pathetic-tranny

[pathetic-tranny]

The thing about my asexual tboy boyfriend is that I am not a top, nor do I actually enjoy penetrative sex. I rape him entirely because I know he hates it, know it makes him dysphoric, know he's sex repulsed. I do it because I love torturing him more than I care about my own comfort <3

[pathetic-tranny]

"If I were in the Monster Hunter universe, I'd spend all my time with a Palamute!" "If I were in the Monster Hunter universe I'd work at the stables" Bitch, if I were in the Monster Hunter universe, I'd be dead by day two. The first time a Rathalos or Shagaru Magala comes up on that quest board it's T minus 50 minutes until I'm a smear of red in some nicely-decorated forest ruins and my spirit's looking down at a Nargacuga using what's left of my tutorial-armour-clad body as a fleshlight and I'm just like "fuckin' worth it"

[pathetic-tranny]

Knife play tips

* get a bigger knife you pansy

* carve dont cut

* hack it off, lap it up

* stop caring so much what is wrong with you, why do you care so much about their little life. Pick up the knife and you are god

* dont stop until you sre thigh deep in a puddle of broken meat

[pathetic-tranny]

[pathetic-tranny]

Me talking to my friend: No, she LIKES when I call her a girl. It's her kink.

Abused tboy boyfriend who just wants to be treated like a man standing three feet away: 🥺

[pathetic-tranny]

My asexual tboy boyfriend: Can we maybe not have sex tonight? I'd really like just one night where we don't have sex...

Me: I already put 45 Grave on, baby girl. You know once Partytime starts, there's no stopping me.

[pathetic-tranny]

My abused tboy boyfriend: Hey I'm going out with friends in a couple hours...

Me, about to give him a black eye: Okay baby girl, just one thing first <3

[pathetic-tranny]

Need an asexual tboy boyfriend to misgender and rape

[pathetic-tranny]

Abused asexual tboy boyfriend: You've been beating me all night... I can't take anymore... an we please just go to sleep?

Me, who just heard "can't take anymore" and popped a boner: Oh didn't you hear? It's rape time :3

[pathetic-tranny]

Abused tboy boyfriend: Would you still love me even if I transitioned?

Me, taking painkillers so my knuckles won't hurt when I beat him up in an hour: I don't love you now.

[pathetic-tranny]

Abused tboy boyfriend: and she hasn't talked to me for two weeks...

His friend: Good, she was horrible to you. You should move on.

Abused tboy boyfriend: Wait! She texted me!

His friend: 🙄

Me: Wazup girly pop get that pussy ready I'm heading over

Abused asexual tboy boyfriend: she DOES care...

[pathetic-tranny]

Abused tboy boyfriend: Can you stop calling me your daughter? It makes me really uncomfortable and dysphoric...

Me: Aww does mommy make you feel bad? Does mommy hurt your wittle feelings? Be a good girl and put on my sex playlist and maybe I won't leave you crying and bloody this time :)

[pathetic-tranny]

trying for a child with you for months and the pregnancy test finally comes back positive. we're overjoyed and spend the night celebrating. we go to bed afterwards. you wake up and im gone. ive blocked you on everything. you never see me again. i abort the child and charge it to your debit card. i hate you.

[pathetic-tranny]

Need an asexual tboy boyfriend to misgender and rape

[pathetic-tranny]

i need a pathetic worthless girl who's dead on paper and nobody will look for and who doesn't care what happens to her to disappear into my apartment & never be seen or heard from again

[pathetic-tranny]

wrote some snuff to try and excise some bad feelings I've been having lately. it's a thousand words of cathartic transfeminine execution fantasy, and if you'd like to read it I've put it up here and on AO3 for consumption. cw's for physical violence, gore, transphobia, and death.

Showtime (1100 words)

We turn the corner without checking first, and there they are.

I should’ve known. The main thoroughfare, recognizable and photogenic with its airy cafes and sleek boutiques, was suspiciously empty for this time of night. People tend to go home when the gangs decide to start streaming, dutifully clearing the way for the cadres of young men who pour out of their apartments to broadcast the rituals of brutality that pass for entertainment.

The air is warm and sticky. My palm was already sweaty in hers by the time they started towards us.

Eight of them. Three with cell phones, flashes pointed our way, casting their oppressive light up my body to highlight the marks of my incongruity. The others fumble in the waistbands of their jeans as they advance, and I catch flashes of metal in their palms. 

