#i know disgusting

[moonstardreamer17]

🏳️‍🌈🌈💖🧑🏼‍🤝‍🧑🏻👭🏻👩🏼‍🤝‍👨🏻 BNHA ships poll batch 3 [not multiple choice, unfortunately]

If you possibly want to try a much longer version of this BNHA ships poll...

I made one on quotev, and it has multiple choices! Please enjoy~ 💜💜💜

[astorkes]

what if act2 but nobody gets better, they get worse instead🌚

[biggest-gaudiest-patronuses]

Of the 19 hijackers who carried out the Sept 11 attacks:

15 were from Saudi Arabia (a powerful/oil-rich country the U.S. works hard to maintain diplomatic relations with)

2 were from the United Arab Emirates (also a powerful/oil-rich country the U.S. works hard to maintain diplomatic relations with)

1 was from Egypt, 1 from Lebanon.

None of the hijackers were from Iraq.

None of the Sept 11 hijackers were Iraqi.

None of the 9/11 hijackers were from Iraq.

[okjii]

my favorite thing about andreil is that they spent the first two books observing each other like strange bugs in a lab going "mmm how peculiar" at each others every move only to come to the conclusion "wow this dudes 100% not all there. i should be gay about it" and then they are and its the healthiest thing you've ever seen

[inkskinned]

you know, you know. no gods, no masters, no kings on pedestals. everyone is fallible. death of the author. you know! you are balanced about your intake of media - you allow the wiggle room, the grace, the gratitude, the skepticism. nobody above criticism.

but still. a weird gut-punch feeling, something akin to betrayal. you read the article. surprise! an author you love is actually: a serial fucking predator.

well, shit. what now. no, you knew he was a person (all people are), but now you're wondering - what have i overlooked by accident? what messages have i internalized that are strange and cruel? and also, like, what the fuck?

his actions lay a thick glaze on top of everything. like each place is now ruined, opaque in a new way. but okay, fine, you've done this before. you knew better, right? you've been betrayed by many a cherished childhood author.

still, this stickiness. fuck. can you pick up that book again. will you read it to your children. you've recommended it to others - will you ever do that again? and of course, of course, no parasocial relationships. you were theoretically above this kind of sentiment. but the artist informs the art, right.

so it's not something as clear-cut as feeling he owed you, specifically (a stranger) better behavior - just that you kind of, in a distant and odd way... sort of trusted him to do better. it's not like a real trust or something speakable, just the faint hope that the product (good books) was a thin representation of the soul. now it feels like the product (good? books?) was a mask. in some small or insignificant way, your previous support of this person lent them power. your money and your time and your laughter.

and the thing is - you have this terrible, echoing sensation. how many times will this happen? over and over. you find out that the singer you love is actually a predator. you learn over drinks that your favorite high school english teacher is in jail for what he did to her. you listen to the news idly and suddenly discover that a woman you used to idolize has been abusing her kids for an actual eon.

what can you touch without the static melting off. you can't even really complain about it too much (you were supposed to know better, and besides, you don't want the same re-split "it's not your fault, love what you love" basic advice), but now it's here. somehow, it feels like - you let him into your life.

it's not that things need to be pure or an artist has to be like, endlessly perfect, mindful. demure. it's more just this terrible truth that has been replayed through your veins so often it feels criminally vain. power corrupts, absolute power corrupts absolutely. did you want any one person to be worth that power?

it's just that he wrote books where he seemed to understand that. he seemed to know about hierarchies and unfair systems and bigotry and privilege. you thought they were books about what it means to struggle. you thought they were about having power and still using it for good rather than for control. he spooned you a narrative of being a good guy, a kind soul. you fucking bought what that fucking monster sold.

maybe that's why they were fantasies, after all.

[egophiliac]

he did it! 🐍 and it only took...uhhh...well, there probably could've been less punches, but why hold back!

PUNCHES FOR EVERYONE

[kedreeva]

I need you to understand that the very straight and immediate line from someone's very confident "I don't like mice/I've handled mice before so I know what they're like" to joyous wonder as they hold the first calm, friendly mouse they've ever held and murmur "they're so soft/sweet/warm/gentle" practically to themselves is basically a drug

"I work at a petstore," says the young man with much disdain, "so I don't really need to hold another one. I know what they're like."

"These aren't petstore mice," I say, as I turn my hand over and the mouse holds on tighter. "They're not like any mouse you've ever held," I say, as I close my hand gently around the mouse and flip her onto her back for a second so I can touch her mouth and demonstrate how difficult it would be to get one of my mice to bite.

