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⛓️rose kædeheks waters⛓️

@cattlegoth.bsky.social

Jersey Filth with a heart of gold I make poetry for dykes and freaks I am 30 or 40 years old I don't need this If you're under 21 get the hell outta here

2985 Posts910 Follower914 Folgt
⛓️rose kædeheks waters⛓️@cattlegoth.bsky.social · 4h ago

Does anyone have any good resources on pain kinks and safety? It's been long enough since I last brushed up on things that I could use a refresher but I'm not sure where to look this time around. I like to torture women but I can't afford hospital bills you know?

rue@deathcarpets.sisc.one · 4mo ago

every time you turn off your car radio when a nine inch nails song is playing the little trent reznor that lives in the radio who is singing the songs gets put in the machine from the happiness in slavery video

sarah zedig 🐐@hmsnofun.bsky.social · 2d ago

shit week, shit month, shit year. cried more in the last few days than i have in a good while. fuck it, here's the beginning of a werewolf story i've been working on. it'll be the first in a collection of shorts, and i'm really quite happy with them so far.

THE WOLF in his BOX The first thing I did when I got here was rent a storage unit. Job, apartment, all that stuff would come later. It was nine days til, so there just wasn’t time to fuck around with rental applications, playing nice with some manicured property manager who’s never eaten a burger out of a trash can and thinks anyone who has ought to be locked up someplace. No patience for it, no time. Tricky part’s always finding a complex with the right balance of lax management, low population density, and heavily reinforced walls. Guards at your average downtown rent-a-garage facility love sniffing out overnighters. Avoid the big chains, you want an independent place somewhere on the edge of nowhere, tucked away in a sea of parking lots and car dealerships. That’s where you look: post-industrial no-man’s-land, the sprawling asphalt blastwaste that is the highway’s shadow. The only folks you’ll find there at night is cops and vagrants, and they’re too busy looking out for each other to notice some other funny business. If you’re smart about it, anyway. But you have to be careful. Some of these places are built with drywall and popsicle sticks, cheap little dumps cashing in on low property taxes and easy interest rates. They’ll fall the fuck apart at the first sign of trouble. You want an old joint, cinderblock and concrete and steel rebar. Small enough that there’s only one guard at night who doesn’t even remember to walk his rounds half the time. If you’re real lucky, you can make a deal with the owner, give em some cash under the table in exchange for a blind eye a couple nights a month. And even then, you never know- some of these guys get it in their head you’re a meth cook or a serial killer, and either they want in or they want to turn you in. I try to keep it vague and fish for sympathetic discretion, but it’s a tricky proposition no matter how you slice it. That’s why trust is the enemy. Trust gets people killed. I’ve done this enough times I was able to find a good one on the first day. Small unit, interior, down the end of a hall. No adjacent units. Got a good deal from the owner, a first generation Syrian immigrant who owned the place for decades and took pity on my dirty clothes and black eye. I told him I got it from a cop. He told me his oldest daughter got shot by cops outside a convenience store a few blocks away. I slipped him a couple hundred extra, and he wrote a note down for the night watch. Good start to my new life. So I got to work building a cage. Borrowed some equipment from a tool library and jumped an old truck from the vacant lot next door, came back from the hardware store with a flat of timber, some thick sheets of metal, and a ton of heavy-duty soundproofing foam. I was pretty happy with how it came together. It was the fourth I’d had to make in twice as many years, so I had a lot of mistakes to learn from and this time it finished up quick. A seven foot by seven foot cube with nine inches of insulated padding on every side. Not perfectly soundproof, but as close as you can get on a couple days’ work all on your lonesome. The first night was rough. Between the bribes and the supplies I’d just about cleaned out my pocket, so I couldn’t get any feed for the wolf. I remember hungry howling, scratching, itching, clawing, like mad and sad all rolled up in this ball of overbearing present-tenseness. You hear her calling to you even in perfect darkness, and the farther you are from her gaze the more it breaks your heart. But never forget: that part’s just an illusion. Woke up the next morning pleasantly surprised to find my cage withstood the abuse I subjected it to. Then I bussed into the city and stole some food from a corner store. I could tell from my internal despondence that the second night was gonna be a real fucking marathon of a thing, so I stooped low and stole some chickens out of somebody’s back yard. They probably blamed it on coyotes, which isn’t too far off. I came to the next day, naked amidst a Pollock of blood and feathers, belly full to bursting and my head... Oh man, the migraine alone is enough to put you on suicide watch. But I don’t mind it, you know. This is the cost of living in the world today, being what I am. It’s as practical a thing as paying your rent on time, or doing your taxes. Twenty-eight out of thirty-one days in a month, that is what’s true and it doesn’t bother me. You get on with your life, find a job, an apartment, maybe a temporary companion if you’re lucky and careful. I haven’t always been either of those things. But on that day, the day after? There’s no brave face, no psychologic compartmentalizing. Your whole body remembers and hates you for it. You can feel the wrongness in every miserable inch of you. Cramped up in that little cell, hungry and electric, hearing her call with no recourse to heed it. Echoes of that preverbal whisper roll around in your thoughts, the hills and fields call, let go, let go, in forest glen she waits, not enough, not enough, and on that day you can’t help but agree. You feel dirty. You feel like you’ve debased yourself for nothing. It’s like breaking a promise, the most important promise you ever made, and the guilt is so profound you can barely think straight. You convince yourself that you’ll never feel better, and then you go to sleep and wake up the next day and the feeling is gone like it never happened. That’s how I talk myself down from doing something stupid, just remind myself that it’s not a real thing and it never was. Just a feeling. I’ve never met a werewolf in America who survived very long by listening to their feelings.
Derf Backderf@derfbackderf.bsky.social · 3d ago

Harvey & Joyce's adopted daughter Danielle is trying to raise funds to deal with Pekar's raw archive; basically four storage lockers full of notes, outlines, ideas, etc. Note this is not Pekar's comics per se. Those rights have been tied up in court for years. Long, ugly story. Worth backing.

His Name was Harvey Pekar

Saving the legacy of Harvey Pekar:Urgent mission to rescue four full storage units of American Splendor history before its lost forever

kickstarter.com