the heavy press

anonymous asked:

Help me with this scenario I have in my head. You wake up and feel shawn's boner. What does he do/happens

Warning: Smut

You were brutally woken up, when you suddenly felt Shawn’s heavy weight on you, pressing you further into the matress. It took you a second or two to open your eyes, but when you did, Shawn’s lusting, dark once met you immediately.

He breathed heavily, before licking his pink lips, not removing his stare from you. You didn’t know why, but suddenly, you felt your cheeks heat up. 

“Morning love” he breathed, his voice sounded so dark.

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deliver us from evil

(credence/graves; tw: child abuse, manipulation and weird religious imagery)


Our Father, who art in Heaven.

When Credence is twelve years old, he begins to dream of darkness. It’s all encompassing, a heavy thing that presses down on his shoulders, makes him hunch over to hold the weight. Ma beats him every day to fix his posture, but it’s the one thing that she gives up on.

You have evil in those bones, she hisses at him, and Credence thinks of the darkness, thinks of inky smoke spreading out from his hands and mouth, and agrees.


Credence is fifteen the first time a man tries to put him on his knees. He says to him, that mouth, you could do filthy things, and Credence doesn’t understand, takes a step back, and another, and another, until the man is crowding him up against the wall and-and.

Credence doesn’t remember the rest. Just that suddenly he’s home, and Ma asks him why he smells like smoke and burnt flesh. 

Credence takes off his belt.


When he turns eighteen, Credence considers leaving. Briefly, for about a minute, before Modesty asks him for help with something and he knows he can’t. When he closes his eyes, he feels nothing. He sees nothing. Just black, just smoke curling out from deep inside his chest. There’s a writhing, living thing inside him, snarling to get out.

Lead us not into temptation. 

He’s eighteen when he kisses a boy for the first time, savagely, like he wants to rip whatever is inside him out and breathe it into the other boy. Dirty, filthy, evil in those bones, he hears, and he wants to yank the thoughts out of his own head.

He wants to bleed. 

He lets the boy go and wipes his mouth.


Credence is twenty when he meets his first witch. She’s slim and pale but her eyes are like fire, and her mouth speaks a language he’s heard in churches and mass. When she says them, the air moves, Ma freezes, her eyes bulging. Credence is shivering and he can feel blood dripping down his back. 

Pater noster, qui es in caelis.

The witch kneels down to look at him. “Are you alright?” she asks, but Credence can’t seem to answer.

sanctificetur Nomen Tuum. 

The witch, Tina, leaves. Nobody seems to remember what happened except for him. When he sleeps, the black thing wants to eat him up.

Sometimes it does.

adveniat Regnum Tuum.  


He’s still twenty when he meets the eyes of a magnetic man in a long coat and a face too handsome to be on this side of Union Square. The thing inside of Credence spreads and settles deep in the hollows of his throat, almost like it’s purring, and his breath catches. He looks away.

Deliver us from evil.

The man is back the next day, and the next. On the fourth day, he takes a pamphlet, his hand touching the back of Credence’s scarred knuckles. His vision whites out for a brief moment and when he comes back to himself, the man is gone.

The veins along his wrists are black. Ma beats him again that night.


The man with the magnetic eyes talks to him five days later. “What’s your name, boy?” he asks.

“Credence, sir,” he says. “Barebone.”

The man looks at him for a long moment. “Credence,” he says. His voice skitters up Credence’s spine, like a living thing, and settles into the hollows of his ribs. 

Give us this day our daily bread.

“I want to talk to you more about this, boy,” the man says, cocking his head to the side. “You can call me Mr. Graves.”


Credence is twenty-one when Mr. Graves tells him he’s a wizard. Something inside him already knew. Something inside him wonders if he could fit the hollows of his bones into the spaces of Mr. Graves’ body, if he could be consumed by him and never get out.

And forgive us our debts.

Mr. Graves asks him for help in finding a child, a child with something inside of them. What if I’m that child, Mr. Graves? he doesn’t ask. I have something inside me that wants to get out. It eats and eats and it’s so hungry, Mr. Graves. I’m so hungry. 

Of course, Mr. Graves,” Credence says instead. Thy will be done.

You’re a special boy, Credence,” Mr. Graves tells him. His broad, warm hands cup the back of his neck and Credence sways, the heat of them like a brand, seared along his skin. Please, he thinks. Pleasepleaseplease.

Mr. Graves releases him, and Credence lets out a gasp. “I’ll see you again tomorrow, my boy,” he says, and he’s gone.

