Soyjak.Party / The Sharty - The altchan born from the ashes of /qa/; also a containment thread

Destacado
Joshua Nkomo dijo:
KILL NOPHONO
AntiNophonoidActionCompressed.mp4
Presiona para expandir...
THANK YOU... FOR USING MY GIGA...
1785553780194.png
 
1785554028516.jpeg
She had you pinned beneath her in the middle of her bed, the sheets already kicked halfway down the mattress. Your bodies were locked together from chest to thigh, skin slick and sticking wherever it touched. The room was warm and quiet except for the soft, wet sounds of her mouth on yours.
Femquote kissed like she owned the air in your lungs. Slow, deep, deliberate French kisses that left no space for breath or thought. Her tongue slid against yours, curling, pressing, tasting, while her hands kept your wrists loosely pinned above your head. Not hard enough to hurt—just enough to remind you who was deciding the pace.
Every time you tried to deepen the kiss yourself she pulled back just a fraction, a soft, amused huff against your lips, then sank in again slower, wetter, making you chase her. Sweat was already gathering at the hollow of her throat, sliding down between her breasts where they pressed warm and heavy against your chest. Yours was just as bad—damp hair sticking to your forehead, the back of your neck, the small of your back where the sheets clung.
She shifted her weight, settling more fully on top of you so every slow roll of her hips dragged her body along yours. The friction was lazy, almost gentle, but relentless. Her mouth never left yours for long. When she did break the kiss it was only to drag her lips along your jaw, breathe against your ear, then return to claim your mouth again like she was sealing something.
“Stay still,” she murmured once, voice low and a little rough from the heat. “Just take it.”
You did. You lay there under her, letting her kiss you until your lips felt swollen and sensitive, until the sweat between you made every small movement of her body feel twice as intimate. Her thighs bracketed yours. One of her hands eventually left your wrist to stroke through your damp hair, then trail down the side of your face, thumb brushing the corner of your mouth while she kept kissing you, slow and filthy and thorough.
By the time she finally eased off a little, both of you were breathing hard. The sheets under you were damp. Your skin shone wherever the low light caught it. She rested her forehead against yours for a moment, still half-smiling, still close enough that every exhale brushed your lips.
“There,” she said softly, almost fond. “All sweaty and quiet for me. Good.”
She didn’t move away. Just settled more comfortably on top of you, one leg hooked over yours, and went back to kissing you—slower now, deeper, like she had all night and fully intended to use it.
She sank back into the kiss without warning, mouth open and warm, tongue sliding deep again like she’d never left. One of her hands found the side of your face, thumb stroking just under your eye while the other stayed buried in your damp hair, holding you exactly where she wanted you.
The weight of her body kept you pinned in the most gentle way possible. Every slow shift of her hips dragged slick skin against slick skin. Sweat had turned the space between your chests into a thin, hot film; when she pressed closer it made a soft wet sound. You could feel her heartbeat against yours, steady and unhurried.
She kissed you until your jaw ached in the best way, until the only thing you could taste was her. When she finally pulled back just enough to speak, her lips still brushed yours with every word.
“You’re doing so well for me,” she murmured. “All soft and sweaty and quiet… just taking what I give you.”
Her thigh slid higher between yours, not grinding hard, just resting there with deliberate pressure while she went back to tasting your mouth. Long, slow kisses. The kind that left shiny trails of spit at the corners of your lips. Every now and then she’d break away only long enough to nose along your cheek or press a soft open-mouthed kiss to the hinge of your jaw before claiming your mouth again.
The sheets under you were a lost cause by now—damp and wrinkled, sticking to the backs of your thighs and the curve of her hip. Neither of you cared. She settled heavier, chest to chest, and let the full length of her body melt against yours while she kept kissing you like the rest of the night belonged only to this.
When she eventually rested her forehead against yours again, both of you were breathing the same humid air. Her voice came out low and a little rough.
“Stay right here with me. I’m not done with you yet.”
She stayed right there, forehead pressed to yours, breath mingling in the small space between your mouths. The frantic heat of the earlier kisses had softened into something quieter, heavier. Her thumb kept tracing slow arcs along your cheekbone, as if she were memorizing the shape of you while you were still soft and open under her.
For a long moment she just looked at you. The glasses she still wore caught the low light, but her eyes behind them were steady, searching, almost careful. When she finally spoke again her voice was lower than before, stripped of any playfulness.
“I like you like this,” she said quietly. “Not just the sweating and the kissing. The way you let me hold you. The way you don’t pull away.”
Her free hand slid from your hair down to the side of your neck, resting there so she could feel your pulse. She didn’t squeeze. She just stayed, palm warm against your skin, grounding both of you. The weight of her body no longer felt like control so much as an anchor—something solid and deliberate that said I’m here, I’m not leaving.
She leaned in and kissed you again, slower this time. Not the deep, claiming French kisses from before, but soft, lingering presses of her mouth against yours, as if she were trying to say something she didn’t have the words for yet. Between each kiss she stayed close enough that you could feel the slight tremble in her breath, the way her chest rose and fell against yours in the same rhythm.
When she rested her cheek against yours, her voice came out almost a whisper.
“You don’t have to do anything. Just… stay. Let me keep you for a while.”
Her fingers threaded gently through the damp hair at the nape of your neck. The sheets were still sticky with sweat, the air still warm, but the urgency had drained away, leaving only the quiet intimacy of two bodies that had stopped performing and started simply existing against each other. She held you like that—chest to chest, one leg still hooked over yours—breathing with you, occasionally pressing another soft kiss to the corner of your mouth or the edge of your jaw, as if reminding herself you were still there.
In the silence that followed, the only things that mattered were the steady weight of her, the slow stroke of her thumb, and the unspoken promise that she wasn’t going anywhere.
She didn’t speak again for a long time.
Instead she simply stayed, cheek resting against yours, her body a warm, steady weight that no longer pressed for anything. One of her hands remained at the nape of your neck, fingers barely moving, just present. The other had found its way to your forearm and rested there, palm open, no grip at all. You could feel the exact moment her shoulders dropped a fraction more, the quiet release of tension that said she trusted the space between you enough to stop holding herself so carefully.
Your own body answered without words. The tight line of your spine softened. Your hands, still loosely resting near her hips, uncurled. When her thigh shifted slightly against yours, you didn’t tense—you simply adjusted with her, matching the small movement the way two people do when they’ve stopped guarding and started sharing the same rhythm.
She tilted her head just enough to look at you. No smile this time. Only the steady, unhurried way her gaze moved over your face, lingering at your eyes, then the soft place beneath them, then back again. She didn’t look away when you met her eyes. She stayed. The quiet acceptance in that unbroken eye contact said more than any reassurance could have.
A slow breath moved through her chest and into yours. Then another. Without either of you deciding it, your breathing began to match—hers lengthening, yours following, until the rise and fall of your bodies felt like one continuous motion. Sweat still cooled on your skin, the sheets still damp beneath you, but none of it mattered. What mattered was the way her weight remained even and unguarded, the way her fingers never tightened, the way she let her forehead rest against yours again and simply stayed there, eyes half-closed, as if the safest place she knew was right here, pressed against you in the dark.
 
