hair, and Miguel had had to hide the emergence of his fangs at the sight of it.

You’re too sweet, too kind for him. You organize little movie nights at the office, you make him stay a little longer on missions so you can see the tourist spots from different universes. And the way you look at him, all wide-eyed and bright and smiling… it does things to him.

It makes him want to bring you flowers, kiss you on the cheek. It makes him want to plan fucking candle-lit dinners and bake cupcakes with you. All sweet, too sweet.

But, because he apparently can’t stop himself, you also want to make him do decidedly not sweet things. Like grab at your tits through your suit, pinching your nipples until your knees go weak and you whimper his name in your gorgeous little voice. Like force you down on your knees, fucking his cock into your hot mouth while tears leak down your cheeks. Like tying you up with his webs, eating your pretty cunt out while you struggle against them, whining that “it’s too much, too much Miguel.” Like fucking you deep, so fucking deep on his cock, making you squeeze around him while you scream for him, beg for him to fill you up with cum. He thinks about watching it leak out of your achy pussy, dripping down your thighs.

But you’re so goddamn sweet, too gorgeous and lovely, and he can’t ruin you, he can’t. 

So when you finally wear him down, finally get him to go to coffee with you, he tries to be just as sweet as you. You hold his fucking hand, you kiss him on the cheek. You smile into his mouth as his lips meet yours in front of your apartment door. Miguel swears that his heart will pop with how much it swells when you’re near him.

He brings you flowers, walks you to your door, brings you lunch while you’re filing post-mission paperwork. And God, it’s beautiful. It’s fantastic and bright and so wonderfully domestic that Miguel wonders if he’s died, gone to some heaven he doesn’t deserve. He’s determined to revel in the domesticity of this… thing he’s created with you, his disgusting fantasies be damned.

He doesn’t like to think about how he has to fuck his hand after he drops you off at your house, his lips still burning with the touch of your soft, soft kiss. He thinks about how your lips would look stretched around his dick.

He’s content. He’s happy. For the first time in so fucking long, he’s happy. And he’ll happily tug on his dick by himself for the rest of damn time if it means that he gets to revel in your soft, pretty, wonderful sweetness for a little bit longer. He will not ruin you.

But.

As he kisses you softly in front of your apartment, the both of you still suited up from your latest mission, you tug him closer. You pull him down into your hungry mouth, and you lick into him like you’re starving for it. He can’t help how he growls at the feeling of it, his big hands coming to clutch at your hips. God, you’re pretty, fucking addicting with the way your tongue tangles with his and how you whimper when his hands cup your ass, tugging you up just that extra inch.

“Take me to bed, Miguel,” you gasp between feverish kisses, and fuck, he’s gone.

He hauls you into his arms, and his knees almost go weak at the way you wrap your thighs tightly around his middle, the way you lick into his mouth all over again.

And Miguel has spent so much time in his head, thinking, no, knowing that you’re sweeter than goddamn pie. It’s in every fucking breath you take, every moment he spends with you. 

But that night, as he lays you onto the bed, gently, gently like you deserve, he learns that you’re not as sweet as he thinks you are.

Not at all.

Not with the way you roll him over with your strength, begging for him to disengage his suit, looking at him like you want to devour him as it dissolves around him, leaving him bare to your gaze. You graze a reverent hand up his chest as he heaves under you, whispering, “God, can’t believe I’ve waited this long to have you like this. You’re so pretty, Miguel.” 

Pretty. Pretty? He can’t be the pretty one, no, not when you’re unzipping your own suit, and he can see everything. Every inch of supple, soft skin. Your nipples, hard and peaked and begging for his touch. Your pretty, pretty pussy; he can see how you’re practically dripping, the wetness between your legs glistening in the soft lamplight.

And you’re not sweet, not sweet at all, when you nip and suck little marks down his chest and abs, grinning up at him like a damn siren when he gasps at your touch. Fuck, you’re the opposite of everything he thought when you take his cock into your mouth, bobbing deeper, deeper until you just can’t anymore, jacking the rest of his cock while you kiss and lick and suck at him.

You grab his hand with your free one, and pull it into your hair. You pull up from his cock, and Christ, there’s a line of your spit that connects you to his throbbing tip, and Miguel thinks that he might die. 

“Fuck my face, baby?” you rasp, and yes, that’s it, Miguel is going to fucking die here. But he can’t refuse you, with those gorgeous eyes gazing up at him, the tip of his cock on your tongue. 

It’s not sweet, not at all, when he forces your head down on his cock, pressing himself deep into your pretty little mouth. And you moan like you love it, just taking it as he thrusts roughly into your mouth. Your spit runs down his shaft, your little whimpers and the way you choke when the tip jams into the back of your throat all echoing in his ears. 

He can’t hear himself, but God, you can. You relish the way he growls every time he pushes you down deep, telling you that, “You’re such a good girl, hermosa. Mierda, mi nena perfecta.” Your pussy throbs.

He isn’t soft, isn’t gentle like he told himself to be when he pulls you off his cock. You gasp for air, and Miguel groans as he pulls you up by your hair, dragging your spit-slick lips to his mouth. He can taste himself on your lips, all sticky and hot and puffy. 

