Since threads is suppressing this sort of content.

Pretend you haven't seen this one before

𝘏𝘪𝘴 𝘩𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘵𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵𝘦𝘯𝘦𝘥 𝘪𝘯 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘩𝘢𝘪𝘳, 𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘤𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘨𝘢𝘻𝘦 𝘶𝘱. "𝘠𝘰𝘶’𝘳𝘦 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘢 𝘱𝘳𝘪𝘴𝘰𝘯𝘦𝘳," 𝘩𝘦 𝘮𝘶𝘳𝘮𝘶𝘳𝘦𝘥, 𝘦𝘺𝘦𝘴 𝘣𝘶𝘳𝘯𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘪𝘯𝘵𝘰 𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘴. "𝘠𝘰𝘶 𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘺 𝘣𝘦𝘤𝘢𝘶𝘴𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘸𝘢𝘯𝘵 𝘵𝘰." 𝘏𝘦𝘳 𝘣𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘵𝘩 𝘩𝘪𝘵𝘤𝘩𝘦𝘥. 𝘚𝘩𝘦’𝘥 𝘴𝘱𝘦𝘯𝘵 𝘴𝘰 𝘭𝘰𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘬𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘴𝘶𝘳𝘳𝘦𝘯𝘥𝘦𝘳 𝘮𝘦𝘢𝘯𝘵 𝘤𝘢𝘱𝘵𝘪𝘷𝘪𝘵𝘺, 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘰𝘣𝘦𝘥𝘪𝘦𝘯𝘤𝘦 𝘮𝘦𝘢𝘯𝘵 𝘭𝘰𝘴𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘴𝘦𝘭𝘧. 1/2

𝘚𝘩𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘳𝘢𝘴𝘩𝘦𝘥 𝘣𝘦𝘯𝘦𝘢𝘵𝘩 𝘩𝘪𝘮, 𝘸𝘳𝘪𝘴𝘵𝘴 𝘱𝘪𝘯𝘯𝘦𝘥, 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘩𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘵𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵 𝘢𝘳𝘰𝘶𝘯𝘥 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘳𝘰𝘢𝘵, 𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘢𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘢𝘪𝘳 𝘣𝘶𝘵 𝘯𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳 𝘴𝘢𝘧𝘦𝘵𝘺. 𝘚𝘩𝘦 𝘧𝘰𝘶𝘨𝘩𝘵, 𝘵𝘦𝘴𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘴𝘵𝘳𝘦𝘯𝘨𝘵𝘩, 𝘱𝘶𝘴𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘭𝘪𝘮𝘪𝘵𝘴 𝘴𝘩𝘦 𝘤𝘳𝘢𝘷𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘰 𝘣𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘬. "𝘠𝘰𝘶 𝘤𝘢𝘯 𝘴𝘵𝘳𝘶𝘨𝘨𝘭𝘦," 𝘩𝘦 𝘮𝘶𝘳𝘮𝘶𝘳𝘦𝘥, 𝘨𝘳𝘪𝘱 𝘶𝘯𝘺𝘪𝘦𝘭𝘥𝘪𝘯𝘨. "𝘉𝘶𝘵 𝘸𝘦 𝘣𝘰𝘵𝘩 𝘬𝘯𝘰𝘸 𝘩𝘰𝘸 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘦𝘯𝘥𝘴." 1 of 2

Trust

Submission is a gift that is earned and not a prize to be taken.

TW: CNC - - 𝘚𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘳𝘪𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘴 𝘣𝘦𝘯𝘦𝘢𝘵𝘩 𝘮𝘦, 𝘸𝘳𝘪𝘴𝘵𝘴 𝘱𝘪𝘯𝘯𝘦𝘥, 𝘦𝘺𝘦𝘴 𝘸𝘪𝘥𝘦 𝘢𝘴 𝘐 𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘤𝘦 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘵𝘰 𝘮𝘦𝘦𝘵 𝘮𝘺 𝘨𝘢𝘻𝘦. 𝘚𝘩𝘦 𝘧𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵𝘴, 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘵𝘰 𝘦𝘴𝘤𝘢𝘱𝘦, 𝘣𝘶𝘵 𝘵𝘰 𝘳𝘦𝘴𝘪𝘴𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘪𝘯𝘦𝘷𝘪𝘵𝘢𝘣𝘭𝘦, 𝘵𝘰 𝘩𝘰𝘭𝘥 𝘰𝘯𝘵𝘰 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘭𝘢𝘴𝘵 𝘴𝘩𝘳𝘦𝘥 𝘰𝘧 𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘵𝘳𝘰𝘭 𝘴𝘩𝘦 𝘬𝘯𝘰𝘸𝘴 𝘐 𝘸𝘪𝘭𝘭 𝘵𝘢𝘬𝘦. 𝘐 𝘸𝘢𝘯𝘵 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘴𝘵𝘳𝘶𝘨𝘨𝘭𝘦, 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘥𝘦𝘧𝘪𝘢𝘯𝘤𝘦, 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘩𝘢𝘳𝘱 𝘪𝘯𝘩𝘢𝘭𝘦 𝘣𝘦𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘦 𝘴𝘶𝘳𝘳𝘦𝘯𝘥𝘦𝘳. 1 of 2

