#does have the f slur

[mukoda]

fortress mood today

[xhylin]

Luis Serra because i finally finally fnally managed to buy Resident Evil 4 and I love this little bisexual man

i also got a new pack of crayons and a sketchbook from a classmate so I decided to draw HIM out of all people :)

[anomura]

believe it or not i left like . so many out lol my twitter mutuals are actual warriors

[coffinkissez]

do u guys think I’m anons fav faggot

[ladyimaginarium]

as an indigenous two spirit queer person, for upcoming pride month & indigenous history month for the love of fucking g-d can we FOR FUCKING ONCE unite under ONE UNITED queer community & stop whining & bitching over who gets to use what term & over bullshit that doesn't even matter when people are literally in concentration camps all around the world & queer people are in danger & to look at your local communities & center indigenous voices (& other queers of color) in your activism. get yourselves together holy fucking shit.

[cherrystonefemme]

My favorite moments from my lesbian™️ professional life:

1- That time I got to tell a nun that until she was ready to behave more maturely we would not be having a conversation

2- The terrified look on my well-meaning boss's face when I said "Are you aware that one of the signs in the front hall has the word faggot?"

[hollowporcelain]

realising that giving Caelus an outfit (2, actually) with a cropped turtleneck is the most self indulgent thing to ever come out of creating this faggot

[violight-ghost]

they know im a furry faggot now.......

[omegawizardposting]

"A cishet actor playing a queer character well enough means they have queerness in their hearts. uwu"

I am so glad I'm not queer. Y'all have some real wild people in y'all's community. Just say you think it's fine for cishet actors to play fags and go. You do not have to justify that opinion with whatever the fuck it is I was just forced to read with my own two gay eyes.

[affectionatecorpse]

My Buddha statue sits proudly on my shelf, watching over me. He chuckles softly, calmly sipping tea with a proud smile, like a parent watching their child achieve great things, as I actively call myself a f*g in front of my cishet friends in order to make them squirm after they said something rude

[fandomfluffandfuck]

Not removing my nail polish before going to see my father for (late) Father's Day? Big mistake 👍🏻

[uber-gender]

why is "chronosion" or whatever on thin ice? i view it as similar to how system members can have different ages from the body + singlets who are permanently age reg/progressed (or ageless or whatever else). is it the association/branching off of "transage" (and the association of "transage" with pedo/4chan crap or the community it harvested and being buddy-buddy with pedos and all that crap) that makes it uncomfortable? or something else im missing? (i assume its not the experience itself because you guys are 8-10 and 16-ageless but i might be wrong because i have bad theory of mind)

yeah, it's the connection between chronosian and "transage" and how people often use them interchangeably. the creator of chronosian is opposed to "transage" and other "transx/transid" identities, but we still suggest checking the op tags and blog when reblogging chronosian identities because mogai tumblr is infamously bad at research and respect.

additionally, at least to me (rev), the concept of "identifying as a different age than the body" in general is very unsettling when used outside of specific plural settings. the creator of chronosian explains in this post that neurodivergent people may identify as chronosian because of how we mature differently, and while they do provide disclaimers in an attempt to fend off ableists, I believe that the association is still potentially dangerous. the creation of microlabels for different expressions of chronosian identity also seems to me like a trivialization of the material reality of age. as a Claudia, I find it helpful to sometimes identify as an 8-10 year old, since my emotions and personality will never fully mature. however, I also identify as a 26 year old who is fully capable of harming others as an adult and is able to consent to sex with other adults. I think it is important even as a syskid or a regressor to keep a solid grasp on your real physical age, both for the safety and comfort of others and for your own self-concept.

HOWEVER, I do think that the basic terminology of "chronosian" is helpful, and would identify as it. also, ETMK is not as serious as I am about this and does not have any criticism of chronosian other than finding the word itself "sort of dorky". so that's what we mean by "on thin ice".

tl;dr, we are overall ok with chronosian as long as it is divorced from "transage", but one of us has some friendly criticism about it.

[gummees]

when you catch yourself almost engaging with someone's stupid as fuck or out of touch opinions about queerness for the second time in a day, that's when you probably should unfollow them

[fictoferret]

i KNOW that man doesnt got me thinking "i wish i was that cigarette" Theyre putting me down tmrw

[hislittleraincloud]

...So I was just called a faggot near the end of mine and the baby's walk.

