#no babe ur not

[raedioactive]

Blitzø, incredibly drunk and crying: Stolas, I have something to confess to you

Stolas, thinking he's about to admit his love for him: yes, darling?

Blitzø: I- I'm a virgin!!!

Stolas:

Blitzø: *crying*

Stolas:

Stolas: he's drunk isn't he

Moxxie, from behind the fridge: oh yeah, definitely

[willgrahamscock]

me personally, I pause mid reading rpf and dm celebrities to get their permission to bust and if they don't reply I kill myself

[obiwhat]

continuing the armand-eats-cigarettes discourse. for no reason. besides that he would.

[temeyes]

Gaz is in his anime phase now hehe (a sequel to this animatic!)

[inkskinned]

love when men cry about body hair bc "it's hygiene" and yet 15% of cis men leave the bathroom without washing their hands at all and an additional 35% only just wet their hands without using soap. that is nearly half of all men. that means statistically you have probably shaken hands with or been in direct contact with one of these people.

love when men say that women "only want money" when it turns out that even in equal-earning homes, women are actually adding caregiver burdens and housework from previous years, whereas men have been expanding leisure time and hobbies. in equal-earning households, men spend an average of 3.5 hours extra in leisure time per week, which is 182 hours per year - a little over a week of paid vacation time that the other partner does not receive. kinda sounds like he wants her money.

love that men have decided women are frail and weak and annoying when we scream in surprise but it turns out it's actually women who are more reliable in an emergency because men need to be convinced to actually take action and respond to the threat. like, actually, for-real: men experience such a strong sense of pride about their pre-supposed abilities that it gets them and their families killed. they are so used to dismissing women that it literally kills them.

love it. told my father this and he said there's lies, damned lies, and statistics. a year ago i tried to get him to evacuate the house during a flash flood. he ignored me and got injured. he has told me, laughing, that he never washes his hands. he has said in the last week that women are just happier when we're cooking or cleaning.

maybe i'm overly nostalgic. but it didn't used to feel so fucking bleak. it used to feel like at least a little shameful to consider women to be sheep. it just feels like the earth is round and we are still having conversations about it being flat - except these conversations are about the most obvious forms of patriarchy. like, we know about this stuff. we've known since well before the 50's.

recently andrew tate tried to justify cheating on his partner as being the "male prerogative." i don't know what the prerogative for the rest of us would be. just sitting at home, watching the slow erosion of our humanity.

[almondpiglet]

practicing stuff with rei n seris steampink outfits

[depravedangelbaby]

if ur family sucks im giving u the biggest hug rn <3

[theloveinc]

Almost everything Giulio Gandini does is methodical—

The way he brews his tea, when you’re together and he insists upon a pot of hot water and his own sachet of loose leaves for steeping.

The way he makes your bed, with fluffed pillows and crisp sheets, the edges always cut where he’s folded the linen into the mattress to keep it secure…

And the way he finger fucks you, every night before bed, with your legs splayed open on top of clean, white sheets, and his warm body nestled into your side, mahogany hair loose around his face, hot against his neck.

He near cradles you in his lap, thick fingers (always his own flesh, never the prosthetic) rubbing warmth into your core, making sure you’re sopping before ever trying to enter you. Giulio seems to know your pussy better than you do, as by the time he’s two fingers deep, your thighs are already aching, strained from taking the shock of the two, three orgasms he was already able to glean from you with such little sweat on his behalf.

By now, this night time activity is routine, as is so much of the way your household with him is run, which is why you still scold yourself for not lasting longer at his behest, even if it is all for the sake of you—

(Never is he trying to torture you, more so just show love to you in ways much more specific than words can get, and maybe tire you out for a better night’s rest, at the same time—)

But every time you think you’ve become immune to the curl of his fingers, the press of his thumb against your clit, he manages another something else to have you writhing—first it was the scissoring of his fingers, then the addition of a third digit, and then the heel of his palm smashing into you, the list goes on—though his skill is methodical, well practiced and deliberately timed, Giulio is far from afraid of surprising you, especially if it ends in such a sweet reward.

(Often the wetting of the front of his boxers, from his own cum or the overzealous release of yours—you’ve never quite squirted with other partners the way Giulio can make you, and still manage to stop most of it from hitting your sheets, either by catching it with his tongue or letting it seep into his own clothing.)

He never lets you finish, finally, knuckles deep, without a kiss. Deep and guided, he kisses you until you’re left panting into his mouth, kisses you until you can’t reciprocate any longer, and kisses you until he’s left to do the work up kissing up your tears, instead.

By then, you’re much too caught up in the aftershocks of him, cunt still throbbing in his hands, to do anything more than let him soothe the white numbness of your near overstimulation in any which way he pleases. Sometimes that means running you both a bath (he could never not join you in the tub after such intimacy), soothing your aching body with a hot washcloth and a pot of fresh tea, or cuddling you until the sun rises.

Regardless, in such afterglow, you let him hold you until your breathing is back to normal and you can look him in the eye again and smile that tired little smile, the one he loves so much. All before he slips into bed beside you; a dutiful servant, giving til his last breath.