Credence presses his forehead to the cool wall, sucking in the stale air. Please help me.  


Credence is twenty-one and three weeks when Mr. Graves gives him the necklace. It feels hot against the skin of his chest, hidden under his clothes. His palms sweat, thinking about the way Mr. Graves had cupped his cheek, hands rough and calloused, the way they’d lingered, the way the blunt nails had scraped, just a little, along his jaw. 

His tongue feels swollen and thick in his mouth, from hunger, from pain, from that bone-deep emptiness in his body. 

Our father, who art in heaven, (Please help me.)
hallowed be thy name. (Mr. Graves.)
Thy kingdom come, they will be done, (I’m so hungry.)
On Earth as it is in Heaven. (It’s so hungry.)


Credence is twenty-one and three weeks and one day when Mr. Graves presses a thumb just under the hinge of his jaw and he lets out a whimper before he can stop it. 

“Oh, my boy,” Mr. Graves says, voice soft and deadly. Credence’s lips part, his heart in his throat, that thing spreading relentlessly throughout his body. He can feel smoke start to waft off his fingers. But then–then.

It’s a hard kiss, a mean one, but Credence fists his hands in that coat and makes a soft, needy noise, feels it curling in the back of his throat. The thing inside him stretches languidly and purrs, and Credence’s toes curl in his boots. 

Lead us not into temptation.

Mr. Graves lets go, he presses his thumb to Credence’s swollen lower lip, his dark eyes predatory. “What a special boy you are,” he says softly. “Bring me the child, and you and I can do much more than this.”

Deliver us from evil.


Credence is twenty-one and four weeks when he kills his Ma.

Credence is twenty-one and four weeks when Mr. Graves slaps him, calls him pathetic, a stupid squib of a boy.

Credence is twenty-one when his eyes go white and his lips curl into a snarl and he lets the thing inside him swallow him whole. 

Credence is twenty-one when he hears Mr. Graves say, a miracle, a wonder, when he sees him fall to his knees, his eyes wide and awed.

Credence is twenty-one when he hears Tina, her voice soft, gentle.

Credence is twenty-one when he sees bright light and suddenly feels nothing at all.


the crossroads have seen too many girls
willing to sell their souls
for a beauty that already belonged to them.

a liminal space
where boundaries thin like wisps of smoke
in early dawn light.

but there is beauty in this too, soft pastel colours,
a quiet empty echo of laughter and then darkness,
encompassing and heavy, pressing into lungs
but still radiant somehow.

for now demons count souls
like dollar bills held close to devil red chests, smiles curling
because they think that they’ve won.

but one day those girls will see past black ringed promises
bartered at an intersection of road,
down to the skin that was already perfect
and that quiet empty echo of a soul that had been perfect too.

hell will see.
the four horsemen are nothing
compared to an army of girls ready to reclaim what is theirs.

l.s. | LIMINAL SPACE © 2017 

He’s so fucked out but he still wants more. His voice is gone from yelling, screaming, begging and so he rolls onto his stomach on the ruined sheets. He arches his ass up into the air and reaches back with one hand to pull his cheeks apart and show his puffy, pink, used hole.

And he waits. He hears the water in the bathroom shut off and the door swing open across the carpet. He hears one footstep and a deep inhale of breath followed by the thud of a wet towel hitting the floor. He smiles into the sticky sheets and arches his back even deeper.

He feels a hand on each of his ankles and his legs are spread. His knuckles go white as he tries to keep his hole exposed to the greedy eyes he can feel on his naked skin.

Suddenly, a deep, satisfied voice in his ear and the heat of a heavy body pressed into his back. “You’re insatiable, Dean. I fuckin love it.”


J-Hope x Reader

Genre: Do I write anything that isn’t smut? The answer is no.

Summary: Look up from your books once in a while. A good dick down might be on the other side.

Word count: 4,267

A/N: I’m appalled at the lack of Hoseok smut so I thought I’d polish this piece I had about him and post that. Enjoy! Feel free to request stuff as well.

You glanced at the silver and pink watch on your wrist as you typed continuously onto your laptop. You sighed deeply as you pressed enter to switch line. This essay was taking so long to write and you could feel all your focus slip away, tiredness taking over in heavy presses on your eyelids. You met eyes with your charming boyfriend on the other side of the table. He smiled at you sweetly before looking back down at his papers. Unlike you, he was enjoying himself, writing lyrics and listening to some music on his laptop, calmly sipping a warm cup of tea. You glanced to your left and reached for your nth cup of coffee promptly sitting atop a messy pile of books. You tilted it. Empty. A sigh made its way between your dry lips and soon enough your cold hands found their way back onto your keyboard, resting lifeless on the keys.