You whine against his mouth, murmuring little pleas of “fuck me, fuck me, fuck me,” into him, and his cock twitches, red and aching desperately for your touch. 

“Have to make sure you’re ready,” he mumbles, even though he aches, even though his claws threaten to show. 

“Nononono,” you whine, and then you sit back, hovering over his cock, fucking monstrous compared to the tiny opening of your dripping pussy, and press down.

Fuck, it’s like heaven inside you, all perfect and wet and hot, and you whine, muttering that, “It’s so fucking big, God, stretches me so perfect, so fucking perfect, so much bigger than I could have dreamed-“

“Nena,” he interrupts you with a hoarse groan of his own, “gotta stop, ‘s gonna, gonna hurt you, oh fuck-“ 

And you grin at him again, filthy and raunchy and not sweet at all, as you say “I fucking want it to hurt, Miguel. Wanna feel you in the morning, wanna feel you all the time.” And you press yourself the rest of the way down his thick cock, gasping for air, your hips twitching like they can’t decide whether to run away from the sensation or seek it. 

“Fuck, wanna feel you all the time,” you murmur and Miguel can’t decide whether you’re actually talking to him or not. “Want you to fuck me so hard I can’t breathe, fill me up so fucking perfect, God, oh my God, ‘m so fucking full,” you roll your hips forward in desperate little circles, a weak attempt at getting him deeper. An endless stream of “fuck me, fuck me, please please please,” starts to leave your lips again, and you sound so desperate, so needy, that Miguel can’t help but roll you over, pinning you underneath him, and fucking his cock so hard and so deep into you that you dig your fingers into his back and sob.

He does what you ask that night. He fucks you and fucks you and fucks you, until tears leak from your eyes and your bed is soaked with a mixture of yours and his cum. And God, you scream for him, begging him for more, deeper, harder.

The slick sounds of your bodies meeting over and over must be heard all over the building, but Miguel can’t bring himself to care, not when he’s able to fuck you like this, disgusting and filthy.

How could a sweet, lovely, soft thing like you love this so much?

From that night on, it seems that all bets are off. From that night on, it seems that you make it a mission to show him exactly how not sweet you are.

Fuck, there’s no sweetness to you when you hump your hips into his face the next morning, practically smothering him in your pussy as you squeal and tangle your fingers in his hair. He digs his fingers so hard into your thighs that he’s sure they’ll bruise, and licks up your juices. Your pussy is honey-sweet on his tongue.

You’re not soft when you ride him into the mattress, throwing yourself down onto his cock and moaning as you stretch yourself out. You drag your nails down his chest as you bounce desperately in his lap, and Miguel kind of hopes you draw blood.

There isn’t an ounce of innocence when you sink down on your knees under his desk when he’s in a goddamn meeting, pulling his cock out and sucking at him until his claws shoot out and leave splintering holes in his desk. He has to hide his fangs from the video camera when you choke. 

When he finally, finally cuts the meeting short, feeding the other Spider-Men some bullshit excuse about a new anomaly, he presses your head to the base of his cock and shoots his cum down your throat. He means it as a punishment, but when he pulls you off his cock, and sees you with your eyes all glassy and smiling lazily, he can’t help but bend you over the desk and finger fuck you until you cry and scream and beg for him to fuck you with his cock.

You are so far from sweet when he fucks you on the floor after a mission, tensions run too taut and adrenaline racing through your veins. You throw your ass back onto him with every thrust into your sloppy cunt, moaning as he growls, “Such a fucking slut, can’t get enough of this cock, huh? My sweet, sweet girl, what would the rest of the Spiders say if they knew what a fucking whore you are for me?” 

And when you choke on your spit around your screams, he leans down to whisper that, “I know, cariño, I know. I'm gonna take care of you,” before he shoves your face down into the carpet and mounts you, shoving his fat cock down into you again and again and again.

Miguel is positive that he’s died and gone to heaven.

It’s not to say that you’re not the same, sweet girl who brings cookies to the office and holds his hand. No, you’re the same, perfect, sweet girl, only that you let him thank you for the cookies by eating you out on the kitchen floor. You hold his hand while you jerk his cock and swallow his moans with your kiss.

You’re just the right kind of sweet for him.

[the-angel-of-the-bottomless-pit]

i deserve a cookie or something for finishing postal difficulty while on my period the toll this shit has taken on me is insane dfgdsgdjfg

AND DO NOT EVEN SPEAK TO ME ABOUT WHEN I FORGOT TO SAVE AT THE END OF THE BRIDGE; TRIED TO FIGHT MIKE J AND FUCKING DIED AND HAD TO REDO THE BRIDGE AGAIN.

FUCK THE BRIDGE, EAT MY ASS WORLD, IM FUCKING COMING FOR THAT LAST ACHIEVEMENT WHEN I UNCURL FROM MY 'AAAAAAA AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA MY INSIDES ARE BEING RIPPED APART BY RABID WILD HOGS' BALL OF PAIN