𝘚𝘩𝘦 𝘤𝘢𝘮𝘦 𝘵𝘰 𝘮𝘦 𝘨𝘶𝘢𝘳𝘥𝘦𝘥, 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘣𝘰𝘥𝘺 𝘢 𝘮𝘢𝘱 𝘰𝘧 𝘶𝘯𝘴𝘱𝘰𝘬𝘦𝘯 𝘴𝘤𝘢𝘳𝘴. 𝘉𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘥𝘧𝘰𝘭𝘥𝘦𝘥 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘣𝘰𝘶𝘯𝘥, 𝘴𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘶𝘳𝘳𝘦𝘯𝘥𝘦𝘳𝘴 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘧𝘦𝘢𝘳, 𝘧𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘵𝘰 𝘦𝘴𝘤𝘢𝘱𝘦, 𝘣𝘶𝘵 𝘵𝘰 𝘧𝘦𝘦𝘭—𝘱𝘶𝘴𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘱𝘢𝘴𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘨𝘩𝘰𝘴𝘵𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘰𝘯𝘤𝘦 𝘩𝘦𝘭𝘥 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘤𝘢𝘱𝘵𝘪𝘷𝘦. 1 of 2

The world's richest person stopping aid going to the poorest people in the world is unfathomably fucking evil.

𝘚𝘶𝘴𝘱𝘦𝘯𝘥𝘦𝘥 𝘪𝘯 𝘮𝘺 𝘸𝘦𝘣 𝘰𝘧 𝘳𝘰𝘱𝘦, 𝘴𝘩𝘦 𝘪𝘴 𝘮𝘰𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯𝘭𝘦𝘴𝘴 𝘺𝘦𝘵 𝘶𝘵𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘭𝘺 𝘶𝘯𝘥𝘰𝘯𝘦, 𝘩𝘦𝘭𝘱𝘭𝘦𝘴𝘴 𝘢𝘴 𝘐 𝘵𝘰𝘺 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘩𝘦𝘳, 𝘱𝘶𝘴𝘩 𝘩𝘦𝘳, 𝘥𝘦𝘯𝘺 𝘩𝘦𝘳. 𝘌𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘺 𝘬𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘵𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵𝘦𝘯𝘴 𝘮𝘺 𝘩𝘰𝘭𝘥, 𝘬𝘦𝘦𝘱𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘦𝘹𝘱𝘰𝘴𝘦𝘥, 𝘵𝘳𝘦𝘮𝘣𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘨, 𝘣𝘦𝘨𝘨𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘥𝘴. 1 of 2

*Holds you by the jaw* "𝘠𝘰𝘶'𝘳𝘦 𝘨𝘰𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘰 𝘭𝘰𝘰𝘬 𝘢𝘵 𝘮𝘦 𝘸𝘩𝘦𝘯 𝘐 𝘵𝘢𝘬𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘖 𝘧𝘳𝘰𝘮 𝘺𝘰𝘶, 𝘪𝘧 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘨𝘦𝘵 𝘪𝘵 𝘸𝘳𝘰𝘯𝘨 𝘸𝘦'𝘳𝘦 𝘨𝘰𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘰 𝘵𝘳𝘺 𝘢𝘨𝘢𝘪𝘯 𝘶𝘯𝘵𝘪𝘭 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘨𝘦𝘵 𝘪𝘵 𝘳𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵, 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘵𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘴 𝘸𝘰𝘯'𝘵 𝘴𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶."