You were so focused on getting this paper done that you didn’t notice Hoseok getting up to make you another warm drink. His presence lurked tall behind your back as his left arm entered your peripherals, putting a black mug down on the table, making sure to push away all your scattered papers. He grabbed your other mug under your soft stare. You lazily reached for the new drink and brought it up to your mouth.

“Thank you Hobi.” you murmured.

He put the other mug in the sink before standing behind you again, his gentle hands on your shoulders, massaging the sore muscles. You took a long awaited sip. Hm… Chocolate?

“Hobiii… that’s hot chocolate.” you whined cutely.

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I have exactly one of two feeder moods at any given time

1.) “Oh my, look how swollen your stomach is now~ You’ve eaten so much for me; I’m so proud of you.. But you’re not done yet! The only way you can rest is by falling into a food coma. I want your belly drum-tight, so big and heavy it’s pressing on your lungs, making it hard to breathe. You’ll look so adorably vulnerable, moaning from being stuffed to the gills with sooo much food, but I promise to shower your exhausted body with the rubs and kisses you so very much earned <3″

2.) “unnhghyes sqUIsH me///”

Prayers for Italy needed

Italy is in a very poor condition at the moment, and I feel the Hand of God is pressing heavy on my country.

The Centre & South are under +1m of continuous snow, and earthquakes are still an issue which now is occurring together with cold weather.

Villages are isolated and some have to go without electricity and related.

Please pray for Italy, all people affected, the army/health services specially needed and working hard at this time.

I also remember other countries affected by recent earthquakes.

Jesus, have mercy!

You stopped loving Sundays when you were nineteen, the how and the why still a vivid memory pressing heavy on your sternum.
You started loving her when you were well past your twenties, you remember always lying to yourself and always hiding - the confusion now a ghost found in the eyes of others like you. 
Today you are reading her favorite book out loud, she lies on top of you, her head resting on your shoulder, her warm breath a peril to your concentration. You know it is her favorite position because she can hear your voice quivering through her whole body - she once told you it feels like rain if the sky could be underwater. 
Her eyes are closed but when you change accent or make a silly tone her laugh is your laugh and you can’t help but think that maybe this is how happiness becomes an addiction. 
You once thought Sundays would never be sweet again, you once thought love could never be real again. But today is Sunday and she is in your arms, warm, safe.
You smile at her as she jokingly urges you to keep reading - outside, the blanket of snow looks as heavy as your heart is light.
—  @blue-honey - ‘Sunday Mornings’
Chapter 90 Thoughts

Mixed indeed. I was giddy when I first saw the spoiler images of the kids happily playing in the ocean, but the feeling lasted for maybe half an hour before everything else kicked in. 

This chapter left me anxious for reasons I can’t quite put my finger on. Maybe it’s because of how often we get hit over the head with some heavy themes, like the pressing need to prevent a hellish history from repeating itself, and pondering if true freedom is really possible.

Seriously, it’s brought up a good three times by different people in different situations. Isayama may as well be spelling it out for the readers at this point to emphasize its importance for future events. Each time it’s mentioned, it’s coupled by an explanation as to what causes this cursed history to repeat.

In the opening pages, Pixis points out that hiding the truth would be a cause. They would be no different from the royals of the past 100 years.

The senior journalist Levi and Hange converse with sees the cause stemming from dehumanizing people. He wonders if it will only end if all the Eldians are killed, as their enemies so desire.

Eren thinks to himself that it will inevitably happen from failing to drastically change the situation. Change which usually comes in the form of great personal sacrifice. 

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Fat Boy Keeper Tips: The Shoelace Test

Most keepers will agree that one of the hottest aspects of a very fattened boy is the way his heavy, swollen tits press against the huge shelf of his gut when he tries to bend forward in a sitting position.

A well-fattened boy, when sitting, will naturally lean his body back and spread his thighs to accommodate the flab that you have piled onto his torso. As he grows fatter, the thick rolls of his love handles will also increasingly limit his movement from side to side as well as forwards.

At the Fat Boy Keepers Association we recommend the use of The Shoelace Test to measure your boy’s progress in this dimension. Not only can the results be submitted to the Association to be added to your fat boy’s record, the test itself provides a very attractive way to make your boy struggle for you and realise the extent of his own fattening.

The Shoelace Test is simple: 

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