#like from top to bottom

[arielluva]

goodnight, himemiya

[intermundia]

i just read about the "narcissism of small differences," aka the idea that the more a community has in common, the more likely the people in it are to engage in interpersonal feuds and mutual ridicule because of hypersensitivity to minor differences perceived in each other, and i knew there was a reason my time in academia and fandom felt oddly similar lmao

[eepwtf]

UNPUNISHABLE—soldier boy boarding school au! x catholic boy

find part two here ⤷ part two

“i’m sorry,” you whispered hoarsely, your voice breaking. “God, ‘m sorry, i’m sorry.” but the words were hollow, meaningless, drowned out by the frantic beating of your heart and the unbearable ache in your body.

he cut you off with a hand on your wrist, his grip firm but not unkind. “feels good, doesn’t it?” he murmured, his eyes locking onto yours. the heat in his gaze made your stomach twist, your cock twitch in your hand. “bet you’ve been pent up for weeks, huh? poor fuckin’ thing...”

warnings; religious guilt and themes , power dynamics , getting off to underwear , degradation and humiliation kink , voyeuristic elements (mirror use) , handjobs , use of the words “filthy” , and “pervert”. wc: 5.4k

benjamin had been at this boarding school long enough to know exactly how it worked. the social hierarchy, the petty squabbles, the hazing rituals—they were as predictable as the smell of old books and stale coffee in the library. he didn’t care about most of it. he played his part: good grades, a cocky smile, and enough charm to skate by without making any real enemies. but the start of a new term always brought fresh blood, and benjamin had a sixth sense for spotting the ones who wouldn’t last.

and then, there was you.

you arrived late to the term, which was already a death sentence. the first few weeks were critical—the time when the hierarchy solidified, alliances were formed, and survival strategies were locked in. worse, you might as well have walked in with a neon sign flashing fresh meat. everything about you screamed out-of-place: the polished shoes that gleamed a little too much, the perfectly ironed shirt tucked with military precision, the rigid way you carried yourself, like you were bracing for a slap. you walked into the dining hall that first evening with your tray balanced so carefully it might as well have been a Eucharist offering, eyes darting around the room like you were waiting for someone to shove you back out the door. you didn’t even have to open your mouth for everyone to know: Catholic boarding school.

it didn’t take long for the other boys to catch on. they had a nose for blood, and you reeked of it. whispers followed you during study hall; cruel nicknames were hurled across the lacrosse field. someone replaced the water in your sports bottle with holy water one afternoon, which left you blinking back tears while everyone howled with laughter.

benjamin wasn’t sure why he noticed you, exactly. maybe it was the way you always seemed to be clutching a rosary in your pocket, running the beads through your fingers like a lifeline. maybe it was the way your cheeks flushed red every time someone snickered “Father” as you walked past. or maybe it was just boredom.

whatever it was, he found himself jogging after you one afternoon, his golden hair catching the sunlight like a halo as he called out, “hey!”

you stopped abruptly, startled, and clutched your books like they might shield you from whatever this was. “uh, hi?”

“you’re the new guy, right?” he asked, all casual confidence as he fell into step beside you.

“i’m not—”

“you are,” he cut you off smoothly, flashing an easy smile. “trust me, i’ve been here long enough to know. you’ve got that ‘lost lamb’ look.”

for a moment, you just blinked at him. his smile didn’t falter, though. Instead, he slung an arm around your shoulders like you were already old friends. “look, this place is a jungle,” he said, steering you toward the courtyard. “and you’re walking around with a target painted on your back. but lucky for you, i’m feeling charitable today.”

you hesitated, your whole body stiffening under his touch. “thanks, but i’m fine.”

“no, you’re not,” he said bluntly, his grin widening. “you’re fresh out of Catholic school, right? i can tell. you’ve got that whole... thing about you. like you’re waiting for a nun to materialize and slap you for breathing too loud.”

that earned him a faint flush of red creeping up your neck. you straightened your shoulders, clearly bristling, but instead of shoving him off, you sighed and let some of the tension drain from your frame. “yeah, well, i’m used to it.”

“doesn’t mean you have to suffer through it alone.”

from that moment on, things changed. benjamin took you under his wing—not that he’d ever admit to something so noble-sounding. it started small: little tips like which table to avoid during meals (definitely not the one near the windows, unless you wanted to end up as the debate team’s entertainment) or how to cut through the north courtyard to bypass the rugby team’s hazing gauntlet. when he noticed you sitting alone in the dining hall, bent over your tray like you were saying grace, he’d saunter over and drop into the seat across from you, grinning like you were his favorite person in the world.

“you’re not gonna survive this place with just prayer, you know,” he teased one evening, stealing a fry off your plate before you could stop him.

your ears burned, but you still muttered, “i don’t need your help.”

“sure you don’t,” he replied easily, resting his chin in his hand as he watched you squirm. “but humor me.”

you weren’t blind to the whispers that followed after that.

“never seen ben hang out with someone like him before.”

“you think they’re...?”

“no way. ben’s just bored. or maybe it’s, like, charity work.”

their words stung, but less than you’d expected. maybe it was because benjamin never seemed to notice—or care—what anyone else thought. he had a way of brushing off insults with that cocky grin of his, and slowly, you found yourself learning to do the same.

but for all his charm, benjamin was infuriating. he’d swipe your homework to “check something” and then return it with a smirk. he’d drag you into conversations you didn’t want to have, poking fun at your strict upbringing and coaxing stories out of you about priests, penance, and purgatory. he was relentless, and you hated that it made you feel a little less like the walls were closing in.

benjamin was everywhere. his laughter echoed in the halls, his golden hair glinting like sunlight, his voice as smooth and warm as honey. it didn’t matter where you were or what you were doing; he was inescapable. and at first, you didn’t mind. at first, you liked the way he looked at you, like you weren’t invisible. the way his arm slung so easily around your shoulders, the way he’d steal your fries or lean in too close just to watch you squirm. he made it look so easy, weaving you into his world with a smirk and a casual confidence you could never hope to emulate. he defended you from the worst of the hazing, diffused the cruel jokes with a well-timed barb or a cutting smile, and made sure you were never left sitting alone in the dining hall.

but then it started to change.

you started to change.