"I'm sure you've handled them extensively from a very young age, though."

"They haven't been handled before today, except to be moved into clean cages." She arranges herself in my hand and cleans her face. "Are you sure you don't want to hold one?"

He opens his hands, and she pours from my hand into his like a viscous liquid. She is soft and warm and sweet, and his entire face lights up when she hunkers down onto his warm hand and closes her eyes.

"....She's changing my mind."

"They tend to do that when you leave it open."

He took her and two companions home.

[tubbytarchia]

well since smallidarity kissed again I feel like I'm mandated to come back on here to share my artistic rendition

[eneabastianini]

It's been almost a year since my last post but I can't not talk about this.

F1 is trying to make a big deal about being more progressive, making a safe place for women. And how do they do that? By grossly mishandling a potential sexual assault case at the start of the season. Allowing Patrick Mahomes to buy shares of Alpine after repeatedly defending his brother's sexual battery case. Allowing James Charles into the paddock, someone with multiple allegations involving underage boys.

AND INVITING DONALD TRUMP.

edit to add: Camila Cabello is a racist and so is Jake Paul who are also at this race

[ducktracy]

there are a lot of evil people in the world and a lot of darkness in the world and so it’s very important for me to stress that now more than ever is the time to spread kindness and compassion. combat the evil by not only not partaking in it, but actively refuting it. destroy the notion that being compassionate or generous or kind to someone is uncool or embarrassing or even scary. be the change you want to see. start a chain reaction. positivity only breeds more positivity. do an act of kindness for someone so that that person who is too afraid to do it themselves can see you, realize that they’re not alone, and perhaps sheepishly follow your example. and then the next person who is too afraid but sees that person can do the same. when bad news comes out about bad people or horrible atrocities in the world it’s such an easy impulse to despair, and obviously it’s important to feel what you need to feel. grieve. be angry. be sorrowful. be empathetic. but dust off your pants and get up and be a part of a chain reaction that, no matter how small the scale, and spread compassion and love and care. all the reasons why you might not—“it’s hard! it’s scary! people will make fun of me! it’s useless because there’s too much evil!” are all grade A arguments as to why you should. you have no idea how many people you could inspire to do the same. even if it doesn’t get you anyway far, you can at least say you have the nobility of trying. please choose love and please choose life. you are worth loving and you are worth inspiring others to love

[moonstardreamer17]

🏳️‍🌈🌈💖🧑🏼‍🤝‍🧑🏻👭🏻👩🏼‍🤝‍👨🏻 BNHA ships poll batch 2 [not multiple choice, unfortunately]

If you possibly want to try a much longer version of this BNHA ships poll...

I made one on quotev, and it has multiple choices! Please enjoy~ 💜💜💜

[withleeknow]

happy birthday my love ♡

[lauriemarch]

and at the end of the day, people will still hate women.

because beyonce is a terrible songwriter who has a good body and nothing more and she's really nothing compared to olivia rodrigo, that stuck-up bitch who steals other people's music, but taylor swift is an old, bitter nothing who clearly hates other girls. and sabrina carpenter deserves to die because she followed her heart, not her brain, and that's exactly why zendaya will never be good enough for tom holland. don't forget about kylie jenner, who's stealing precious timothee's innocence away and dating her is like committing arthouse cinema suicide, or how we said the same thing about miley cyrus and her disgusting profanity, think of the children, poor liam hemsworth, trapped in a marriage with such a horrible woman. lana del rey was hot until she was big and she made trailerpark sexy until her ass got a little too fat. and ariana grande, talentless homewrecker, and selena gomez, jealous and unreasonable, and hailey bieber, even more boring than the blood drying on the knives you are so quick to pull. sophie turner is a bad mom and megan thee stallion deserved whatever was coming to her.

and amidst all of this, we still don't know these women. we cannot fathom the pain of having a public divorce, one where people choose sides and hurl insults at you until the battery on their phone dies. we don't watch them chase after sweet-cheeked children in tucked-away backyards or play board games with their best friends while their chests heave in laughter. we don't know their marriages and we don't know their solitudes. we don't watch them unravel themselves, time and time again, preparing for the battle that we have made of their lives. they can never make a mistake. they can never cry. they can never be who they believe themselves to be.

and we take all of this and we go to work, we ride the bus, we go grocery shopping, we walk in dappled sunlight, and we let ourselves shrivel. i compare myself to every body i see and i comfort in the fact that i can still encircle my wrists with my fingers. food turns to dust in my mouth when i think about the fact that taylor swift thinks she's fat and people still hate sabrina carpenter for sticking by joshua bassett's side when he almost died, for God's sake, and now the people on my twitter feed are saying GUTS is the worst album they've ever heard. i liked it, the tiny voice in my head cries out. she wrote songs that made me feel noticed. they're calling the song i relate to the most a total skip.

so i close the app. i try not to think about the endless profiles screaming about how much they hate a nineteen/thirty-two/thirty-eight/twenty-three/twenty-six/forty-two year old. i try not to think about how much they would hate me, if they knew anything at all.

