#the lone Protester

[shevr]

[givemewallywestorgivemedeath]

Growing up in an extremely ultra religious, cult-like family was a mindfuck for multiple reasons but that doesn't stop unfortunately, even when you escape. For example, see: The overwhelming feeling of boiling hatred and shame for who you used to be.

The angry hatred for the past person I used to be, the version of myself that mindlessly parroted my family's beliefs and listened to their every command, constantly simmered under my skin and invaded my every thought. I was embarrassed of what I used to be- even as I made friends of different ethnicities and faiths, as I listened and explored new ideas and worlds that I never knew existed, as I started the first LGBTQ+ club at my school and volunteered with kids who deserved so much more- there was always a little voice in the back of my head.

"They would hate you if they knew what you were. They would hate the horrendous teachings that were seared into your mind, the things that you used to say and believe. You are nothing but a pretender."

And it is true that my beliefs were bigoted in all the worst ways. It is true that I believed truly heart-wrenching things without a second thought and judged others in such harsh and unfair ways. I told myself that there was no coming back from that, not really. There was nothing I could do to ever make up for it.

Then I remembered that the person who said those things wore velcro light up sneakers and collected finger puppets that the librarians handed out as awards for reading picture books. The person that held signs at pro-life rallies and anti-LGBTQ+ protests had a cherished sticker book and hunted minnows in the creek after school and adored their puffle on club penguin and was really into greek mythology and had skinned knees from climbing trees at recess and knew every Disney song by heart and was absolutely terrified of the dark.

That person was a child.

I was a child.

It took a really long time. Years and years of reflection and distance, but I've decided that I can't hate the past version of myself anymore. I feel pity and remorse, I feel anger- I feel so much fury and violent rage- at what my childhood was and I grieve what could- no, should- have been, but I no longer resent who I was.

I'm not ashamed.

I am so, so, so unbelievably proud of that little kid. For being brave enough to leave the comfort and safety of what I was told was right. For not being afraid to be wrong. For seeking out information and knowledge in a culture that praised ignorance. For questioning everything, relentlessly.

I am by no means a perfect person, I never have been and I never will, but I am proud of myself in every iteration that has ever existed because I know that I have never stopped trying to understand and learn and grow, and I never will.

If you have ever been in a similar situation and feel similar things, first of all: My condolences on your lost childhood. Second of all: Please be nice to that past version of yourself and recognize all the hard work they did to make you who you are today. That person was a survivor and an inspiration. They deserve nothing but love.

[sivavakkiyar]

I do remember this Atlantic article once that was one of those routine hit pieces on Thoreau—-you know, his very simple act of Civil Disobedience was actually just super privileged (forget the fact Thoreau says this, too), and even though he acts all rugged he was actually so close to civilization and his mom did his laundry (again, Thoreau says both of these things…) and so it’s all hypocritical garbage…the author revealed she realized at a private meditation retreat upstate with full service

[satoshihiwatari]

anyway this combination SAD/getting evicted/tooth removal/jaw infection is a shitty combo and for the past 2 weeks I have been soooo lonely but as always I never know how to reach out to people. and I was going to see my uni friends this Saturday (not the girl gang, the other group) but it got cancelled as someone couldn't make it. so now I'm :( :(

[missmoondrops]

why do so many people come into my DMs with brand new blogs and deactivate within less than a week of us talking? just say what you want so i can either a.) tell you to fuck off or b.) tell you it's fucking ON

[razorsadness]

in the city / baby sometimes

there were other summers but they were just the hot hot heat, not the intoxicated adventures just the gun shots & the cars’ backfire

the kind of heat gets you so sad you can feel it in your teeth, your teeth fell out & sunk all skipped- stone to the bottom of your knotted

guts, my throat gave up its ghost & went all shred, all knees-in-the-gravel, yeah it was all spooky action at a distance of 680 odd miles on I-80

we were bad teeth & tummyaches, swollen tonsils & crotch rot, our huge fucking hearts were nauseous nauseous nauseous whether together

or apart but near-sick was better than so far away— when you were so far from the city my heart got such a big lonesome in it I tried

to shove things in it to fill it up like reverse dumpster diving, I tried to fill it with protest & polka dots, freckles & root beer floats, salted

slices of watermelon, Twizzlers melting on the side- walks of Wicker Park, I tried sundresses that showed my cleavage, tried licking the salt

from other lovers’ skin, I stayed up drinking in 4 am bars telling strangers of my sorrows, yeah I even went to shows sometimes but without you the music bored

me to death & I ran from city to city, without you my city just wasn’t right, like I needed 2 am donuts & a sandy beach but all I got was this lousy day-drunk

sometimes I got day-drunk & woozy from beer & heat I hallucinated your yellow hair & swagger but it wasn’t ever you—it’s summer in the city &

you’re so long gone from the city & I with my squished tomato of a sick-as-fuck heart, I start to miss you baby, sometimes.