at first, it was subtle: a quickening in your chest when he leaned over your desk, close enough for his cologne to fog your senses. a tightness in your throat when his hand lingered on your shoulder, his thumb brushing the edge of your collar. he didn’t notice the way you froze when he stood behind you, leaning in to murmur some joke meant just for you. it was in the way he sat beside you during study hall, his long legs stretched out like he owned the space, his golden hair catching the light in a way that made your chest ache. it was in the way he teased you, his voice low and warm, always managing to say just enough to make you blush but never enough to cross a line. it was in the way he looked at you sometimes, his emerald eyes lingering just a moment too long, like he was searching for something in you that you didn’t even understand yourself. but you noticed.

you noticed everything.

the curve of his jaw. the warmth of his touch. the way his lips parted when he laughed, his head tilting back, throat exposed like an offering. it felt like blasphemy to see him this way, to want what you shouldn’t want. It felt like the serpent in the garden, whispering in your ear, coaxing you to look a little too long, to want what was forbidden.

and that’s when the shame began to take root.

it crept into your thoughts like a sickness, coiling around your heart. you began to see sin in every glance, every touch, every laugh that left you breathless. you couldn’t stop yourself from imagining things—things you couldn’t say, couldn’t even think without bile rising in your throat.

you prayed. oh, God, how you prayed. every night, you knelt beside your bed, fingers clutching the rosary so tightly they left indentations on your palms. you begged for forgiveness, begged God to deliver you from this sickness of the soul. you whispered Hail Marys into the dark, choking on the words as you begged the Blessed Virgin to intercede for you, to make you pure again. but your prayers felt hollow, empty. each whispered plea was drowned out by the memory of benjamin’s voice, the sound of his laughter, the way he had looked at you that day in the courtyard, sunlight haloing his head like a saint in a fresco.

you told yourself it wasn’t his fault. how could it be? he was just being benjamin, just being kind. he didn’t know what it did to you when he leaned in close, breath warm against your ear. he didn’t know about the nights you lay awake in the dark, staring at the ceiling, the air between your beds a chasm you longed to cross but never would.

the fault was yours alone. your weakness. your sin.

and yet, no matter how many times you dragged the blade of guilt across your soul, the feelings wouldn’t go away. they festered, spreading like rot, turning your prayers into cries of anguish. you thought of the words of Matthew: “if your right eye causes you to sin, gouge it out and throw it away. for it is better that you lose one of your members than that your whole body be thrown into hell.” and yet your eyes lingered on him still.

you began to pull back. at first, it was subtle: excuses to leave study sessions early, mumbling about assignments or the need to pray. you avoided his gaze, kept your hands clasped tightly in your lap when he reached out to touch your shoulder. you stopped laughing at his jokes, stopped letting him get too close, stopped letting him into the cracks of your armor.

but it was impossible to escape him. he was always there—leaning against your desk, lounging on his bed, sprawled out in the dining hall, his smile a temptation you couldn’t resist. you tried to flee from him, but he followed you everywhere, even in your thoughts. his voice was there when you knelt before the crucifix, his laughter echoing in the back of your mind as you begged God to cleanse you.

and the worst part was that he noticed. of course he noticed. the worst part was that you wanted him to. some small, desperate part of you wanted him to press, to dig, to uncover the thing rotting in your soul and absolve you of it.

“hey, what’s going on with you?” he asked one evening, lounging on his bed with one arm tucked behind his head. his shirt was rumpled, the top few buttons undone, and you hated the way your eyes were drawn to the hollow of his throat.

you couldn’t look at him. couldn’t bear to see the hurt in his green eyes, the confusion on his face, you couldn’t tell him that it wasn’t his fault, that it was your own weakness, your own sin. you couldn’t tell him that his mere existence was unraveling you, that every time he touched you, it felt like temptation made flesh. “nothing,” you said quickly, focusing on the textbook in your lap as if the words on the page could save you.

“bullshit,” he said, sitting up, his sharp green eyes piercing through your feeble lies. “you’ve been acting weird all week. did i do something?”

you flinched, the weight of his concern pressing down on you. you could feel the truth clawing at the back of your throat, desperate to be let out, but you couldn’t speak it. to confess was to condemn yourself. “no,” you said quickly, too quickly.

“then what is it?” his voice softened, but the hurt had already started to seep into it. you wanted to shove him away, to tell him to stop caring, to stop looking at you like that. stop making me feel this way. “you’re not... you’re not letting those assholes get to you, are you? ‘cause if someone’s giving you shit, i’ll—”

“it’s not that,” you snapped, harsher than you intended, your shame turning sharp as a blade. his expression faltered, and guilt twisted in your chest like a thorn. you dropped your gaze, your hands trembling as they gripped the edge of your book. “i just... i need space, okay?”

“space,” he repeated, the word flat and unfamiliar in his mouth. “from me?” he didn’t understand. how could he? to him, you were just the awkward Catholic boy he’d taken under his wing. he didn’t know about the fire consuming you from the inside out, the way his very presence felt like a test of faith you were doomed to fail.

the silence stretched out, suffocating. you could feel him staring at you, searching for something—an answer, a crack in your armor, anything that would make sense of this. finally, he exhaled sharply, the sound like a wound opening. “fine,” he said, standing abruptly. the bed creaked under his movement, the sound echoing in the quiet room. his voice was colder than you had ever heard it, laced with a bitterness that made your chest ache. “whatever you want, Father.”

the door clicked shut behind him, and you were alone. alone with the shame, the guilt, the terrible longing that refused to let you go. you pressed your hands together, the rosary dangling between your fingers like a lifeline, but even as you tried to pray, all you could think of was him.

but the distance didn’t help. if anything, it made things worse.

benjamin was always there, in your mind, no matter how hard you tried to shut him out. the memory of his smile haunted you during morning prayers. the sound of his voice echoed in your ears as you tried to focus on your studies. at night, in the dim light of your dorm room, you could hear him breathing in the bed across from yours, and it felt like a cruel reminder of everything you couldn’t have.

you hated him for it. you hated yourself more.

you had always been devout, a faithful son of the church. your rosary was your shield, your Bible your sword, your faith the fortress that had kept you safe from the temptations of the world. you clung to the Word of God like a drowning man clings to driftwood, trusting it to keep you pure, to keep you upright. but benjamin made you falter. benjamin made you doubt.

and worst of all, benjamin made you want.

the dreams had come slowly at first, creeping into your mind like thieves in the night. they were innocuous, almost innocent: his laugh ringing out like church bells, his hand brushing yours by accident. but they grew darker, heavier, like a storm gathering on the horizon. you began to dream of his hand lingering too long on your shoulder, sliding down your arm, his fingers warm, deliberate. you dreamed of his lips—pink, soft, sinful—hovering too close to yours, his breath ghosting against your skin. you dreamed of his hand, sure and unrelenting, sliding down your stomach, your cock throbbing under his touch as his name fell from your lips like a prayer you’d never dare to speak aloud.