𝘚𝘩𝘦 𝘭𝘪𝘦𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦, 𝘩𝘦𝘭𝘱𝘭𝘦𝘴𝘴 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘷𝘶𝘭𝘯𝘦𝘳𝘢𝘣𝘭𝘦, 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘣𝘰𝘥𝘺 𝘸𝘢𝘳𝘮 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘱𝘭𝘪𝘢𝘯𝘵 𝘶𝘯𝘥𝘦𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘥𝘳*𝘨’𝘴 𝘪𝘯𝘧𝘭𝘶𝘦𝘯𝘤𝘦—𝘮𝘪𝘯𝘦 𝘵𝘰 𝘵𝘰𝘶𝘤𝘩, 𝘵𝘰 𝘵𝘦𝘢𝘴𝘦, 𝘵𝘰 𝘤𝘭𝘢𝘪𝘮. 𝘚𝘰𝘧𝘵 𝘸𝘩𝘪𝘮𝘱𝘦𝘳𝘴 𝘦𝘴𝘤𝘢𝘱𝘦 𝘢𝘴 𝘐 𝘵𝘰𝘺 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘩𝘦𝘳, 𝘥𝘳𝘢𝘸𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘺 𝘴𝘩𝘪𝘷𝘦𝘳, 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘺 𝘶𝘯𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘴𝘤𝘪𝘰𝘶𝘴 𝘮𝘰𝘢𝘯. 1 of 2

I'm so thirsty I could eat a whole 🍑

Canada fighting back is a powerful reminder that kindness doesn’t mean weakness; sometimes, even the friendliest faces hide the sharpest teeth.

Your honour, in my defence, the red flag 🚩 was waving at me.

𝘗𝘢𝘪𝘯 𝘪𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘱𝘳𝘪𝘤𝘦 𝘰𝘧 𝘥𝘦𝘷𝘰𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯, 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘸𝘪𝘭𝘭 𝘱𝘢𝘺 𝘪𝘵 𝘨𝘭𝘢𝘥𝘭𝘺. 𝘐 𝘸𝘪𝘭𝘭 𝘤𝘢𝘳𝘷𝘦 𝘮𝘺 𝘤𝘭𝘢𝘪𝘮 𝘪𝘯𝘵𝘰 𝘺𝘰𝘶, 𝘢 𝘣𝘳𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘯𝘰 𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘤𝘢𝘯 𝘪𝘨𝘯𝘰𝘳𝘦. 𝘌𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘺 𝘵𝘩𝘳𝘰𝘣, 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘺 𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘦𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘢𝘤𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘪𝘭𝘭 𝘸𝘩𝘪𝘴𝘱𝘦𝘳 𝘮𝘺 𝘯𝘢𝘮𝘦—𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘸𝘪𝘭𝘭 𝘴𝘮𝘪𝘭𝘦, 𝘬𝘯𝘰𝘸𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘢𝘳𝘦 𝘮𝘪𝘯𝘦.

Fuck abstinence, fuck chastity, fuck the notion of sex being dirty. You're allowed to enjoy your sexuality without feeling guilty.

Half the reason I put myself through this is because it's the only two hours of my day where my brain shut up. The other half is size kink related.

Daddy issues 🫱🏼‍🫲🏽 Age gap kink

Here's my big, moist and veiny anthurium crystallinum.

Meow

Pullout game so weak I developed a breeding kink.

"Stop bouncing your leg." "It's either this or arson."

"Was that too much? "Is this on too tight?" "How are you doing?" Does not make you less Dominant.

"Stop bouncing your leg." "It's either this or arson."

I'm so competitive that I will outjump you when it comes to conclusions.

𝘔𝘢𝘳𝘬𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘸𝘪𝘭𝘭 𝘣𝘦 𝘱𝘢𝘪𝘯𝘧𝘶𝘭, 𝘣𝘶𝘵 𝘺𝘰𝘶'𝘭𝘭 𝘴𝘢𝘷𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘺 𝘴𝘦𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘥 𝘰𝘧 𝘪𝘵. 𝘐 𝘸𝘢𝘯𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘭𝘥 𝘵𝘰 𝘴𝘦𝘦 𝘸𝘩𝘰 𝘰𝘸𝘯𝘴 𝘺𝘰𝘶. 𝘠𝘰𝘶'𝘭𝘭 𝘸𝘦𝘢𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘴𝘦 𝘴𝘤𝘢𝘳𝘭𝘦𝘵 𝘮𝘢𝘳𝘬𝘴 𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦 𝘢 𝘣𝘢𝘥𝘨𝘦 𝘰𝘧 𝘩𝘰𝘯𝘰𝘶𝘳, 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘺 𝘴𝘩𝘢𝘳𝘱 𝘴𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘸𝘪𝘭𝘭 𝘮𝘢𝘬𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘴𝘩𝘪𝘷𝘦𝘳—𝘣𝘦𝘤𝘢𝘶𝘴𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘬𝘯𝘰𝘸 𝘦𝘹𝘢𝘤𝘵𝘭𝘺 𝘸𝘩𝘰 𝘱𝘶𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘮 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦.

Middle child, had to share everything, of course I'm going to be possessive AF.

