#where do you people come UP WITH THESE

[t-wordiiish]

Ticklish sinner

"Andrea," Sister Margaret called out, her voice echoing through the empty hallways of the school, "You're going to be late for confession again."

Andrea's heart skipped a beat. She had been avoiding Father James for weeks, but the guilt was too much. She quickly gathered her books and rushed towards the chapel, her sneakers squeaking against the polished floor.

"Bless me, Father," she murmured, sliding into the confessional. She took a deep breath, feeling the coolness of the wooden booth envelop her.

Father James cleared his throat. "What brings you to the house of the Lord today, my child?"

Andrea paused, fidgeting with the strings of her rosary. "It's… it's been a while since my last confession," she began, her voice shaky. She listed her sins - the usual missteps - but her mind kept wandering to the one she dared not speak of. The one that made her skin crawl just thinking about it.

As she stumbled through her confession, she could almost feel his eyes on her through the mesh screen. It was a feeling she knew all too well, a feeling of both fear and… something else she couldn't quite place.

When she finished, she waited, her heart pounding in her chest. The silence stretched on for what felt like an eternity.

Finally, Father James spoke. "Andrea," he said, his tone firm but not unkind, "Is there something else you wish to confess?"

Her eyes widened. How did he know? She had been so careful to avoid any mention of her secret sin. "No, Father," she lied, her voice barely above a whisper.

The priest sighed heavily. "Very well," he said, "Your penance is to say five Hail Marys and reflect on the consequences of your actions."

As she left the confessional, the weight of her unspoken truth lingered in the air. Little did she know, Father James had a very particular way of dealing with sinners like her.

Days later, after evening mass, Father James called her aside. His eyes gleamed with a knowing look that sent a shiver down her spine. "Andrea," he began, his voice low and measured, "I believe we need to discuss something in more detail."

Her stomach twisted into knots. He knew. He had to know. "What is it, Father?" she asked, feigning innocence.

He led her to the small, dimly lit room at the back of the church, usually reserved for private meetings and counseling sessions. Once inside, he closed the door with a firm click. "Andrea," he said, his voice now gentle yet firm, "You've been hiding something from me, haven't you?"

Her cheeks flushed with embarrassment. She nodded, unable to find the words to explain.

Father James took a step closer, his hands folded in front of him. "Sin is a serious matter," he said, his gaze never leaving hers, "But I believe in redemption. And sometimes, a different form of penance is needed to truly understand the gravity of one's actions."

Without warning, he reached out and brushed his fingers lightly over her ribs. She gasped, her body jolting with the sudden sensation. "You're very ticklish, aren't you?" he said, a hint of a smile playing on his lips.

Andrea nodded, her eyes wide with fear and confusion.

"Good," he said, his smile growing wider, "This will be your penance."

And so it began. Every week, after confession, Father James would take her to the back room, where he would explore her most sensitive spots with a feather-light touch. Her ribs, her inner thighs, her armpits, and sides - he found them all. He would pin her down with surprising strength or tie her to the chair, leaving her at his mercy.

The tickling was torturous, a delicate dance of pleasure and pain that left her breathless and begging for mercy. Yet, she never told anyone. It was a secret shared between the two of them, a twisted form of redemption that only seemed to fuel her desire to sin further.

Andrea's sins grew in number and intensity. Each week, she would confess the same transgressions, hoping that Father James wouldn't notice the pattern. But his eyes were sharp, and he saw right through her.

One fateful day, as she sat in the confessional, her voice grew quieter with each sin she admitted. Father James's patience had reached its end. "You're not taking this seriously, are you?" he said, his voice hardening.

Her heart raced as she tried to explain herself, but her words fell flat. She knew she couldn't hide from the truth anymore. "No, Father," she whispered, her eyes filling with tears, "I'm not."

With a nod, he stood from his chair and opened the door of the confessional. "Come with me," he instructed, his eyes cold. She followed him into the back room, her legs trembling.

He pulled out a chair and gestured for her to sit. She did so, her eyes darting around the room for any sign of escape. Father James leaned over her, his face stern. "Today, your penance will be different," he said. He took a step back and reached for the rope that was coiled on the table behind him.