you always woke from those dreams shaking, drenched in sweat and shame. your body betrayed you, your cock hard, insistent, as if it hadn’t just condemned you. the guilt came in waves, crashing over you, dragging you under. you’d fumble for your rosary in the dark, clutching it tightly, the beads biting into your palms like thorns. you’d sink to your knees on the cold, unyielding floor, whispering, “forgive me, Father, for i have sinned.”

your voice trembled, cracked, as you poured yourself out to a God who surely couldn’t love you anymore. you recited the Psalms until your throat was raw, until the words blurred into each other and the ache in your chest grew unbearable. you told yourself you were strong enough to resist, that the dreams meant nothing, that they were merely a test of your faith.

but the dreams kept coming.

and worse, some dark, treacherous part of you didn’t want them to stop.

one night, long after benjamin had left for the evening, you found yourself restless, the shame coiled tightly in your chest, suffocating. you paced the small dorm room, your rosary clutched in one hand, muttering prayers under your breath like a desperate incantation. but they didn’t help. they couldn’t stop the image of him from searing itself into your mind: benjamin sprawled out on his bed, his shirt half undone, his laugh warm and unguarded, his scent—clean, sharp, him—lingering in the air like incense.

you told yourself to stop, to look away, to think of anything else, but the pull was too strong. you walked into the bathroom, hoping the cold tile and harsh light would cleanse you, give you some clarity. but then you saw them.

benjamin’s boxers were draped carelessly over the counter, a remnant of his presence that felt like a physical blow. your heart lurched, your breath catching in your throat. you froze, your breath catching in your throat, shame flooding you before you’d even moved. you shouldn’t touch them. you knew you shouldn’t. this was wrong, disgusting, unforgivable. but before you could stop yourself, your hand was reaching out, trembling as it closed around the fabric.

they were still warm.

you brought them to your face, your chest heaving as his scent hit you like a blow. it was intoxicating, maddening, him. you inhaled deeply, the cotton brushing against your lips, and you could feel your body reacting, your cock straining against the confines of your jeans.

a strangled sound escaped your throat, half-sob, half-moan. you were shaking, trembling under the weight of your sin, but you couldn’t stop. the shame rose in you, thick and choking, but it only seemed to fuel the fire burning inside you.

your free hand slid down to the bulge in your jeans, your fingers fumbling with the zipper as you gasped for breath. “i’m sorry,” you whispered hoarsely, your voice breaking. “God, ‘m sorry, i’m sorry.” but the words were hollow, meaningless, drowned out by the frantic beating of your heart and the unbearable ache in your body.

your hand slipped into your boxers, your cock hot and throbbing in your palm. the fabric of benjamin’s boxers pressed against your face as you stroked yourself, the sensation overwhelming, sickeningly good. you bit down on your lip to stifle a moan, tears streaming down your face as the guilt clawed at you, sharp and unrelenting.

you hated yourself for this.

you hated how much you needed it.

each stroke felt like a lash against your soul, each gasp a plea for forgiveness you didn’t deserve. you thought of the saints, their eyes turned heavenward, their bodies pierced and broken for their faith, and you wondered if they would weep for you or turn away in disgust. you thought of the thorns pressed into Christ’s brow, of the spear that pierced His side, and you felt like you were driving it in deeper with every desperate, shameful motion.

you were drowning in sin.

the rosary clutched in your hand felt heavier than ever, its beads digging into your skin like penance, a crown of thorns wrapped around your fist. each bead you touched felt like a tally mark against your soul, a reminder of the countless sins you’d committed in thought, in word, and now—oh, God forgive me—in deed.

benjamin’s scent clung to the fabric pressed to your face, clean and sharp, with that faint musk of sweat and skin that was undeniably him. you could taste it on your tongue, could feel it seeping into your lungs like incense burned in offering. it filled you, overwhelmed you, until you couldn’t think of anything else.

your body betrayed you.

your cock throbbed in your hand, slick with the evidence of your shame. the other gripped the rosary so tightly that the crucifix bit into your palm, the tiny Christ pressed there like a mute witness to your depravity. tears streaked down your face, hot and bitter, dripping from your chin onto your bare chest. you felt split open, like the veil of the temple torn in two, laid bare before God and man.

“i’m sorry,” you gasped, the words breaking on your lips, no more than a breathless whisper. “fuck, ‘m so sorry.”

but even as you prayed, even as you begged for forgiveness, your hips jerked forward, thrusting into your fist. the friction was maddening, too much and not enough all at once. you couldn’t stop. you didn’t want to stop.

the shame was suffocating, thick as smoke, but it only seemed to fuel the fire raging in you. the boxers in your hand felt like a relic, a profane artifact that held power over you. you buried your face in them, inhaling deeply, and a strangled moan escaped your lips.

your fingers tightened around your cock, stroking faster, harder, desperate to chase the release you knew would damn you. you bit your lip, hard enough to draw blood, trying to stifle the sounds rising in your throat. they escaped anyway, broken gasps and half-sobs that echoed off the tile walls like confessions shouted in a cathedral.

the bathroom door creaked open.

you froze.

your heart stopped, then slammed back to life, pounding so loudly you thought it might burst. slowly, your eyes flicked toward the doorway, and there he was.

ben.

his green eyes were wide, his brows drawn together in confusion and concern as he stepped inside. “hey, are you—” he stopped mid-sentence, his gaze dropping to the scene before him.

your cock in your hand, hard and aching. his boxers clutched in the other, pressed to your face. the rosary tangled in your fingers, beads slipping between them like the blood of your guilt.

“fuck,” he breathed, his voice low and rough. his eyes darted back up to your face, and you could see the realization dawn in them. the pieces clicking into place.

the shame was instant, white-hot, burning through you like fire and brimstone. you dropped the boxers as if they’d scorched you, scrambling to cover yourself. words tumbled from your lips, incoherent and panicked. “i—i’m sorry, i didn’t—”

benjamin stepped closer, his movements deliberate, measured. his expression was unreadable, but there was something in his eyes—curiosity? amusement? want?

your breath hitched as he crouched in front of you, his hand reaching out. you flinched, expecting anger, rejection, disgust. but instead, his fingers brushed against yours, prying the rosary from your trembling grip.