I look up to see her pale face illuminated, eyes wide and neck clenched in anger. I try to interpose myself between her and the advancing men. She’s faster than me; I’m sure she could make it, but her feet stay rooted, defiant. I wish she loved me enough to run.

The one at the front – God, he can’t be older than twenty – calls us something that barely registers, beaming hungrily as the words leave his mouth. The blood’s still pounding in my ears by the time he produces the baton. I step forwards, then shift right, like a knight on a chessboard, and say something stupid – Hey, take it easy – as if I’m stopping a bar fight or mediating an argument, as if anything I say could alter the course of what’s coming.

He splits my scalp with a thunderous forehand, and I collapse into the arms of his compatriots. Two of them hoist me to my feet, hands beneath my armpits, holding me at length like a thing contaminated. 

When I come to my senses, three or four of them are on her, forcing her tall frame into the rough brick wall beside us. She looks plaintively at me for a second before an aluminum bat comes down on her shin and snaps it in two. 

She hisses loudly through gritted teeth – even now, her self-restraint is unassailable. I call out; the pain splits my head, lancing white-hot down my midline as warm blood pools at my lip. The burning doubles, then triples, as I struggle in vain to wrest myself from their grasp. 

My resistance is nothing to them. They look like they work for it, too, five or six times a week in a sea of identical young men, chiseling themselves for the cameras, honing their bodies for the onerous task of wiping out undesirables on nice summer nights like this.

This is the currency these days. Keep your haircut nice and your clothes designer, pick a weapon to build your brand around, and join up with a couple others to go out into the streets a couple times a week. It’s good money even before the sponsorship deals and the patronage networks, and as long as you vary up your hunting grounds there’s no shortage of faggots to extinguish. Some of the red states even pay bounties, they say. Put the recording up on a video-hosting website and get a nice little government subsidy, quietly in the mail.

But not here, no. They couldn’t quite bring themselves to go that far. It’s almost worse, I think. These guys are just doing it for the love of the game.

Both of us are on our knees beside one another. She’s sitting still, pretty legs bloody on the pavement, long hair obscuring the tears running silently down her face. I’m still firing my muscles once every couple of seconds, testing the grip of my captors, as if my diminishing strength might ever be enough to change things. 

Baton struts in front of us. I hear words I’ve been hearing since middle school, a couple of mid-century anachronisms given new life, plus some new ones, no doubt mined from the masses who tune in to watch and comment on the spectacle. He reads the names on our IDs out loud and I roll my eyes.

It’s insulting to think that he doesn’t even hate us; God, he doesn’t even know us. He preens for the cameras, speaking in the fast, emphatic tone the algorithm likes, hitting the important epithets – degenerate, groomer, fag – at just the right moments to keep the people engaged.

If I had my wits about me, I’d mess with his performance – yell something, comply maliciously, humiliate him – anything to claw back a little victory before what’s coming.

But my head hurts, and there's no arguing anymore. Safety was always an illusion: we could never be too agreeable, too fuckable, too pitiable to snuff out, not if the people demand it. I want so badly to live, and he doesn’t even care enough to really want me dead, but he's got the baton and the lackeys and the cameras and the audience and the sponsors and the tacit assent of the cops, and that's more than the two of us could ever have stood up against. 

I made my choice six years ago, she a little longer, and for one bright moment before the cullings we were happy. It was probably still the right call, even now. At least we’ll be buried in dresses.

I tell her I love her, and Baseball-bat nails me cleanly across the shoulder for it. My collarbone splinters and I hear myself scream.

A peal of laughter flares up, and another, far out of sight, diffuse behind screens.

My spine burns, tingling fire shooting up my neck to meet the stinging in my head. I hear the click of pistols cocking, just outside my peripheral vision.

I don’t hear what she says in response. Her deep brown eyes are fixed on the spot of bloody pavement in front of her, voice mangled by fear and sorrow. I'd have given anything to keep her from ever having to feel like this, and now it's the last thing she'll know.

My failure is a great, dark ocean. I choke it down and try once more to will her into meeting my gaze. Here I am, trying to be brave, and she can’t even look.

I say it again, softer this time, and before the third syllable has left my lips her head is a dark crater. 

Something works its way up my throat and forces its way out of my mouth. I follow it with a cry: one word, loud and guttural, clipping the audio on their microphones, before another soft pop, 

and the crowd goes wild.

[pathetic-tranny]

i wish it was socially acceptable to offer to kill suicidal people. you want to die. i want to kill you. we have a common interest.