—Jessie Lynn McMains (originally appeared in FIVE:2:ONE magazine in December 2019)

[twowink]

also best ending shot of a movie ever possibly

[semperardens-juli]

[...] combining art and activism into an astonishingly creative and potent force.

The Lonely City, Olivia Laing (x)

[tomkeirblyth]

A comment on an article about Lone Star 💀 sir if you think lone star is politically correct I’d hate to see you watch a show on a network that isn’t too scared to actually say fuck you to conservatives

[mademoisellesarcasme]

The mouth of the just man utters wisdom, and his tongue tells forth what is right. The law of his God is in his heart (E.T. alleluia).

(Ps 37 [36]:30–31) – second Entrance Antiphon option for the Common of Holy Men and Women: II. For Monks and Religious A. For an Abbot

[kropotkindersurprise]

May 4, 2024 - CNN writes about how the mean anti-genocide protesters silenced a lone counter-protester at the University of Pennsylvania:

How did they silence him, you ask? They drew a circle around him in chalk, and labeled it "Designated Dingus Area":

[esyra]

After the hospital bombing, I finally heard back from my grandmother and confirmed that several of my relatives were murdered by Israeli bombing. Seven of them, to be precise. Three are still going, including her. We've been talking constantly ever since.

Asked if it was possible to head south, and was told they did but were also bombed there. So they decided to go back home, in Zeitoun. Their home was bombed and they were pulled out of the rumble, then driven by ambulances to the al-Ahli Arab Hospital. There were people in every corner. Gazans sheltering, sleeping on the floor. Gazans dying on the floor, waiting for beds.

Four were declared dead on arrival, three were in need of surgery and other three were just bandaged. Then, a bomb was dropped in the parking lot that made parts of the ceiling collapse, like Dr. Ghassan Abu Sittah reported in that horrific conference/interview. Those in need of surgery died.

By the way, just in case you didn't know: the Church of Saint Porphyrius, the third oldest in history, bombed by Israel a few days back, was located near the hospital.

When looking for new shelter, they saw schools with signs hanging outside, "We can't take any more families." They met families, sympathetic but already sheltering too many people. They're now staying in an apartment building they found empty. Sleeping in the corner of the living room. If the family comes back, they'll apologize and leave.

Told me she was saving her phone battery for when the bombing stopped, and she had to ask for help to rebuilt the neighborhood. But she doesn't think it's gonna stop anymore. The ones still with her are mute most of the time, like they're saving energy, but she feels lonely and wanted to talk. There's no internet and to connect to WhatsApp, people are buying "a card from the supermarket, there's a password and username." Not sure what she meant. Still, the internet is inconsistent and won't load neither videos or images nor pages, so she doesn't know what's happening on the outside world.

Told her there were a lot of people protesting to stop the genocide, she replied, "The bombings are getting worse by the day." The bombing yesterday was the worst she ever witnessed. The entire neighborhood is infested with the smell of death, of decomposing bodies. Bodies are piling up in the streets and she's not sure if it's because they ran out of places to store them, but most of them are in bags. The smoke of the bombings hide the blue sky—she hasn't seen the clouds for a while.

Asked if I could share their pictures, names and dreams with people and was told, of which I partly agree, "they're not entertainment." If anyone genuinely cared, they would be alive—I'd argue there are people who do care, but I'm not gonna lecture her pain. And they don't deserve to be used to fulfill someone's sick fantasy. Told me to remember what some Israelis do with pictures of dead Palestinians. And I do.

For those of you who are not familiar, many times before settlers got together to celebrate the murder of Palestinians. For one, in 2015, Israeli settlers set a house in Duma, West Bank on fire. An 18-month old baby, Ali Dawbsheh, was burnt alive. Both parents later died of wounds and only a 5-year-old, Ahmad, survived, although severely injured.

Two celebrations of their murder are widely known, one at a wedding and others outside the court in which two were indicted for the terrorist attack. In the wedding, guests stabbed a photo of the toddler, Ali, while others waved guns, knives and Molotov cocktails. Israel's Minister of National Security, Itamar Ben-Gvir, was present.

That's what happens in an apartheid. Palestinians are so abused by authorities that their "innocent civilians" come to accept the brutality as necessary or are desensitized by our suffering. After all, it's been 75 years—get used to it!