I'm not arguing with a dude who doesn't wash their hands before finger banging, bro's a walking UTI.

Date idea: Knife play + Deftones - You've Seen the Butcher.

Skin to skin contact isn't enough, I need you to do the fusion dance with me.

𝘐 𝘥𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘬 𝘪𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵 𝘰𝘧 𝘩𝘦𝘳, 𝘴𝘱𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘥, 𝘦𝘹𝘱𝘰𝘴𝘦𝘥, 𝘷𝘶𝘭𝘯𝘦𝘳𝘢𝘣𝘭𝘦, 𝘺𝘦𝘵 𝘴𝘢𝘧𝘦 𝘪𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘱𝘳𝘪𝘴𝘰𝘯 𝘰𝘧 𝘮𝘺 𝘥𝘦𝘴𝘪𝘨𝘯. 𝘏𝘦𝘳 𝘱𝘭𝘦𝘢𝘴𝘶𝘳𝘦 𝘪𝘴 𝘮𝘪𝘯𝘦 𝘵𝘰 𝘨𝘳𝘢𝘯𝘵 𝘰𝘳 𝘥𝘦𝘯𝘺, 𝘵𝘰 𝘴𝘵𝘳𝘦𝘵𝘤𝘩 𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘶𝘯𝘵𝘪𝘭 𝘴𝘩𝘦’𝘴 𝘵𝘳𝘦𝘮𝘣𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘰𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘦𝘥𝘨𝘦, 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘣𝘰𝘥𝘺 𝘱𝘭𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘣𝘦𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘦 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘭𝘪𝘱𝘴 𝘲𝘶𝘪𝘷𝘦𝘳, 𝘥𝘢𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘰 𝘣𝘦𝘨.

𝘚𝘪𝘭𝘬𝘦𝘯 𝘳𝘰𝘱𝘦𝘴 𝘣𝘪𝘵𝘦 𝘪𝘯𝘵𝘰 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘴𝘬𝘪𝘯, 𝘦𝘢𝘤𝘩 𝘬𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘮𝘺 𝘥𝘦𝘭𝘪𝘣𝘦𝘳𝘢𝘵𝘦 𝘱𝘳𝘰𝘮𝘪𝘴𝘦, 𝘢 𝘱𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘦𝘯𝘵 𝘮𝘢𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘱𝘪𝘦𝘤𝘦 𝘣𝘪𝘯𝘥𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘵𝘰 𝘮𝘺 𝘸𝘪𝘭𝘭. 𝘚𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘵𝘳𝘶𝘨𝘨𝘭𝘦𝘴, 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘵𝘰 𝘦𝘴𝘤𝘢𝘱𝘦, 𝘣𝘶𝘵 𝘵𝘰 𝘧𝘦𝘦𝘭; 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘺 𝘵𝘶𝘨, 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘺 𝘵𝘸𝘪𝘴𝘵 𝘢 𝘸𝘩𝘪𝘴𝘱𝘦𝘳 𝘰𝘧 𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘵𝘳𝘰𝘭 𝘴𝘩𝘦 𝘤𝘳𝘢𝘷𝘦𝘴.

𝘔𝘺 𝘶𝘭𝘵𝘪𝘮𝘢𝘵𝘦 𝘣𝘭𝘪𝘴𝘴 𝘪𝘴 𝘪𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘭𝘰𝘸, 𝘵𝘰𝘳𝘵𝘶𝘳𝘰𝘶𝘴 𝘵𝘦𝘢𝘴𝘦 𝘰𝘧 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘥𝘦𝘴𝘪𝘳𝘦𝘴; 𝘸𝘢𝘵𝘤𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘵𝘳𝘦𝘮𝘣𝘭𝘦, 𝘶𝘯𝘳𝘢𝘷𝘦𝘭, 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘴𝘶𝘳𝘳𝘦𝘯𝘥𝘦𝘳 𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘱𝘭𝘦𝘵𝘦𝘭𝘺 𝘶𝘯𝘥𝘦𝘳 𝘮𝘺 𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘵𝘳𝘰𝘭, 𝘬𝘯𝘰𝘸𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘺 𝘨𝘢𝘴𝘱 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘮𝘰𝘢𝘯 𝘪𝘴 𝘮𝘪𝘯𝘦 𝘵𝘰 𝘰𝘳𝘤𝘩𝘦𝘴𝘵𝘳𝘢𝘵𝘦.

I'm thankful that we've collectively accepted that Creed is cool after all.

I've healed, I no longer have time for things that won't bring me closer to my next tattoo appointment.

The neurodivergent urge to retain all the information but be unable to recall it when needed.