[notanartist143]

Got jumpscared by Hugh Laurie at my local library today

[rosecoloredmax]

my pretty pretty princess

[infinites-chaser]

"You are someone who needs dreams more than you need nice things. You are someone who needs faith more than you need bulletproof, long-term plans. You are someone who needs to see your life as unlimited more than you need to recognize the inevitable obstacles and disappointments that lie ahead. You’re a person who needs to worship the sky in the morning, and while you praise the peach and gold light, you need to treasure every mistake you’ve ever made like a tarnished ring, like a clay heart, like a smooth river rock. Mundane mistakes and mundane objects are filled with magic. You have the rare ability to recognize that. Everything that goes wrong right now is a gift that shows you what you don’t want. Everything that goes right is a glimpse of what’s possible. This is true for all of us, no matter how old we are, but it’s especially true for you in this moment, because everything is new for you. You will look back on these days when you’re older and have even more problems, big and small, and you’ll say “Sure this stuff is hard, but at least I’m not living at home and working at that torturous fucking job!” You will feel grateful that this unlimited world gave you an opportunity to see who you are, as clear as day, without a shadow of doubt. Because knowing who you are and what you love is bliss. You can get through a lot, once you know who you are and you’re willing to stand up for who you are.

You just need to understand this: You are a person who needs to cultivate an unlimited mindset no matter what you’re doing. You need to imagine big things. You need to dream.

The most precious thing you own is your faith in your own stubborn heart, your own delirious soul, your own glorious dreams.

Pursue your academic dreams. Don’t do it because you’ll become someone important. Do it because it makes you feel alive right now, it supports who you are, it gives you an unparalleled opportunity to embody your values and principles. Difficulties and obstacles only make it even more possible to manifest your faith and inspire others with it. You will be rich or poor or somewhere it between, and it won’t matter that much. What will always matter is how you feel RIGHT NOW, what you believe in RIGHT NOW, and how unlimited the world feels to you RIGHT NOW. At the heart of all of this, for you, is daring to feel more, daring to care more, daring to invest and invest and invest, daring to look like a fool in the eyes of those who never dare. This is who you are. You are luminous when you feel everything, when you dare, when you give up on having too much and you learn how perfect JUST ENOUGH looks and feels to you. It looks like less than enough to others. That’s not your problem. You will lose faith. You will feel discouraged. You will feel tired. And you will get up the next day and believe all over again. This is who you are."

[newwavesylviaplath]

i think about him all the time.

[hoffmansgirl]

what the fuck he's actually insane?????!!!!!! my god

[inkskinned]

yesterday while feverish i wrote about how boats can moor next to each other like pigeons, cooing with the gentle rap of water against their hull. you once said that that the way i see things - birds in the water, feathers in marina paint - was "childish and naive." you said i'd been misdiagnosed - "it can't all be adhd. you might be just kind of stupid and lazy."

i still do certain things like how you taught me - turn the pillow case inside out before putting it on. drive defensively. hate myself entirely.

the prompt for this poem is "mahler's fifth." i wish it wasn't, but mahler's fifth was our song. it ended up in my book. every person that knows your name has promised me they'll give you one swift rabbit punch, right to the face. dean read the book and showed up on my front porch, drenched in sweat from running the 8 miles at 4 in the morning. he was shaking. pacifist and gentle - he works with children - i'd never seen him furious. a punch isn't going to do it, he said, and then said i'm sorry. i had to come to see if you were okay.

mahler's fifth was mine first, like my girlhood. i like the way each movement piles onto the next movement, each instrument bleeding into the next. i like the horn version the best. before i met you, i danced to it on grass still-wet from sprinklers.

later you would tell me that the way you heard it was somehow better. you understood something in it that i couldn't quite wrap my fingers into. once, on our anniversary, you asked the classical music radio station to play it for us. we missed hearing it because we were fighting. one of the things people get wrong about abuse is that sometimes victims are, like, brutally aware of the stupidity of our situation. what do you mean that you thought i wasn't good enough for you? you? you're just... nothing.

sometimes people can pull the poetry out of your life. i watched my words become clothesline, and then thin out into kite twine. i watched you chew through every good syllable of me. so many good songs and places and moments were ruined. i am glad you didn't like most of my music - less to tie back to you.

but still mahler's fifth. the music swells, and i am 21 and throwing up in a bathroom on my birthday. a woman i will later refer to as lesbian jesus runs a cool hand down my back, her perfect pantsuit starch-pressed. she told me to leave you. she said - and this is true, and not an invention of rhyme or fantasy - i'm you from the future.

i am 22, and i got home from an award ceremony, and i remember you telling me - you act so proud of yourself when you're actually so fucking embarrassing. i took you to disney world. you took my virginity. i gave up visiting spain for a week with my family - i instead choose you, to spend the time just-cuddling. you called it "our fuck week." the music swells. it probably should have been a red flag that for about 3 years - i just gave up on crying. my grandfather died and you said nothing. my uncle died and you ghosted me for 3 weeks. you said i need to protect myself from your ongoing tragedy.

every so often i come back to the memory of one of our last afternoons in person. i had just told you that i wasn't going to law school, despite the free ride - i was going to join a creative writing program. master's in fine arts. i was going to finally do it - i was going to follow my dreams. this blog was already internet-famous. however reluctantly, i would occasionally refer to myself as a poet. i got into umass amherst's writing program for fiction authors. it is one of the the top 5 programs in the country.

wait are you seriously considering actually attending that? dumbfounded, you turned completely towards me in your seat. for the 3rd time in our relationship, you almost crashed the car. you actually want to be a writer?

the first time i went viral, it was for a poem i wrote about you:

he wants to say i love you but keeps it to goodnight because love will take some falling and she's afraid of heights.

every time i see that, i want to throw up. you weren't in love with me, you were in love with the control you had over me. a little truth though: i am afraid of heights. you caught a rabbitgirl and skinned her alive.

mahler's fifth still makes me sick.

give me that back. give me back music. give me back everything i had before you. give me back fearlessness. give me back bravery. give me back a scarless body.

give me back what you took from me.

[starhoodies]

kingdom shopping carts i dunno man

[limpart]