So I won't risk the image of my loved ones, in fear they are used in these kinds of depravity. I will say, though, the world lost a young footballer. Lost a female writer and an aspiring ballerina. Lost a kind father, who was also a great cook, and a loving mother that enjoyed sewing and other types of handicraft art. Lost a math teacher and a child that wanted to become one.

People think Israel is testing new weapons on them. There's civilians arriving at the hospital with severe burns, which they thought was from white phosphorus, but apparently the pattern is different from the one caused by white phosphorus. It's widely believed Israel tests weapons in Palestinians.

Jeff Halper, author of War Against the People, a book on Israel's arms and surveillance technology industries, said: "Israel has kept the occupation because it's a laboratory for weapons."

They've ran out of drinkable water and the "aid" Biden sent was only for the South of Gaza and no fuel, for hospitals, was allowed in. Many shelves in the supermarket are empty. She said many are convinced that if they don't die from the bombing, they'll die from starvation or dehydration, or whatever disease will develop from the dirty water they're drinking.

Told me all people do now is pray, cry and die. Told me she hopes West Bank is spared. Told her Israel bombed a mosque in West Bank and dozens of Palestinians in West Bank are being murdered by settlers, so she bided me goodbye.

[kxsalt]

cw non-consent

Two is company, three is a crowd. The old saying is tossed around as a joke. She sits on the bed in the hotel room while the three men take off their clothes. The girl is almost entirely confident. Her experience having sex with two men at the same time will surely carry her through. A flicker of nervousness is visible on her face as they lead her off the bed and onto her knees.

Sucking cock, she strokes the other two. With only moments to catch her breath, her mouth is passed around the trio. The coordination required to give two handjobs while deepthroating is slightly beyond her ability. The men get more impatient and unsatisfied by her awkward rhythm.

“Come on, you can do better than that. You said you were good at this.” The man lambasts her. She gurgles in response. “One more minute, then we can switch.” Groans another as he facefucks her. “Let’s get into the fun stuff.” Remarks the third, also unsatisfied by her hand. He grabs her hips, lifting her upright and drives his cock into her pussy.

Spitroasted on the men, the girl feels a moment of comfort. Having one man using her cunt while she sucks off the other is a familiar place for her. The third man complicates things. She tries her best to swap between the two regularly, but their impatience grows. One sits on the bed. “Let me fuck her. Come bounce on my dick, slut.”

“I’m trying my best, okay?” Her disrespectful tone slips through her unused mouth. The energy changes. The girl swallows as she reads the frustrated expressions of the three men. “Try harder.” Says the man on the bed as he grabs her hips and pulls her on top of him. She takes him in her pussy while another stands on the matress.

She tastes her pussy on his cock as she rides the other man. Another familiar place. The girl forgets to take care of the third man. A firm grip on her bum reminds her of his presence. Reaching behind, she tries to grab onto his cock. It’s too late.

Pulling her head away from the blowjob, she feels the head of his cock press against her ass. “Hey! I don’t do anal! I told you that before! Stop!” The girl protests. “You do now.” He would barely fit inside her without her pussy stretched by the other man. He groans and thrusts himself inside her third hole.

Her safeword is ignored. It’s nothing but theatre when three men want to take a lone woman. The impotent begging is muffled when a cock is shoved down her throat. Finally, the group is satisfied. Tears pour from her eyes as her arms are held behind her back. Fighting with all her strength wouldn’t be enough to stop even one of them.

Another desparate attempt to escape. The men pin her to the bed and switch between her holes. She begs for them to stop. They don’t. Instead they fuck her harder. The first man to finish unloads his cum all over her sobbing face. The second man finishes in her ass. As he pulls his cock from her, the third man takes his place. Their cum mixes in her used asshole.

The first is ready again. His comrades hold her down so he can properly enjoy her. The girl’s pleading has faded into the occasional mumbled word or outburst of crying. As they fuck her, one or two keeps a firm grip on her to prevent any physical resistance. Sometimes, two regain their stamina at the same time, and they both penetrate her at the same time.

The hours pass. Gone far beyond her limits, the girl lies limp in the middle of the hotel bed. The last man finishes in her ruined body. His cum dribbles from her as he gets dressed. She curls up in a ball and tries to wipe off the stains as the hotel room door closes.

[gojonanami]

“ A HOUSE IS NOT A HOME ”

pairing: satoru gojo x reader

summary: you come home after a long day of work unable to find the person you call home anywhere — until you reach the bedroom.

warnings: 18+ suggestive, fluff, comfort, some angst, implications of the shinjuku showdown arc, implied gojo is no longer a sorcerer, gojo is your househusband, taking a bath together, taking care of him, copium really, satoru being a silly man

w/c: 1,184

“I’m home!”