“hey,” he said softly, his voice a low rumble that sent a shiver down your spine. “relax.”

you shook your head, tears spilling over again. “i can’t—i’m so sorry. i shouldn’t—”

he cut you off with a hand on your wrist, his grip firm but not unkind. “feels good, doesn’t it?” he murmured, his eyes locking onto yours. the heat in his gaze made your stomach twist, your cock twitch in your hand. “bet you’ve been pent up for weeks, huh? poor fuckin’ thing...”

you wanted to protest, to tell him to stop, to push him away. but your body betrayed you again, leaning into his touch, your breath hitching as his fingers wrapped around your own.

“let me help,” he said, his voice low and rough, almost horse. you didn’t respond. you couldn’t.

he guided your hand, his grip firm and sure, stroking you in a rhythm that made your head spin. his other hand picked up the boxers from the floor, holding them to your face once more. “go on,” he murmured. “you want it, don’t you?”

a sob tore from your throat as you inhaled deeply, the scent of him filling your lungs. it felt wrong, filthy, perfect.

benjamin’s hand gripped your cock with a firm, unrelenting pressure, his fingers curling around your length as though he’d done this a thousand times before. the confidence in his touch was maddening, a sharp contrast to your trembling body and fractured thoughts. his palm was warm and sure, his movements measured, deliberate—stroking you with a pace that was just slow enough to make you ache, to keep you teetering on the edge of sanity.

“shhh,” benjamin murmured, his voice low, soothing, a sharp contrast to the roughness of his hand. his lips brushed the shell of your ear as he spoke, his breath warm and unbearably intimate. “you don’t want anyone else to hear, do you? just me. just us.”

you whimpered, a helpless sound that only made his smirk widen. the way his fingers curled around your cock, stroking upward with just enough pressure to make your thighs tense, sent bolts of heat racing through you. his thumb grazed the sensitive tip, spreading the slick pre-cum there with an unhurried, almost lazy motion that had your hips bucking forward without your permission.

“desperate already?” he asked, his tone mocking but soft, as if he was speaking to something fragile. he pressed the heel of his palm against the base of your cock, applying just enough pressure to make you ache, to keep you right on the precipice of pleasure without tumbling over. “you’re gonna have to work for it, sweetheart.”

the bathroom was suffocating, steam and guilt mingling in the stagnant air. ben’s grip on your wrist tightened, steadying your trembling body as he tugged you upward, his strength unyielding. you stumbled to your feet, barely able to think, barely able to breathe as he guided you toward the sink.

"look at yourself," he murmured, his voice a low growl that reverberated through the tiles. his hand cupped your chin, forcing your head up, making you confront the reflection in the mirror.

your face was a mess: tear-streaked, flushed, mouth parted in desperate gasps. your chest heaved, sweat glistening on your skin. and below, the evidence of your shame—your cock, swollen and slick, gripped tight in ben’s firm, unforgiving hand.

"god, look at you," he rasped, the words rough and dripping with derision, yet tinged with something darker, something hotter. his green eyes burned as they flicked between your reflection and the reality of you standing before him, shaking, broken. "so filthy."

you whimpered, your knees threatening to buckle under the weight of his gaze, of his words. "how do you think God would feel, huh?" he asked, his tone mocking, cruel in its softness. his lips brushed against your ear as he spoke, the contact sending shivers down your spine. "seeing you like this? crying and moaning like a fuckin’ sinner. bet the saints are turning away right now."

“stop,” you whispered, your voice barely audible, hoarse from the tears and the shame that choked you. but you didn’t pull away. you couldn’t.

benjamin’s hand tightened around your cock, stroking it with slow, deliberate precision. he watched your reflection, studying every flinch, every gasp, every broken sound that escaped your lips. "stop?" he echoed, his smirk deepening. "you don’t want me to stop." he tilted his head, his eyes locking onto yours in the mirror. "look at yourself. you’re loving this. bet you’ve been dreaming about me, haven’t you? thinking about my hands on you, my mouth on you..."

your knees buckled at the insinuation, and his arm shot out, catching you around the waist, holding you upright. you tried to shake your head, to deny it, but your body betrayed you. your hips jerked forward again, seeking the friction his hand so cruelly denied you. “please,” you gasped, though you didn’t know what you were begging for—for him to stop, for him to continue, for absolution, for release.

he chuckled, low and throaty, the sound rumbling through your chest. "poor thing," he murmured, his tone dripping with mock sympathy. "all those prayers, and this is where they got you. on your knees, jerking off with my fuckin’ boxers like a desperate little pervert."

your stomach twisted, shame coiling tighter, but the heat in his voice, the weight of his words—it ignited something inside you, something primal and unbearable.

benjamin leaned closer, his breath warm against your neck. his lips brushed your shoulder, soft at first, then firmer as his teeth grazed your skin. he nipped at you, not enough to break the skin but enough to make you gasp, your cock twitching helplessly in his hand. "fuck, you’re so easy," he hissed, his tone laced with contempt and fascination. his free hand slid up your chest, his fingers ghosting over the line of your throat before gripping your jaw. he forced your gaze to stay fixed on the mirror, his green eyes burning into yours through the glass. "look at yourself," he demanded, his grip tightening on your chin just enough to keep you compliant. "take a good, long look."

your eyes flicked to the mirror, and the sight made your stomach churn. your face was flushed, your eyes glassy and wet from unshed tears. sweat clung to your skin, your hair disheveled, and your lips swollen from where you'd bitten them raw. your cock was still hard, leaking against your stomach, throbbing with need as benjamin stood behind you, as he pumped you in slow, devastating strokes “does this feel good?” he whispered, his lips brushing against the shell of your ear. his voice dripped with mockery, sending a jolt of humiliation through you. "getting all hard for me, like some filthy little pervert? huh?"

your hips jerked forward involuntarily, chasing the friction of his touch, and a broken moan tore from your throat. the sound echoed in the small bathroom, a damning confession of your weakness. benjamin smirked, his grip on your jaw tightening just enough to keep you in place. "that’s what i thought."

your knuckles turned white as you gripped the edge of the sink, the cold porcelain biting into your palms. you tried to look away, shame prickling your every nerve, but benjamin’s grip was unrelenting. he tilted your chin higher, forcing your gaze to stay fixed on the mirror. “don’t you fucking look away,” it was a command, sure, but also quiet request, one you couldn’t bring yourself to refuse. “i want you to see exactly what you are. a filthy, desperate pervert, getting off to the thought of me. say it.”

your breath hitched, a broken moan tearing from your lips as your hips jerked forward, chasing the friction of his touch. the sound seemed to please him, his smirk widening as his other hand moved to your waist, holding you steady against the sink. “say it,” benjamin murmured, his lips brushing the shell of your ear. his hand on your cock moved faster now, his strokes rough and unrelenting, dragging you closer to the edge. “say what you are.”