[moth-p]

Playing god

[tapenbreak]

reverse somnophilia with kylar—as in through the depths of the twinkling night, they can’t help their creaking footsteps from making its way to your thoroughly sleeping form, restless slip their way through an opened window you’ve oh, so thoughtlessly left opened like the forgetful boy that you can be.

but, doesn’t that explain enough on it’s own? that being, an unspoken invitation left by yours truly for him to eventually sneak his way towards your snoozing self—merely unperturbed by the way his quivering figure hovers above your own. prettily dozing away for him to do as he so pleases and that is, to settle himself underneath the woollen covers as well, as though this is where he irrefutably belongs so. him, your curled up form that remains blissfully aware of a foreign presence intimately pressed against your own. . . ah, there it is—found it.

for you see, he’s inadvertently uncovered an unknown secret of yours during one of his numerous trespassing trips of laying upon your single bed, too. one which you’re sorely left unaware of, judging by the way you hadn’t taken proper measures of not purely sleeping in your mere underwear. the sudden grasp of your welcoming arms finding themselves encircled around the width of his rather. . . skinny waist, singular leg hooked upon his hip like it’s the most natural thing to do, as per expected—you cutely cuddle the nearest thing within your reach, in your sleep, but not only that either. simultaneously humping along the familiar curvature of his backside, dribbling cock neatly resting between his asscheeks.

and funnily enough, he doesn’t make the slightest movement so as to potentially startle you. gleefully lets himself be used so, as your unsuspecting stress toy in your slumbering wake. since you certainly need the resulting relief, don’t you? or so, his deluded self has properly convinced himself of such—that he’s surely helping, is all! rubbing along the straining bulge of your leaking cock head firmly pressed against the stretchy material, subconsciously squeezing his squishy thighs to further aid the eventual release, which you seek yourself.

no, no—he really can’t help the stifled whimpers that spills past bitten lips meant to be silenced. cranes his neck partially to the side to witness your utterly adorable expression you’re presently wearing while you’re practically fucking someone’s clothed behind. hitched breath faltering and uncaring for the possible name that may slip out as you’re doing this. solely concentrated on delightfully drinking in the deepening furrow of your brows, flutter of your curled lashes and quivering of your glistening lip. further coaxing you into finishing for your rewarded efforts of crudely grinding yourself against a willing kylar, and finish—you do. rumpled sheets laid askew in the desolate room itself, sticky seed spattering amongst the mattress’s extended space, but more importantly. . . covering the surface of his shorts like a candid trophy meant to be flaunted, which he won’t as this is meant to be only his to witness.

so maybe, the loner breathlessly lays there for a couple more minutes to savour the feel of your body nicely close to his—despite being unconscious of such. steals a glimpse downwards to where his cute, little cock lays untouched and pressed against the inward part of his thigh. doesn’t let himself chase any sort of release either because, in the most pervasive of ways, he finds it hotter that you’ve involuntarily neglected him of such an orgasm. let him silently leave once he’s done his part of satisfying your sleeping form underneath various blankets as though he was never was here, to begin with.

and maybe too, do you awaken in the morning with a noticeably apparent flush to stain the fullness of your cheeks. inwardly cursing at having another salacious, wet dream to be the barren cause as to why your briefs are now stupidly painted shear in your translucent cum. jolting upwards at robin’s curious head peering to the side from your door left ajar while claiming it’s nothing—you’ll be the one to clean this filthy mess and slip on your school uniform on time.

unbeknownst to the fact that the dark headed boy adds another stained shorts of his to his growing collection, disgustingly admires the sheen of your fat load now adorning the fabric of his clothes. sometimes wears them as though they’re a part of himself, too.

perhaps, he’ll make due to consequentially have your pulsating cock catch on the rim of his puffy hole next time and then, hold your dripping seed in his ass to school.

yeah, maybe. that’s an idea.

[dreamyluigi]

the ultimate show