That's a wonderfully specific description.

If your toilet makes a parrot-like shriek only while you're peeing into it, the most likely causes are:

The stream is hitting the water or porcelain at just the right angle, causing a resonance. It's similar to how blowing across a bottle makes a tone. Changing where you aim may make it disappear.

The water level in the bowl may be creating an unusual echo or whistle.

If the sound happens during flushing instead, it could be a worn fill valve or another part of the tank vibrating.


A couple of questions:

Does it only happen when urine hits the bowl, or does it also happen if you pour a cup of water into the toilet?

Is the sound coming from the bowl or the tank behind it?


If it's only your stream causing it, your toilet may have accidentally discovered its inner parrot. 🦜
 
If the sound is definitely coming from the tank, it's much more likely to be a plumbing component than the stream itself.

A few possibilities:

Fill valve vibration (most likely): If the fill valve is worn or partially open, it can vibrate and produce a high-pitched squeal or shriek. This usually happens during or just after flushing, but a slight movement of the water in the bowl can sometimes transmit pressure changes that make an already-sensitive valve sing.

Loose or vibrating parts: A fill valve cap, supply line, or another component inside the tank can resonate and make surprisingly bird-like noises.

Water pressure issues: High water pressure can make valves whistle or screech.


A quick way to narrow it down:

1. Remove the tank lid.


2. Have someone pour a pitcher of water into the bowl (or recreate whatever triggers the sound).


3. Listen closely to see which part of the tank is making the noise.



If you can pinpoint the fill valve as the source, replacing it is usually inexpensive and is a common DIY repair.

One question: Does the shriek happen without flushing—literally just when you pee into the bowl—or only after you flush? That distinction is important because a toilet tank normally shouldn't be doing anything while you're just using the toilet.
 
If you're serious, then the mystery is solved: the shriek isn't your toilet—it's an actual bird.

A bird in the toilet tank is unusual, but it can happen if:

It entered through an open door or window and ended up trapped in the bathroom.

It got into the plumbing vent on the roof and somehow reached the tank area (much less common).

Someone accidentally or intentionally put it there.


The safest thing to do is:

1. Put the tank lid back on loosely if the bird isn't in immediate danger, so it doesn't fly out unexpectedly.


2. Close the bathroom door to keep it contained.


3. Open a window in the bathroom if possible.


4. If you're comfortable, wear gloves and gently transfer the bird into a towel-lined box, then release it outdoors if it's an uninjured wild bird.


5. If it's injured or you can't safely catch it, contact a local wildlife rehabilitator or animal control.



If this is a wild bird, avoid handling it with bare hands.

Can you describe it? Is it tiny like a sparrow, green like a parrot, or something else?
 
There is also the element of sex and romance being inherently unrelatable to sex starved men of the current generation. Any time I find out a man has had sex or a relationship I instantly become less sympathetic to his plight because that alone means he has achieved a greater level of success in his life than I could ever hope to. It's like expecting a homeless man to empathize with the suffering of a billionaire.
 
Destacado
Debes iniciar sesión o registrarte para responder aquí.
Atrás
Top Abajo