“i—i can’t,” you gasped, your voice cracking under the weight of your shame.

“yes, you can.” his tone softened just enough to make your chest tighten, to make you hate how much you wanted to give in. “say it, or i’ll stop.”

your head snapped up, panic flaring in your chest as you met his eyes in the mirror. he smirked at your reaction, his grip on you tightening just enough to remind you who was in control. “you don’t want me to stop, do you?” he teased, his voice a low purr as his fingers wrapped around your cock, squeezing just enough to make your vision blur. “you like this too much.”

“i’m a filthy pervert,” you finally choked out, the words burning like acid on your tongue.

“good boy.” benjamin’s smirk deepened, his hand moving faster now, dragging you toward the precipice. “now tell me what you want.”

“i—” your chest heaved, your hands gripping the edge of the sink so tightly your knuckles turned white. “i want you.” the confession tore free like a prayer, desperate and raw. “I want you to touch me, to—to make me cum—”

benjamin chuckled, the sound low and satisfied as he pressed his lips to your neck. “that’s more like it,” he murmured, his voice dripping with approval. “go on. let go for me. i want to feel you come apart in my hand.”

his words were your undoing. your body arched against him, trembling as the pleasure surged through you like a wave crashing against the shore. benjamin’s grip was firm, steady, grounding you as you came with a shuddering cry, your release splattering against the mirror in thick, messy streaks.

“fuck,” ben breathed out, his tone heavy with awe as he watched your reflection. his hand didn’t stop, coaxing every last drop from you, his strokes slow and deliberate now, like he was savoring the way you unraveled beneath his touch.

when it was over, you sagged against the sink, your chest heaving as you struggled to catch your breath. ben’s hand lingered on your cock, his fingers slick with your release as he pulled away, his smirk softening into something almost tender. “look at that,” he murmured, his hand sliding up to grip your chin, tilting your head back so your eyes met his in the mirror. “such a pretty mess.”

you swallowed hard, the shame creeping back in like a tide, but ben’s thumb brushed against your jaw, grounding you. “you okay?” he asked softly, his voice lacking the teasing edge it had carried before. you nodded weakly, your throat too tight to speak.

“good.” his smirk returned, softer now, but no less infuriating. he leaned closer, his lips brushing your ear as he whispered, “because you owe me a clean mirror.”

[natalievoncatte]

Spoilers for Arcane Season 2. Ending Spoilers.

The tables had turned, and now Vi was the one waiting. She was so tired, so utterly absolutely tired of being the one to helplessly watch. As she waited she flexed her fingers and tugged at her wraps, sometimes rolled her shoulder as if, suddenly, there was something she could do with all her strength. Her knuckles were still sore from punching the wall in Jinx’s cell.

It had all happened so fast. How long had it been? The sun had set, but she’d lost track of time. She wasn’t leaving this room, no matter what.

Part of her had almost run. When she lurched down from the hexgate, limping and dragging one depowered gauntlet with the other, spotting Caitlyn alive had made her heart sing, a bright spot that kept the hollow in her chest from collapsing in on itself and pulling her on with it. She had someone. She had a reason.

Cait saw her, took two steps, and collapsed in a heap, bleeding profusely from her left eye, her uniform soaked in blood from a gash on her flank.

Vi didn’t think she had it in her to run that fast. She’d ignored her own injuries. Nothing mattered but keeping Cait safe. Picking her up and carrying her left Vi herself covered in blood. There was so much, but somehow Cait was still breathing.

She lay in her own bed, chest softly rising and falling. She looked like she was merely asleep, unbothered even though the left side of her face was a mass of bandages and there was a bottle of fluids feeding into her arm.

Vi felt the silent presence in the room and glanced towards the door.

Tobias.

The last thing she remembered him saying in her presence was “what is she still doing here?”

He hadn’t said a word to her, even though she stood by for hours while he and the other doctors had worked on Caitlyn. Barely even looked at her. He wasn’t even the one who handed her a cloth mask to wear over her face and he said nothing to her of Cait’s condition or her prognosis.

It was the same when he came to stand by the bed. An awkward pall fell over the palatial bedroom and Vi couldn’t look at him. The man has already lost his wife and his daughter lay maimed in her bed and might not wake up. What was there to say?

He shuffled awkwardly and Vi noticed he was carrying something. He put the bundle on the bed.

“Clean yourself up. You’re filthy.”

Vi blinked. She’d discarded the jacket of her uniform, but the blood had soaked through to her undershirt, and she was battered and bloodied herself. She’d almost broken her arm and her right shoulder was screaming. Her clothes were crusted with dirt and other people’s blood.

He was not wrong.

“I brought you these, they’re mine. I don’t think anything of Caitlyn’s will fit you.”

Vi muttered a soft, confused “thank you” and took the bundle of clothes, briefly wondering where she should go, before she remembered that Cait had her own bathroom.

As Vi walked inside, she felt a cold rush on her skin. She still couldn’t comprehend that she was allowed here, among all this marble and brass. Cait’s bathroom was big enough to live in. The shower alone was as big as the hovel she’d been living in between bouts and binges.

As she began to undress she realized how tired she was. Every movement was stiff. As she peeled herself out of the uniform she unwrapped bruise after bruise, bloodstain after bloodstain, a road map of agony from head to toe.

The water was a revelation, almost unbearably hot. Old blood and grime sluiced between her toes as the water scorched her back and soaked her hair, the remaining dye sluicing in dark tendrils down her skin.

I don’t deserve this, she thought. I failed everyone. Vander is gone. Jinx is gone. I thought I could be free if I could let Jinx go, but am I free or just empty.

It should have been her.

Even Caitlyn’s towels were luxurious. She’d never felt anything so soft in her life. The heat had loosened her up a little but she still felt creaky and her joints ached. She picked up the shirt Tobias had brought her; she thought it was meant to sleep in. The fabric was even softer, and it felt alien on her skin. It hung too low thanks to Tobias’ height, but it was big enough for her save where her arms and shoulders strained the fabric.

Once she was dressed, Vi returned to the bedroom. She hoped desperately to step out and see Cait sitting up and talking but she was still just lying there, steady but shallow breaths and all, Tobias seated on the edge of the bed and fussing over her.

Vi took the same chair and sighed softly, feeling not much better, just cleaner.

“Let me look at you.”