You call into your home, the clatter of your keys and shoes as you shedded the things that chained you to the outside to submerge yourself in your oasis and into his arms. But as you got no reply, you stepped into your living room, scanning over the kitchen, to find no one.

Now where was your home?

“Satoru?” you called, heart skipping a slight beat, he was always waiting for you when you got home, usually on the couch or maybe in the kitchen the clank of the knife as he chopped away. Or even the many times that he was waiting by the door to only ambush you with kisses. But this time, nothing.

You rounded the corner to the hallway and peeked into your bedroom to find him asleep. You crept closer, careful not to wake him, and yup, he was fast asleep. His pretty snow white lashes resting against his cheeks, his chest slowly rising and falling as the soft sounds of his breaths parted his lovely lips.

You could watch him sleep for hours. You knew he never did enough of it before, and you’d argue he still didn’t do enough of it now. He always said he was fine sleeping 6 hours since it was twice as much as he usually got — and now he was working at home, so he could be ease.

But even so, you know he needed more.

As if he senses your thought, he stirs, starry blue eyes finding yours as he flutters sleep from his gaze, “sweetheart?” He’s murmuring, voice still beautifully raspy from sleep, “when did you get home?” He’s shifting to get up, but you use gentle hands to ease him back, “I haven’t started on dinner yet, sweets—“

“I got it, Toru,” you’re running your fingers through his hair, “just rest, baby,” and a protest is already on his lips, “let me guess what you did today — cleaned the house from roof to floor, stocked us on groceries, cooked lunch for me for the week, and probably a million other things,” you lean down to press a kiss to his forehead, “I think I can handle dinner for one night at least,”

He’s pouting now, “but you just got home from work, Princess, what kind of househusband would I be—“ and you can’t help but laugh, he loved his self appointed title of househusband, especially since it was one he had chosen for himself, and he took any opportunity — even now to call himself that.

“I think even the absolute best househusbands need a break, and should listen to their wives, since I’m the one you want to pamper so much,” and his lips party in protest, but you’re leaning down to kiss them and his pout away, “let me take care of you, Toru,”