Andrea's eyes widened as he began to tie her wrists to the chair, pulling them taut above her head. "Father, please," she pleaded, but he didn't listen.

Once she was secured, he stepped back and began to unbutton her shirt. She squirmed, trying to protest, but her words were cut off by a firm hand over her mouth. He chuckled, the sound sending a chill down her spine.

With her shirt open, he revealed her bare armpits. His eyes lit up with a gleeful malice she had never seen before. "You've been a very naughty girl," he whispered, his breath hot against her ear.

He brought his fingers to her armpit and began to tickle her gently. She bit her lip to stifle the laughter, but it was no use. Her body was a symphony of giggles and squirms, and she felt the tears start to flow.

Father James tickled her relentlessly, his fingers dancing over her sensitive skin. "You like this, don't you?" he taunted, his voice mocking. "You enjoy the feel of my hands on you, even though you know it's wrong."

The more she struggled, the more he tickled. The more she begged, the harder he laughed. Her cries grew louder, turning into sobs. "Please, Father," she whimpered, "I'll be good, I promise."

But Father James was not so easily swayed. He continued his cruel ministrations, enjoying every second of her torment. "You'll learn," he said, his voice cold and unforgiving, "You'll learn to control your urges, or you'll find yourself in this chair again."

The room spun as the tickling grew more intense, the lines between pleasure and pain blurring until she didn't know which was which. Her body was a bundle of nerves, each giggle a silent scream for relief.

Finally, when she thought she couldn't take anymore, he stopped. She slumped in the chair, her breathing ragged and her eyes red from crying. He leaned in close, his expression unreadable. "Remember this feeling," he whispered, "Whenever you're tempted to stray from the path of righteousness."

He took her hand, his grip firm, and placed her index finger on the tender skin of her inner thigh. "Now, tell me," he demanded, his voice like a serpent coiling around her soul, "Tell me what you are."

Andrea's eyes searched his, desperate for a way out of this twisted game. But she found only determination in his gaze, a gleam that told her he was enjoying every moment of her discomfort.

"Say it," he ordered, his voice low and commanding. "You're my tickle toy."

Andrea's eyes widened in horror. She had never felt so humiliated in her life. But the desperation to end this torment won out over her pride. With a trembling voice, she whispered the words. "I… I'm your tickle toy."

Father James leaned back, his smile widening. He took her hand and guided her index finger along the sensitive skin of her inner thigh. "Say it louder," he urged, his eyes gleaming. "Say it like you mean it."

Her voice trembled as she repeated the words, the humiliation burning in her chest. "I'm your tickle toy," she murmured.

Father James's smile grew even wider. He stepped back, his eyes raking over her exposed body, and nodded. "Good girl," he said, his voice a velvety purr. He reached out and gave her sides a few final squeezes, the pressure just shy of painful.

Andrea gritted her teeth, trying not to react to the onslaught of tickles that danced along her ribs. Her entire body was a mess of nerves, begging for release. She felt a strange mix of fear and arousal, unsure how to process the situation.

With a final pat, he released her. She stumbled to her feet, her legs wobbly from the intense tickling. She quickly pulled her shirt back together, tucking it into her skirt to regain some semblance of dignity.

The priest stepped back, his gaze never leaving hers. "Remember, Andrea," he said, his voice a warning, "You come to me for confession and penance, or I'll find you."

What I wouldn't GIVE TO BE ANDREA FUCKKKK

[inkskinned]

this is just my opinion but i think any good media needs obsession behind it. it needs passion, the kind of passion that's no longer "gentle scented candle" and is now "oh shit the house caught on fire". it needs a creator that's biting the floorboards and gnawing the story off their skin. creators are supposed to be wild animals. they are supposed to want to tell a story with the ferocity of eating a good stone fruit while standing over the sink. the same protective, strange instinct as being 7 and making mud potions in pink teacups: you gotta get weird with it.

good media needs unhinged, googling-at-midnight kind of energy. it needs "what kind of seams are invented on this planet" energy and "im just gonna trust the audience to roll with me about this" energy. it needs one person (at least) screaming into the void with so much drive and energy that it forces the story to be real.