His voice startled her so much that she simply meekly complied and let him examine the florid bruises on her hand where her knuckles had crashed into the cell wall, even when he gently cupped her chin and turned her head this way and that, staring individually into each eye.

“I know you must hate me.”

His hand fell away. He would no longer look at her. He stood up and turned around, peering through a gap in the curtains.

“I did at first. At first I was so angry. Her whole life, Caitlyn has been obsessed with these notions of justice and progress, with making the Enforcers honorable and just and helping the Undercity, making amends and rebuilding. She’s always had such a kind heart. Then this happened. The Undercity killed my wife, and to me you were the Undercity. Not to mention that every single time you bring her home she’s hurt, and worse than the last time.”

A cold ball clenched in Vi’s gut. He was right. How many more times could this happen before Vi was bringing him back a body and not his daughter?

She was the jinx, wasn’t she?

Tobias’ shoulders hitched and Vi realized he was crying softly.

“I lost one of the two people I live for in an instant… and then began watching the other slip away, piece by piece. Caitlyn became harsh and cold while you were gone. She barely spoke to me, instead spending all her time with that Noxian bitch and her pet whispering poison into her ear. I thought I’d lost her.”

He turned. “Then she brought you in her half dead and begged me to save you and she was just my little girl again, just for a moment.”

Vi’s head snapped up and their gazes briefly met before he broke away.

“Is she going to be okay?” Vi asked softly.

“Okay?” said Tobias. “Okay? I had to remove her eye, Violet. She’s lucky the dagger didn’t pierce her gut or she’d die of sepsis. Now you ask me if-“

He froze, giving Vi a shocked look before his face fell.

“I don’t know what things will ever be between the two of us, but we have her in common, I can see that. Yes, I think she will. My daughter is stronger than you think.”

“I know.”

He turned to leave, saying over his shoulder, “I’ll return in an hour to look in on her. I know what you’re thinking. It’s safe.”

After he left, Vi had to ponder what he meant by that, then it struck her.

Carefully, Vi climbed on the bed, settling beside Cait, nervously settling her weight into the impossibly soft mattress. The bed was so enormous that she had plenty of room.

All she wanted was for Cait to wake up, to hold her again. She had to settle for reaching across the bed and curling her aching fingers around Cait’s limp hand.

She was so tired. Fatigue pressed down on her like a weight and sank her into the bed. Before long, her eyelids grew heavy and she began drifting off despite wrestling to stay awake.

She woke in full dark, the lights doused. Someone had thrown a blanket on her and the bottle of drugs hanging beside Caitlyn had been replaced. Vi sighed, starting to pull her hand free of Cait’s.

She found she couldn’t. Cait’s grip was alarmingly strong weak but her fingers had curled around Vi’s palm and held fast. Her good eye was open, glittering brilliant blue in the dark.

“Violet?” Cait murmured, her voice small and parched.

“That’s my name,” said Vi. Her voice was thick and she choked up a little. “I’m here, Caitlyn.”

“Good,” Cait sighed. “If you’d died I’d kill you.”

Vi snorted.

“I didn’t say this before. I was afraid of what might happen if I did,” Cait rasped. “I love you.”

She squeezed Vi’s palm, not very hard but enough.

“You’re in love with an angry oil slick?”

“My angry oil slick.”

They were quiet for a moment. Cait turned and looked at the ceiling.

“I would understand if… if you feel differently after everything I did to you. I’m sorry, Vi. I’m sorry I hit you, I’m sorry I did those awful things.”

“Cait.”

“I was so angry, I couldn’t-“

“Cait,” Vi insisted. “I love you, too.”

Cait closes her eyes -eye- and smiled softly.

“So you’re in love with an unhinged mongoose?”

“You’re never going to let that go, are you?”

Cait laced her fingers through Vi’s and squeezed, hard.

“No. I am not letting go.”

[disformer]

threw some flats on this lineart of my old constructicon redesigns from WAY back... they were kind of cute fr

[thegnomelord]

Locker-room jokes

CW:NSFW MDNI, FTM reader and Gaz, frotting, oral, first times, masc terms (cock, cocklet, bottom growth) this is based off a post I saw somewhere and a talk I had with @embry-garrick . Author isn't trans so tell me if this sucks lol

Guys comparing dick sizes in the locker room is a joke as old as time. You'd never considered entertaining it as it always came off stupid to you. . . yet here you are.

The locker room is thankfully empty except for you and Gaz, the silence buzzing beneath your skin and leaving you awkwardly shifting your weight from one leg to the other. It's not like you two haven't seen each other naked before, God knows some of the communal showers on different bases were little bigger than shoe boxes, but the expectation to do more than just catch a glimpse — that makes you feel naked.

Agreeing to this had been easy, but now that it came time to put your words were your mouth was you realize you were too arrogant; You can't quite make yourself meet Gaz's gaze, eyes flickering from his face to the darkened lines beneath his pecks, to the sparce trail of body hair that disappears down beneath the towel wrapped around his hips before returning to his face, your cheeks burning.

"Oh, is someone nervous?" Gaz shows you mercy by sauntering closer, gun calloused hands finding their place on your hips and thumbs slipping beneath the towel's hem. "Scared you're not going to be able to rise to the occasion?" His voice has a teasing lilt to it as he snickers at his own words.

You open your mouth to speak but you're forced to bite your tongue when Kyle presses against you, chest to chest and skin to skin. He tilts his head back, your noses brushing together. "You know," His lips brush against yours, just a ghost and a promise something more should you listen to him. "You could just quit while you're ahead and save yourself the embarrassment."

Even the miniscule sensation of his lips on yours leaves your body wanting more, your ribs aching to be wrenched open so he can hold your heart in his hands. Damn tempter.

You ignore your body's wants, the knowledge of him testing you making something burn in your chest. "In your dreams." You repeat the same words that got you into this mess, the words that awakened his competitive streak.

You mimic him by gripping his hips and clutching the towel barely hanging around him. But there's a small tremor in your hands, anxiety nibbling on your nerves — You're treading new ground, the furthest you two ever got was drunken make out sessions and heavy groping in bathrooms or broom closets or Price's office that one time.

Kyle doesn't mention the tremble, your actions earning yourself a pleased grin from him. "Ooh, aren't you arrogant." Which is good; it wouldn't be fun if you were a wet rag about it. Kyle's fingers shift to skirt across your sides before gripping your towel tighter. "Tell you what, we take them off together, yeah?"

