#marbles.. .dear god

[cosmik-homo]

OK i have enough of the avon-raistlin-swap nonsense to move it to a seperate document, so the question is should it be "Blake's 7 2.5: Replacement" or "Dragons of the sad embezzler".

[questionthewitness]

you are made of pain and grief and regret and love. that is all you are, and all you have ever been, and all you ever will be.

or, tim wright, a brief synopsis.

gut punch, everybody's worried about owen | entry #20 | entry #15 | clarice lispector | entry #64 | entry #72 | entry #74 | unknown | entry #66 | the worm king's lullaby, richard siken | entry #83 | entry #80 | c. c. aurel | entry #83 | entry #84 | bitter water, the oh hellos | entry #17 | entry #84 | if my body could speak, bylthe baird | entry #86 | marian keyes | entry #87 | firstfullmoon, tumblr | entry #87

[carnivalcarriondiscarded]

assorted scribbles and Love Bites!!!!

[strawberijasper]

"And yeah, the doctors were nice enough They just said I'm fucked Just like my mom is fucked I bet your dad's fucked up"

Some art of Tim I did a few months ago and just didn't post. I've been trying to deny the resurgence of my fixation on creepypasta/marble hornets... I can deny it no longer... I am back in the fucking building.

[your-oddities]

☆ • Jam headcanons !! • ☆

(Spoilers , of course. Nothing too big though. So don’t fret!!)

-Jay’s hands are cold. Frigid. Zero circulation. So when Tim first found this out, he held Jay’s hands for five solid minutes until Jay had to get back to what video he was editing. Hand holding is now a regular thing for them.

-Tim has always had this need to feel independent. He just hates relying on someone else in fear of being a burden. So he feels somewhat guilty whenever Jay buys him anything. Too bad Jay’s love language is gift giving.

-Great segway into saying that Jay’s love language is gift giving, with physical touch being a close second. Tim prefers quality time. Though they make it work somehow.

-While they both get anxiety talking to strangers, Tim’s more than willing to go up to somebody for Jay. Especially if it’s someone that could potentially be connected with The Operator. Tim knows first hand how easily it is for Jay to rub someone the wrong way. He’s found it’s easier for him to take the reins in social situations.

-If Marble Hornets was in present day, Jay would send cute cat videos to Tim with the text “us?”

-Tim is a dry ass texter and Jay hates it. He’s already an over thinker, so Tim uses tone tags (specifically ‘/nm’) to assure Jay he isn’t upset or anything.

-Jay will always wear Tim’s clothes. He used to find the smell of cigarettes too much, but after meeting Tim, it brings him so much joy. Prompting him to wear Tim’s jackets often.

-Tim, of course, noticed the first couple of times.

“Is that my jacket?”

“…”

“..no.”

“? … okay.”

-He stopped trying after that.

-I headcanon them to both flail in their sleep. This leads up to many nights of them getting smacked in the face by one another.

-So, as much as they love each other’s company, they sleep in separate beds. Or with a pillow in between their sleeping bodies. It’s the only way for a night to not turn into an unconscious smack down.

-Tim can handle spicy food well, though Jay can’t. That doesn’t stop him from taking a bite of Tim’s spicy food at a restaurant often.

-Jay spits it out onto a napkin and chugs his entire water. Tim watches across from him, trying desperately not to laugh.

-Tim shaved his beard one time without telling Jay. Jay was left wondering why his boyfriend was in the bathroom for so long. After a few minutes, Tim emerges clean shaven.

-Took a while for Jay to get over grieving the lack of hair on his face. He’ll still wake up in the middle of the night — well after Tim has grown his beard out again — haunted by the image… /j

-Tim accidentally stumbled upon Jay’s yearbook once. Safe to say Jay never heard the end of it about his highschool haircut.

. ◠ . ◠ . ◠ . ◠ . ◠ . ◠ . ◠ . ◠ . ◠ . ◠ . ◠ . ◠ . ◠ . ◠ .