Yup...if I had to hear it, you have to read it.

Short (for me) story about it under the cut though, bc I'm posting pics of the canine.

I seem to have an on-sight polarizing effect on people, even though I don't even dress like I could be clocked as anything out of the ordinary: People either quickly gravitate towards me via animal attraction or they quickly decide that I'm somehow dangerous or a threat of some sort and thus I get one of either two reactions...they ignore me or they spew ignorance at me, often loudly. Silence vs. violence. It's always been that way.

We were almost done with our walk and were waiting at the street corner for the light to turn. There was one car at the light waiting to go towards the lake. I watched the gunmetal colored SUV's driver side window through the corner of my goggles because it was billowing weed smoke while he waited at the light. There were no other cars and no one else around. Just him, and me and my baby waiting on the opposite corner.

As soon as the light turned we started crossing and he started moving through the intersection but he leaned out of his window, said "Nice fucking dog, faggot!" Clearly and loudly. Young, barely even out of his mid-20s. I looked over at him as he did, even though he'd sped up. Once we got across to the sidewalk I double checked — he was indeed talking to me, as the sidewalks were still empty of other people and dogs.

My dog/baby is a little 7 pound pomeranian mix. She was bred for no other purpose than to be a companion to people (i.e. she's kind of a 'designer dog' mutt), so she was raised to be my support animal. She's sweet and cute as fuck, and brings a smile to peoples' faces (not that I care about that part... she's my baby). And she often does it by what she wears/what she gets dressed in (people misgender her and it's tiresome). Today she was wearing her Enid 1 jacket (she has a small collection of plush jackets, two are Enid Sinclair-like colored and one is black and white checkered "Wednesday" patterned, and she picks from them herself which one she'll be wearing on the walk).

It looks like this

I don't have pics of her in it but maybe soon she'll have a little fashion show 💀 She's the princess of our neighborhood.

And then I considered myself. What was I wearing to warrant that? I wasn't wearing anything that could even be construed as queer. New jean jacket over my Beetlejuice shirt, plain charcoal colored jogger pants. My 420 cap on backwards, my face fully masked (like in the Lords of Acid pics/video). My cane in my right hand, which is just plain black with a lucite handle.

What was I doing to warrant that hateful shit? Nothing. I was waiting on the street corner with my baby. Quite obviously needing the cane to walk with her. And somehow some asshole thought he would heckle me from his car with the f-slur.

Well okay then.

I don't know. I suppose I'm sharing this because even at 50 years old, even in the Bay Area, and an area in which there are queers everywhere, some asshole is going to call you faggot regardless if you even are one, and sometimes there really is nothing you can do about it except let it roll off your back. Words from strangers who don't know me don't affect me. I don't care what they think. I've never cared what they think. Why should I let such words hurt me? They're words.*

That's how I survived this long.

It's hard for me to accept compliments because the walls against hate are often impermeable towards love as well. Survival can be a trade-off, and sometimes we have to learn where the love is in order to let it in. It's even harder when I see that nothing's truly changed for us in the decades I've been alive. There are always going to be hateful people out there. You cannot just form a movement against it. People have the capacity for love, of course, but some people are just pieces of shit.

I guess that's why I pamper this fur child so much, because she doesn't have a hateful bone in her little body. If that makes me a faggot, then so be it.

She even rocks her Rowan glasses. She has a large collection of glasses/sunglasses. Hmn, okay that might be very, very 🏳️‍🌈. But she doesn't ever wear them outside. Maybe it's her pom quality? Short king with an Elle Woods dog. ...Maybe that was it....

[nereidprinc3ss]

bambi

in which spencer reid and fem!reader fuck like they missed each other (because they always do) and he teases her for her shaky legs

18+ (smut) warnings/tags: softdom spencer, piv sex (riding, a first for nereidprinc3ss) /oral f receiving (in that order) mentions of him accidentally grabbing her hips too hard, slight somno SORT OF like he starts going down on her while she’s sleepy and then she kind of goes in and out but its all consensual, sorry haters i fucking love sleepy sex and I always will, teasing, lots of praise, fluffy, established relationship, he loves her badddd, aftercare, literally nothing bad happens no angst for once they just are having sex cause they are in love which is arguably the most superior kind of sex! a/n: I don’t think I’ve ever written smut that is so wham bam thank you ma’am like really we just get RIGHT into it!! also no gif no pics we r going old nereidprinc3ss on this one I hope you loveeee!!!