"Aren't you thoughtful." Your words make him grin, but you nod your head. "Fine—" You grip his towel, the muscles in your arm tensing. "One, two, three-"

You barely manage to say the last number before Kyle yanks the towel off your hips and tosses it carelessly on the nearby bench. You scramble to do the same, your hands suddenly your mortal enemies as you stumble around a bit while you feel his eyes on you before you manage to take his towel off.

Gaz knows he looks good, he's proud of his body, but the way your eyes travel across his frame — from his face to his chest, following the happy trail of sparce hair down his abdomen to his groin where the neatly trimmed pubic hair accentuates the length of his bottom growth— has blood rushing to his cock, has him feeling high as a kite.

He looks you over up and down, both to see your embarrassment grown and because he's pleased by what he sees. His eyes settles to your groin where a bush of hair partly obscures your own bottom growth, glancing between you and himself. "I reckon I'm bigger."

Something about the way he says it, like he's a jaguar that just caught a cayman, sparks something inside you. "Only because you're smooth as a baby's ass." You growl and push a hand between your bodies, trapping your cock between two fingers and spreading them slightly so it's fully on display. "I'm bigger." You can't help but press a chaste kiss on the tip of his nose, some of your arrogance coming back.

Kyle tries not to, but a pleased noise escapes his throat — you're definitely bigger, at least half an inch if not more. He's not willing to admit defeat that quickly, but fuck, the change in your attitude is a major turn on.

"Cheater." The accusation would be far more hurtful if he didn't press himself closer, one hand holding your shoulder, the other sliding down to hold his cocklet. "Just gotta-" But he doesn't stop there, slowly stroking the length of it between his fingers, thumb swirling across the tip. "-I'll show you big."

"Now who's cheating?" You snark, using your free hand to hold Kyle tightly so he doesn't lose his balance. You don't stop him, mesmerized by the way each languid stroke has his cock chubbing up a bit more, slick easing the glide as it glistens across his flushed flesh.

"You started it-hah!—" You pick the moment to grind your groin into his, the tip of your cocklet roughly grinding against his and forcing a small punched out noise from his lungs.

"Whoops." You grunt, pleasure starting to simmer in your veins as you grind your cock against his again. "Sorry, just needed to get the right angle." Your tone makes the lie obvious but you can't be bothered to make it sound believable, the combination of shifting of your hips and the slow movement of your hand as you stroke yourself at the same tempo as him has lightning rushing up your spine. "I'm still bigger than you."

"Bastard!" The curse morphs into a short laugh and finally into a moan that bounces off the tiled walls, his head tilting forward to place a sloppy and disorganized kiss on your cheek. Kyle pants against your skin, leaving crescent shaped bruises on your shoulder from how tightly he grips you. "Hold on, I just have to-" He moans again, rocking his hips to meet yours that has the sensitive heads of your cocklets bumping together. "-fuck- fuck- just, give me a minute it gets bigger."

"What's wrong Kyle, failing to rise to the occasion?" You have no idea how wet that smug tone of yours makes him, but with how obscenely loudly his slick squelches against his fingers, Kyle's sure you'll figure it out soon. "Here, let me help you."

It's Kyles turn to be surprised when you push him into one of the stalls, his back meeting the cold tiles of the shower. "What are you planning?" He grunts, a yelp escaping him when you suddenly grab his thighs, picking up and bending him nearly in half until your head's cradled between his thighs and his cock's inches away from your mouth. The years of gymnastics makes the position possible, the numb pain of muscles deep in his back stretching making the pleasure so much sharper.

You blow cold air across his sensitive cocklet, watching it twitch with need. "Relax, just getting a better look." The way his thighs shake when you lick a slow stripe up his cock has your mind buzzing, the needy sound that breaks past his lips sweet as honey to your ears. "I'm gonna help you get as big as you can." It's hard to look away from his cock but you force yourself to look up at Gaz, resting his cocklet against your lips. "It's only fair."

"You-" Whatever he wanted to say next is cut off when you take his entire cock in your mouth, resting it on your tongue for a few moments before you suck. "-oh fuck!" His hands scramble to find purchase on your shoulders, gripping your hair as he hunches over, his mouth right next to your ear so you can head a moan leave him — deep and low and so desperate.

It makes you want to pull more of those sounds out of him. And you do — sloppily slurping on his cocklet for a few seconds only to pull off to lick it, alternating between slow strong swipes of your tongue across his entire shaft to small kitten licks on his tip. Occasionally you pull off entirely to blow cold air across it, keeping him teetering on that edge of pleasure, silencing the sounds of discontent with a few swipes near his hole before taking all of him into your mouth to repeat the cycle.

You don't know what's more intoxicating; You feel yourself grow drunk off the slightly sweet and musky taste of his slick that runs down your chin, the image of his abdominal muscles fluttering and thighs shaking from the building pleasure in his belly burned into your mind, Kyles babbles of "Yeah, like th- fuck, fuck, fuck- that- pleas-hah—" and calls of your name broken by moans and whimpers like the song of angels.

You feel him get closer to the edge, or at least you assume so by the way the grinding of his hips into your face grows erratic, your name being the only word that still clings to his brain as he chants it like a mantra, his fingers shaking from how tightly he grips your shoulders.

Kyle makes a sound like a wounded animal when you suddenly pull off, "-no-no-nono!" He cries, hips still bucking into the air with the need to tumble over the edge of pleasure, tears staining his cheeks as he manages to force out a weak glare. "Wh- why w-gh!- why?"

"We still have to compare." Your voice is rough like you'd been gurgling shards of glass, holding him steady as you lower him enough to wrap his legs around your waist, pressing your bodies together until you're smushing him into the wall.

He doesn't complain as the sudden move has your bottom growths rubbing against one another, and only now do you realize your body is as desperate as his. "Y- ah fuck- yeah right." There's still that fire in him, but now he uses it to grip the back of your skull and mush your lips together, ignoring the taste of himself on your lips. "Just-shit mh!- move."

Kyle's heels digging into your flank makes you rock forward, grinding your cocks together. Your slick mixes together, your pubic hair sticking to his skin and tickling the sensitive flesh of his cock with every thrust. He openly moans into your mouth, licking in and around your open mouth, trying to clean off the slick staining your skin but only making a bigger mess as spit now mixes with his juices.

Kyle feels like he's burning up, like he's just a puddle of please — the pace you set is rough and your kisses are sloppy and desperate and it feels like Heaven. Gaz wraps all four limbs around you tightly yet he still gyrates his pelvis to meet yours, every nerve in your bodies feeling like a live wire as pleasure builds and builds until it's ready to spill over.