sometimes people are baffled when fanfic has some stunning jaw-dropping tattoo-it-on-you lines. and i'm like - well, i don't go here, but that makes sense to me. of fucking course people who have this amount of passion are going to create something good. they moved from a place of genuine love and enjoyment.

so yeah, duh! saturday cartoons have banger lines. random street art is sometimes the most precious heart-wrenching shit you've ever seen. someone singing on tiktok ends up creating your next favorite song. youtubers are giving us 5 hours of carefully researched content. all of this is the impossible equation to latestage capitalism. like, you can't force something to be good. AI cannot make it good. no amount of focus-group testing or market research. what makes a story worth listening to is that someone cares so much about telling it - through dance, art, music, whatever it takes - that they are just a little unhinged about it.

one time my friend told me he stayed up all night researching how many ways there are to peel an orange. he wrote me a poem that made me cry on public transportation. the love came through it like pith, you know? the words all came apart in my hands. it tasted like breakfast.

[lucabyte]

Taking pride in One's own appearance.

[captainmaxatx]

I think Deadpool and Wolverine 2 should start with them beating the shit out eachother in some nondescript field, just going full tilt completely mauling eachother

And then we see colossus come out the mansions back doors and he starts yelling about them ruining the lawn

[shepscapades]

X isn’t big on hugs, but Doc does what he can. It’s the little things that help.

[bitegore]

Zionists want you to conflate Judaism and Zionism. Zionists want you to believe that Judaism cannot exist without Zionism and that all Jews are Zionists. Zionism would have Jews believe that a Jewish state is the only way that they can be safe from antisemitism and will point to any instance of antisemitism as proof that Zionism is the solution- so Zionism wants gentiles to be antisemitic in their support of Palestine. They want you to conflate all Jews with Zionism and the state of Israel, and they want you to treat all Jews regardless of political affiliation as the face of Israel. Antizionist Jews exist, and incidences of antisemitism ostensibly acting against Zionism will not help dismantle the forces propping Zionism up.

Don't do their work for them.

[knifearo]

i hate the concept of platonic and romantic as a binary i hate the concept of platonic and romantic as a sliding scale of "less" to "more" i hate the concept of platonic and romantic as the only two options i hate the concept of platonic and romantic as significantly different things i hate the concept of platonic and romantic as all encompassing i hate the concept of platonic and romantic as the two halves of a shallow concept of love that doesn't actually encompass anything at all i think we need to overhaul every popular conception about "types" of love so we can talk about things that are real and true for once

[naamahdarling]

You know what? You know what I think?

I think that if we lived as we were meant to, in larger intimate ("extended family") groups and with more shared labor and time to do it (UBI NOW) people like me would not feel so useless and burdensome because there would be people around to help and to do what neurodivergent people can't while making valuable space for the neurodivergent to do what they ARE good at.

The way we live right now, all right, the way we live right now forces units of two adults to be able to do EVERYTHING or PAY to have someone come do it for them. I have to do the housework. I have to do it! But I am having to do a million different things and most of them I am not good at. I suck at them.

I wouldn't feel like shit, okay, if I had more than one other person around who was not a child and who could do the things I can't, like do the yard and cook and do repairs and basic maintenance; and someone else to split everything else that I like but is too much for me. It would free me to do what I am good at and enjoy. Cleaning, as in the sink and toilet, the windows, the blinds. Taking out trash. Folding, hanging, and sorting laundry.

But because all the shit I can do often relies on other shit being done first, and I can't do or have trouble doing those things, the shit I can do often can't be done. And even the shit I can do, I can't do ALL of it. So I can't keep up, and things get very bad.

We aren't meant to live like this. We are not meant to live like this.

That thought hurts so much because being able to flee the birth family is integral to survival for so many people. I'm so afraid that living in larger family groups would create more opportunities for, say, queer kids to be isolated, rejected, bullied, and abused. But if we gave people enough money to survive, and stopped considering children the property of their parents with no system in place to help them escape bad situations except a system that is often just as bad, just different.