He’s sighing, as he leans up to press his forehead to yours, “and does your offer include a bath, sweetheart?”

~~~

“Y’know sometimes I feel guilty,” and you pause in your massage of his head, fingers tangled in his hair, suds from the bath you’d drawn for him covering both of your bodies as he leans against you in your tub, back pressed flush to yours.

“Guilty about what?” you ask, holding your tongue on the million reasons why he shouldn’t.

“For so long, I was the strongest,” he gives a small chuckle, “and it was fun, sometimes. But it was mostly lonely,” he leans back to look up at you, a small grin on his lips, “except when I was with you,” your lips curl, “and now I get to be with you, and I get to stay home — and the worst thing I have to do are the dishes,” and you snort.

“I told you I’d do them if you hate them so much,”

But he’s shaking his head, “Sometimes I think trying to deal with our cast iron is worse than fighting Sukuna—“ and you roll your eyes, “but there’s always this urgency that I have to be doing more. Telling me to keep going, moving, fighting—“

“You’ve done enough, Toru, more than enough,” your fingers cup his cheek, “too much, honestly. It’s okay to rest now. You’ve done your part—“

“But—“

“Didn’t you or someone say jujutsu is like a marathon, a baton pass?” Your fingers run through his white locks, before you shift yourself to sit in his lap instead, “the marathon is over, racers have packed up and gone home, and the finish line has been crossed,” your fingers rest on the back of his neck, tracing his undercut, “and that’s because of you and all you did to fight and raise up the next generation,” you say softly, and he’s pressing his head to your forehead.

“Is it okay for me to rest now?” and you’re pulling him into your arms, hoping your touch conveys what your words can’t.

“Yes, it is, Satoru,” you’re pressing soft kisses to his neck, “you don’t need to be the strongest. You’re Satoru Gojo, and that’s all I want,” and he leans back, “you’re all I want,”

“Is that a proposal?” And you snort.

“We’re already married, weirdo—“ and his lips find yours, as they always did, his arms around your bare waist, as the water shifted and splashed, but you could barely feel anything except his lips against yours and the circle of his thumb against the small of your back.

He finally pulls away, a genuine smile on his lips, “And you married this weirdo,” and you chuckle, tracing his jaw with your finger, “you’re stuck with me for life,”

“Promise?” And he’s kissing you again in an instant, stealing your breath like he did the first time you met him all those years ago at jujutsu tech. And you knew you’d never love anyone else — not like him.

“Promise.”

Bonus:

Satoru’s arms wrap around you from behind as the two of you towel off after your bath, “what are we having for dinner?”

“Well someone insisted on me being in here with him, so I had to order out,” and he’s grinning, as he nuzzles your neck.

“Whoopsie, hehe,” and he’s humming, as he tugs your hips against his, the friction drawing a gasp from your lips, “can we have dessert first?”

“It is dessert. We’re having ice cream for dinner—“ and he’s kissing you again, but this time it’s languid and messy — all tongue and teeth, until he’s pulling away with a smirk at your breathless face.

“I want something sweeter, wife,” and you smile.

“Think you can finish before the delivery gets here?” And he’s already picking you up with ease in his arms, pinned under him in a moment, as his ocean blues flash with mischief from between your thighs.

“I can, but I don’t know if you’ll be done by then.” He says cheekily, as you only sigh.

If there was one thing that would always be true is that you would always be weak to Satoru Gojo — but not his abilities, but who he is.

Your husband.

“Let’s see, hm?”

a/n: I’m real upset about the leaks and this is my coping. I needed this.

taglist: @staryukis, @cloverlilies, @asgoodasdead666, @strawmariee, @chuuyasboots, @forest-fruits-jam, @catsgomurp, @rat-loves, @hanlay, @risuola, @spider-fan72, @sunamatic, @difficultdomains

[ozzgin]

im not sure if hybrids are considered monsters (personally i dont. they're too cute), but any thoughts on hybrid cows and bulls? i just live the idea of either being a hucow and being cuddled and taken care of (soft sex?) by fellow hucows after being used and knocked by the bulls through the breeding program 😋 or being the farmer the is running the program and playing match maker and assigning a bull or two to my lovely hucows.

Content: gender neutral reader, mildly NSFW

Moving into a cozy cottage to get away from the city and discovering that your neighbors are a group of hybrid bulls and cows living together. So, you do what every good neighbor does and introduce yourself.

They quickly become very protective and caring of you, offering to help with errands and keeping you company. Despite your protests, they insist it's only natural. You're now part of their community. Of course the cow hybrids will prepare you meals, and tuck you in, and massage your back after a long workday. Why, it's undoubtedly a bull's duty to look after you and keep threats away.

You know, perhaps it's better for everyone if you just move in with them. They can't help but wonder whether you get lonely whenever you fall asleep by yourself. Moreover, you probably have certain needs that could use assistance; truth be told, they recently heard your whines one evening and had to hold back from breaking your door in that instant.

You're not one to refuse, are you? You couldn't be in better hands. The bulls are in desperate need of a partner, and if their rough handling wears you out, you can always find shelter in the soft embrace of the cow hybrids. They'll make sure you feel better in no time. Maybe even go for another round.

[More Monsters] | [More Doodles]

[konigsblog]

‌older-boyfriend könig with a breeding kink. ၄၃

;afab!f!reader, forced impregnation, age difference, slight dub-con (?). MDNI 18+

könig can't ignore the temptation to have his way with you. you're so young, docile, and compliant with him. you're eager to earn his validation and praise, doing whatever you can to earn a smack on your tight ass or to be accepted by the one you love most.

you bounce on könig's bulbous, weeping cock weakly. your thighs are trembling, and the pain between your thighs is only intensifying and worsening with each stroke and bounce. könig's large and scarred hands grip at your hips firmly, his breathing is laborious, and his eyes shut tightly. he can't bear to look at you, not when he's about to do something so shameful as forcefully impregnate his beloved girlfriend.

he's lonely and worries he won't be able to provide you with a family in the future. all he craves is a big, warm family. könig can't stand the fear of eternal loneliness—being alone forever. you're reduced to a sobbing, shaking mess on könig's lap, trying your hardest to appeal to him. könig warns you he's going to come, your velvety and smooth walls latching onto his shaft instinctively at the sound of his gravelly, hoarse voice. you're convinced könig will let you go and that he wouldn't force you to take his potent load; he wouldn't do that, right?

unexpectedly, könig pins you down against his meaty cock, stuffed inside your tight, slick hole. you shake and protest, attempting to pull his large hands off of you. the old pervert bucks his broad, sturdy hips into you and fills your tight wetness with his hot and milky creaminess, globs of arousal running down your soft thighs. könig fucks his release deep into your walls and forces you to bounce on his veiny dick, guiding you and gazing at you lustfully.

the guilt and shame he holds is obvious; you can see it in his half-lidded eyes. he looks disgusted with himself, sweat running down his forehead and his sensitive cock weeping inside his angel's cunt. you're so obedient that you won't utter a word of disapproval, accepting your fate with your older boyfriend to get swollen and pregnant with his beautiful offspring.