You roll over onto Spencer and kiss once, long and deep and sweet. He hums into it, too whipped to pretend like he’s got self control or respect, hands finding the soft skin of your bare waist and settling there. 

How it got to this point so quickly, no more than fifteen minutes after he walked through the door, you can’t say. Usually the two of you are a bit more domestic when he gets home from a case, but eight days is a long time to be apart, and the trail of clothing leading from the welcome mat to the foot of the bed attests to that. 

So does the lack of teasing, of begging—at least, a lack up until this point. Right now, there’s only him, patient and content to let you play at being in charge. You pull back and reach down to grab him gently, aligning him at your entrance with a trembling hand. This part, you’re not usually responsible for. 

He assures you with a hand to the small of your back, rubbing soothing circles. “You got it. Slowly.”

You do as he says, brow furrowing in focus as you sink down an inch or two onto him. Spencer’s breathing grows erratic as you take more and more of him, and in a heroic display of overachieving, you take the rest of him at once with nothing but a squeak. He laughs breathily as his fingers dig into your hips. 

“Fuck—I said slow.”

You can’t think. The overwhelm of it all is too much as you crumple forward onto his chest. The subtle rocking you’re doing to try and alleviate some of the pressure in your core is apparently too much as he stops you by the hips, fingers pressing into those same tender spots.

Spencer’s breath is ragged. “Don’t… do not move.”

“Fuck,” you breathe into his shoulder, long and drawn out as despite his wishes you wriggle around, trying to get comfortable. “Oh my god.”

“My lovely girl, please… please don’t move,” Spencer gasps, a plead, and you try to stop for him, nuzzling even deeper against his neck. “I need a minute.”

“It’s too much,” you slur, dizzy as you try to adjust to the feeling. “Please.” You don’t know what you’re asking for. Maybe relief from the sensation that he can’t offer you. Maybe more. 

Spencer is undone by you—the way you writhe on top of him, the way your voice shakes, the way you’re so totally and completely overwhelmed and he can feel it and he loves it. 

“Baby,” he breathes, and he meant to say a lot more than that, but it’s the best he can manage when he is this overstimulated. “Baby,” he whispers again, wrapping his arms around you in an effort to ground you, to give you something else to focus on as you both get used to the feeling. 

It’s going well—for a moment, before your back is arching. 

“Spence, I need to move, I can’t—”

“Okay, okay.” He takes a deep breath, returning his hands to your waist and mentally preparing himself not to cum early. He’s desperate to give you want you want, to feel you like this. “Go ahead. Move, honey. Please.”

By the time you slowly lift your hips up and drop back down with a low cry, Spencer’s lost. His head falls back against the pillow and his eyes squeeze shut. 

“Fuck,” he groans. “Oh, angel, I missed you.”

You do it again, motivated by his praise, and he can hear your little gasps and desperate gulps of air. 

“I missed you so much,” you whine and clench around him, pleasure so intense it’s a resounding ache in the far reaches of your body. “Oh, fuck, Spencer.”

Spencer shivers. He loves when you make it personal, when you say his name like that and it becomes clear this isn’t just about the physical.

“My girl. Just like that. Doing so well, baby, just like that.”

Each pass of your hips has you whining. Your lips skim over his neck, not cognizant enough to actually kiss—only to know that you want the contact. 

“Please can I go faster?”

Spencer almost doesn’t realize you’re speaking to him he’s so lost in pleasure. The idea of faster is as compelling as it is troublesome. Spencer doesn’t know if he can’t take faster, not when he has you like this, but he certainly wants to find out. 

“Yeah, lovely. Do whatever feels good.”

You readjust and begin to pick up the pace, stumbling over a few false starts as it’s clearly more sensation than you’d been prepared for. 

Spencer, on the other hand, has his eyes screwed shut tight, and is attempting to draw a two-dimensional Császár polyhedron on your back, but he loses his place with every twitch of your hips, so eventually he decides to trace imperfect Mandelbrots down your spine—anything to avoid thinking about how the pH of your body interacts with sweet vanilla perfume to create a scent so deeply intoxicating he’d leave his entire life behind just to trail after it, or how you fucking feel against him, on top of him, around him, how miraculous it is that you keep letting him touch you—

“Oh—” you whine quietly, a strangled sort of noise that has his heart skipping. Your hand tangles desperately in his hair as you rock your hips faster and faster and he lets out a tortured groan. “Spencer, oh my fucking god.”