Thanks for making it to the end!! Love you, reader. Take care. ♡

[redactedcrowart]

deleted tta entry

[spotsupstuff]

it's dooooooone it's finally dooooooone,,, seven more Iterators vibe checked with voices!

Song list: - Orion: TheVoicePlay ft. Ebucs - Your Man - Step & Vapor: Kavinsky ft. Lovefoxxx - Nightcall - Disdain: Acapella Onion - My Jolly Sailor Bold - Expiation: Pam Rabbit - Ve Starým Domě [In An Old House]

[vinnyandthephenomena]

imagine jay merrick on tik tok

[clustertheidiot]

happy early marble hornets day :>

[kr4bzy]

Me in my creative writing class writing Jam fanfiction send help

[creative-chaos-apparently]

BESTIE HOW ARE WE FEELING ABOUT THE SOLDIER POET KING MUSIC VIDEO AND PINS

Im handling it pretty well.

[rokry]

Was going to post these post anaesthetic doodlings yesterday for funs while I was still a bit loopy but I couldn't take a not blurry photo of them.

Characters belong to myself and @vondieerde respectively :D

[peculiar--princess]

Dear universe, it’s me, please give me a break.. I’m begging

[fallen-goldfishcracker]

It's honestly incredible I haven't talked about this yet but like, I love Marbles by the Amazing Devil so much. So, so much. I think it might be my favorite Amazing Devil song, and I know I say that about every single song of their's, but like seriously, Marbles is incredible.

I think it's something to do with the fact that, yes, Marbles is a love song. But it's so much better than that, because unlike most love songs, even most tad love songs, it's not just a love song to your partner, it's also a love song to yourself. Marbles is a song about loving yourself and your partner in every stage of your life and relationship, and it does it so beautifully I could cry.

"You're not flawed darling, you're just a little under rehearsed."

Marbles takes one of the scariest aspects of human life: aging and growing old, something so many people fear, something I know I'm terrified of, and says, this is normal, and human, and it's beautiful. The way they portray love changing and growing throughout the years along with your stretch marks and sagging skin and crows feet at the corners of your eyes, not as something to be feared or resent, but something to welcome and accept and cherish. Sjodjdksvhdffhsjs

"You're eyes aren't rivers there to weep, but a place for crows to rest their feet."

I just love it so much okay

[suiana]

yandere! prince who got cursed and became a statue for like hundreds of years. only the kiss of his soulmate will break the curse that got cast on him by a silly wizard.

enter, you.

innocent and silly you, walking through the forest (maybe trying to look for your next monster hookup) before bumping into this... this beautiful marble statue of some prince??? what? who even is he?? why is he here???

is this... your main character moment? where you kiss him and the two of you fall in love and- haha! that won't happen! you're just being delusional!

of course, being the silly specimen you are, you still kiss his lips without thinking much of it. i mean, you fucked some monsters before. what's a marble statue gonna do? he's hot, might as well right?

WRONG.

you shouldn't have done that because the second you kissed him this bright light came bursting from his chest and now you were being kissed back by this random oldie who's now supposedly human again.

"ah...ah... are you my soulmate? god you're beautiful-"

"dude i just wanted to fuck some monsters."

unfortunately, no more monster fucking for you :( because this geriatric prince is jealous as FUCK and will absolutely go batshit bonkers if you as much as suggest looking at someone else.

"lol, that drider looks kinda hot-"

"ahaha what drider? *cleaning blood from his sword*"

he's made himself a part of your life, without your consent by the way, and it's going to stay that way. no, he doesn't care if he's from centuries ago, you're his and he's yours. that much is certain to him.

so now you have a god of a prince hovering by your side 24/7. plus side is you get to see him act like a grandpa with all the new technology and lingo!

"my dear, what is... sk... skebeede? skibidi? how do i exit this app? ah, i want to take a picture, how do i- *breaks phone screen*"

he's trying his best :( just love him dearly, won't you?

[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.