I'm aware that communes and collectives aren't all that successful and are kind of a joke. I don't mean that. I mean a fundamental shift to multigenerational families where taking in "strays" (which my family did) is also normalized so people escaping abuse into existing households was accepted, with these families centered in maybe a couple of different larger residences so not everyone has to buy and maintain their own fucking washing machine and vacuum cleaner, and so people can benefit from large group meals that yield leftovers, and so child and elder care can also be centralized.

Then disabled people and the neurodivergent and sick and injured people, and pregnant people, and grieving people, would not have to either labor through all those stressors or consign themselves to living off an unlivable pittance or being put under legal guardianship.

I'm not saying anything new. People live like this in other parts of the world and maybe it sucks and I am wrong. But I'm just really mad right now because I can either do laundry or clean the sink but not both, and I really think we could improve society somewhat by making it so I did not have to choose one without sacrificing the other.

[paintalyx]

my mom said we can't be friends if you don't like wyll. yeah even if you don't care about him. no sorry i don't make the rules but she's right you know

[beanghostprincess]

A bit tired of people complaining about Sanji's principle of "not hitting women" being misogynistic when it has been clearly stated multiple times that he does not choose it and it's heavily tied to his trauma and admiration for his dad and respect for women and definitely not from seeing women as somehow weaker than him

[kacievvbbbb]

I am very down with the idea that whenever Shanks comes to Visit him on Kuriagina Mihawk uses him like hired muscle

He works him like a dog, Shanks hasn’t even set two feet on the island and Mihawk has handed him a list of all the furniture that needs moving, the light bulbs (he has like 30 chandeliers) that need changing, the rooms that need repainting. Living in the ruins of a castle of a dead kingdom takes work. Could Mihawk do it? No he has a garden to take care off.🙄

Just the idea that Mihawk started a renovation project on his castle while Zoro was there as part of his “training” and Shanks shows up and really Shanks you’re just gonna stand there while the kid does all that heavy lifting Mihawk says as he sips his glass of wine.

Shanks of course is happy to do it. Benn, who he recruits cause there’s just somethings a one armed man shouldn’t do on his own, is of course disgruntled that he has once again been dragged into their weird foreplay.

Perona of course goes “I’m just a girl” 🥺. And of course when Mihawk is unmoved by this She huff and sets to tricking Zoro to do her share of the tasks as well.

She then proceeds to become the most heinous, unethical, inhumane work site manager to ever exist. All while wearing a glittery construction vest and bedazzled hard hat

[canisalbus]

Machete and Vasco are so pomegranate-and-the-hand-that-slices coded. To me.

Pomegranates are seen as messy, bloody, inconvenient fruits. You slice or tear or bite and in return for your effort you come away underwhelmed, disgusted, and stained too deep to wash. The consumption of a pomegranate is a violent act of defilement, for both the fruit and the eater.

But that is because most do not understand how to open a pomegranate. They have little patience for the precise carving. They see no point in coreing the fruit gently, no reason to be reverent as they pull the quarters apart. When done correctly, opening a pomegranate leaves little mess. Your fingers will still stain, your knife will still slick, but there will be no pool of crimson drowning both you and the fruit.

The seeds are only sweet to those who understand the merit of a light hand and intricate slicing. Why put in so much effort for a food so bitter and clearly armored against consumption? Surely it must not yearn to be eaten.

(^insane about silly catholic dogs)

.

[poorly-drawn-mdzs]

Burning Rotten Bridges

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[frozen-seagrass]

The WALL-E au no one asked for

[cloud-based-and-rainpilled]

I’ve been highly confused as to why Michael “deeply openly thirsting on Twitter about David Tennant for half a decade” Sheen is half-in half-out the closet but apparently Wales is absurdly homophobic lmao what the fuck how is a country the size of New Jersey that much of a hater bruh we out number the shit out of you

[marisatomay]

“you don’t owe anyone anything” actually you owe everyone everything!!! you OWE your table server and your coworkers and the elderly person you pass on the street and the dog on its walk and the child toddling along in the park and the driver trying to merge next to you and the pregnant person standing on public transport KINDNESS in return for theirs!! the connections we build are what give life meaning!!!