“I know, baby,” he manages, endeared by the fact that you feel so good you have to share it with him. Even now you’re trying to explain it because you want him to be part of it—as if he doesn’t know exactly what you’re feeling already. “That feels good, huh?”

“Mm—f—eels—” you cut yourself off with a cry into the crook of his neck, and he holds the back of your head, vision greying as he stares unseeing at the ceiling because if he looks down this’ll be over too soon. 

“You’re so good,” he breathes, “you’re perfect.”He hears you gasp at the same time as your rhythm falters, and presses a kiss somewhere indiscriminately on your head. “Gonna cum?” He murmurs in your ear, and you nod desperately, rutting against him hopelessly as your thighs tremble from exertion. 

Even the smallest drop-off in friction has his head spinning like he stood up too quickly, so he gives himself enough leverage to start fucking you. You cry out and shift your weight like you’re going to try and evade the feeling—self-sabotage, you always do this—and he again has to hold your hips in an iron vice, just to force you to feel it. 

“You’re okay, I’m gonna get you there.”

“Fuck!” You very nearly yell, still trying to wriggle away up until the very last second like the tide going out before the tsunami comes. When you do cum, your demeanor instantly changes—you get heavy and clingy and whiny as you rock back and forth through your orgasm. 

“Good girl,” Spencer murmurs, being careful in the way he continues to fuck you until he reaches his peak as well, not long after. You shudder, and Spencer feels the way your entire body tenses the way it sometimes does after a particularly strong orgasm, and he fights his way out of the brain fog to rub your back with the skimming tips of his fingers. “Shh. You’re okay. Relax, baby.”

And you do, unwound by the dance of his hand and with a few shallow breaths that gradually deepen, until you’re once more slack on top of him. 

“You’re incredible,” he exhales, with his lips pressed to your hairline. 

So clearly overwhelmed, the only response you can muster is a soft squeak. Spencer laughs fondly, still mapping the soft curve of your back. He feels the way you’re still attempting to train your breathing and kisses your hair again. “What do you need, angel?”

“I’m s’posed to be taking care of you,” you slur. Spencer chuckles again and his brow knits. 

“According to who?”

“According to… I was on top…”

“Yeah. You did all the hard stuff. Your legs are shaking.”

You whine softly. “No they’re not.”

His hand slides down to your thigh, and he rubs the trembling muscles. 

“No? No Bambi legs for me this time?”

You squeeze them around his waist like you could shrink away from his touch. “Spence…”

“I’m teasing you, honey,” he murmurs, pressing kisses wherever he can reach. “You’re cute.”

“Hm.”

“Look at me,” he murmurs, angling his head expectantly as you slowly raise yours. The look on your face is so sweet—eyes half lidded, lips swollen and much higher in color than usual. Your cheek is warm to the touch. His heart flutters like it did on your first date, and the first time he kissed you, and the first time you fell asleep on his shoulder. This view will never get old. “Wow. Look at you, beautiful girl. Can I have a kiss?”

And you grant him his wish, with a long, soft kiss that’s worth every second of that burning feeling in his lungs, every time. 

Eventually you huff out the remainder of your air against his well-kissed lips and your head flops to his chest. 

“I’m sleepy.”

“So go to sleep,” he murmurs, so warm from your kiss he feels nothing could be wrong in the world at this moment. 

“I can’t.”

“Why’s that?”

“’Cause you just got home ’nd I missed you and I wanna spend time with you.”

“We have three days to spend together. If you go to sleep now, we’ll actually get more time together tomorrow.”

“But it’s more about, like, how it feels—how much time it feels like we spend together right when you get home, and if I go to sleep now, it’s gonna feel like less time, and—basically you’re just not understanding my math.”

“What math?” He laughs, continuing to rub your legs all the way up to your hips, at which point you hiss and buck—a very visceral feeling when he’s still inside of you. “What? What hurts?”

“You tried to fucking tear my hip flexors from my body, is what hurts,” you grumble. 

“Tender?”

“Mhm.”

“I’m really sorry, angel. Tylenol?”

“Mm-mm. Can you kiss me better?” Sleep stains your voice. Spencer smiles to himself. 

“Yeah?”

“Mhm.”

“Lie down.”

Again you whine as you slip off of him, landing heavily on your back. He sits up, watches with so much affection the way you squeeze your thighs together and arch ever so slightly against the empty feeling. 

“Spencer?” You whisper as he cups the top of your knees. 

“Hm?”

“I love you.”

He pushes your legs apart gently so he can settle in between them and kisses you again. “I love you. So much.”

“Glad we’re on the same page.”

He presses a kiss to your head, down your neck, taking the scenic route to your hip bones, but you don’t seem to mind. 

The feeling of his lips gentle on the tender flesh has you humming softly, eyes fluttering shut as he showers you with gentle kisses. His traces every place his fingers had pressed earlier—feels the way you relax further underneath him. Nobody’s ever let him in this deeply before, but you trust him with everything you have; your body, your soul, in life or death, awake and in sleep. He’ll never take that for granted. He will never pass on an opportunity like this, to be the one who takes care of you, who puts you back together, as long as you’ll let him. 

Still dancing the line of consciousness, you part your legs, the slow drag of your bare thigh like a jumper cable to his heart. Fingertips trace desirous paths up your inner thigh and back down again. He recognizes this invitation for what it is, and he knows exactly how to give you what you want, but he asks first anyway. 

“Was that on purpose?”

“I d’know what you mean. I’m so sleepy,” you slur, and he believes the second half of your statement to be fact. 

Spencer pushes your thigh a little higher, and you’re completely pliable for him, completely gorgeous. As soon as he skims your thigh with a barely-there kiss, exactly the way you like, you’re lacing a hand in his hair. 

“Please, Spence…” you murmur, and he can’t argue with that. He especially can’t argue when you widen your legs just that slightest bit more, and your arousal is opalescent between your legs. 

He hums, trailing more kisses up until he’s setting the softest one yet against your clit. “Beautiful girl…”

The following gasp is so tiny he could’ve missed it if he wasn’t so attuned to your noises—and then he gets lost in you, making sure to keep his ministrations light as you already came twice recently and are sure to be sensitive. He doesn’t want to wake you from whatever twilight half-slumber trance you’re in, either, sensing that if he does you’ll fight all over again to stay up.

And admittedly, he adores being trusted to take care of you like this.

Your back arches as much as you’re capable of in this state, and he can’t help the way he just barely suctions onto you at that moment, coaxing a sighing moan so sweet and vulnerable and open it gives him chills. Fuck. He really wants to make you cum. But instead he practices patience, tracing you with the tip of his tongue, pressing gentle kisses everywhere you need them—he draws it out. For he doesn’t know how long. 

The first time you get close, your hips begin to roll, and you spout little ah’s, but he talks you back down again, laughing lightly at your angelic cooing, your little sounds of sleepy pleasure. Even now you’re so responsive, moving against his mouth as he slips a finger into your soaked entrance, fucks you for a moment, and then retreats. Maybe he’s being unfair, but you don’t seem to mind. 

In fact, you’re slipping in and out of sleep as he devours you for what feels like hours, one hand pressed lovingly to your stomach, stroking the soft skin there. Spencer’s never had this long to explore you with his mouth and he takes full advantage of every moment, but he keeps all his kisses and licks and touches gentle and reverent and so loving. 

You don’t know how long it’s been, or how many times he’s made you cum when he finally retreats—you half-wake just as he’s finishing cleaning you up. Soon he tosses the towel aside and presses feather-light kisses to each of your cheeks, tear-stained and warm with pleasure. You feel completely drained and completely loved. 

“Hi, sleeping beauty,” he murmurs, climbing into bed with you, at some point having gotten dressed. 

You manage an embarrassed little laugh. More tears crawl down your cheeks as you roll to your side. Spencer brushes them away and pulls you into him, slinging your thigh over his waist. He chuckles. 

“Shaky?”

“Stop,” you whine, embarrassed by his teasing, and hide your face against his chest. “That’s not my fault.”

“It’s nobody’s fault. It’s sweet,” he insists as he rubs your back. And then, a moment later, “So—do you think we’ve spent enough time together for tonight?”

“No.”

He sighs good-naturedly. 

“You’re gonna wear me out, you know that?”

“’F you… can’t handle the heat… get outta the kitchen.”

When he next speaks you can hear the smile in his voice. 

“Go to sleep, Bambi. Let’s see if you can walk in the morning.”