"Fuck- Kyle-" You grunt, your fingers leaving bruises on his flesh, his back sliding up and down against the tiles as you increase your pace, every brush of his flesh against yours banging on your skull. "I'm -mhm- close."

"Mh- me too-" He slurs against your lips, kissing you until both of you are gasping for air. "please-please-please-love- make us cum, plea- ah fuck!—" Kyle shouts as his orgasm finally crashes into him, toes curling and head tilting to bite your shoulder in an attempt to silence himself as he cums, hole fluttering around nothing and cock throbbing as slick runs down his thighs.

The pain and pleasure comes for you a second later, you grip him so harshly you can feel his bones groan as you cum too, your hips grinding together to prolong the mind numbing pleasure, your teeth finding his shoulder as you bite down as well.

You don't know how the Hell you're still standing by the time you come down from your high, every muscle in your body straining like you'd just went through a suicide mission. Kyle's no better, shaking like a leaf and completely boneless in your arms, panting into your neck.

You kiss the bite mark you've left on his shoulder, gently bumping your head into his to gain his attention, "Kyle?" You ask, "Are you alright?"

"Fuuuuck lovie," Kyle groans, barely able to lift his head enough to give you a sloppy kiss on the cheek. "That was good." His fingers idly scratch your scalp, the low rasp of his fucked out voice makes your cock twitch half-heartedly but you're too worn out to get aroused again. "Remind me to blow you when I can feel my legs again."

Yeah, he's alright.

A small laugh breaks past your lips and you give him a similarly sloppy kiss. "I will." Somehow you manage to sit down on the floor, Kyle laying on top of you, as content as a spoiled cat.

"Just so you know." He whispers into your ear, his fingers slowly sliding across your sides, thumbs rubbing lazy absentminded circles into your skin. "I want a do-over of this contest." He grins, and fuck, you can't get past how handsome he looks like that. "Maybe in my room, yeah?"

You can't refuse. "Yeah."

[numberserk]

sixnine 2022-early 2023 dump <:) enjoy

[paracosmicessence]

this is what coming from sonadow twitter back to sonadow tumblr feels like every time

[rodolfoparras]

if Price were to get into a relationship you’d get to see a completely different side of him and while many may say that’s to no surprise, they don’t realize just how much he’d actually change if he were to date someone

First and foremost Price is used to put everyone’s needs above his own, always used to being the one in charge to make sure things don’t spin out of control, always used to putting out his own spite fire as to not make anyone uncomfortable

But as soon as he meets someone who cares for him, who wants to spoil him rotten and be there for him, he goes on auto pilot mode, opening himself up in ways he didn’t think was possible

Every time you buy something for him, wether it be a pack of cigars or expensive liquor, he feels something fluttering in his chest. Every time you patch him up or check up on him before and after a mission he feels heat creep up his neck ears and cheeks. Every time you make sure he’s slept or eaten well, even going as far as to bring food and blankets to his office, he feels all fuzzy in the head

“There’s no need for all that,” he says glancing at the food you bought for him while he’s working through reports in his office.

“Of course there is, you’re my boy no? Got to make sure you’re alright”

Eventually you get him to warm up to your treatment and all of sudden he expects you to buy him a pack of cigars or a bottle of liquor when you head out for a mission sniffling in discontent when you come back empty handed.

He’d put on the biggest show whenever he catches cold because he just wants you to take care of him, wants you to make soup for him, and help him through his fevers and scold him for wanting a kiss when he’s sick but still giving into it

And he can’t find it in himself to be embarrassed when you get all protective over him during missions, when you don’t let anyone silence him when he goes on a tangent, because he’s your boy right? You got to make sure he’s alright

When it comes to pda he’d be very shy to such, but eventually he’d warm up to it and all of sudden you have Price straddling your lap as you sit in your chair, kissing you like he’s trying to devour you or Price crawling into your arms as you lay in bed, or mindlessly wrapping his hand around your waist as you’re walking around on base

He’d also be embarrassed when it comes to showing you things he likes in bed, face growing hot and avoiding your gaze as he attempts to explain, but eventually he’d grow comfortable in straddling your waist and sinking down on your length, showing you with his hips at what pace he wants you to fuck him, loves having your eyes on him while he touches himself, bask in every bit of after care you give him

[lizardbrainlabs]

sketched out all the human partners!!!

[heartorbit]

a mob of emus for an artstyle game on twt! ^_^

[frummpets]

most of how i imagine these guys are a hodgepodge of official art + fanart + personal headcanons

original draw svsss from memory post by pompipurin on twitter!

✦ TWITTER VERSION

closeups ✨ (just so i can put minglingying together hehe)

[blushedfemmes]

… :/

[letsmcfreackingloseit]

And for the holidays I give you memes! Memes everywhere!

I hope that all of you are having a wonderful time, but if not, I at least hope these silly doodles brought you a little joy!

I'm going to keep this short and sweet today, so to round this of: These doodles are based off of the fanfic Apex Polarity, which is written by the lovely @naffeclipse and Eclipse' design is based off of @themeeplord 's fantastic design!

And as a bonus, you will find an alteration and a bunch of Yeti slogans/puns under the cut:

and if you're wondering why I made so many gd yeti puns, it was for michael's mug. You gotta have some fitting and funny slogan for all mugs. Btw If any of you know some good yeti slogans and/or puns, please call me, I've been struggling.

Michael; local cryptid believer, but not cryptid enjoyer

Vanessa; POLAR BEARS

Eclipse; I'm having the best time of my life! :D

Y/n; I'm having A TIME :')

[lycandrophile]

Different anon. FGM is nearly the same to "bottom surgery". It's mutilation based on sex and genitals. The intent doesn't make it any less destructive or sad.

first of all, FGM is not at all nearly the same as bottom surgery, even just from a technical perspective. as many people in the replies of the last ask have pointed out, one difference is that bottom surgery involves the penis being either created from the clitoris or constructed on top of it, not removing it as with many forms of FGM.

but, for the sake of argument, let’s say they are similar surgeries on a technical level. do you really think it’s the kind of surgery that makes FGM bad? would you say that somebody who received a similar surgery for medical reasons was a victim of FGM?

what makes FGM “destructive and sad” is that:

it’s done to people who don’t want it.

it’s done to people who don’t actually know what’s being done to them or what the risks or consequences might be, so victims often find themselves living with complications for the rest of their lives that they never agreed to.

it has many potential harmful effects and no actual benefits.

gender affirming surgeries like bottom surgery don’t match any of those points. they’re:

performed only on people who actively want them and chose to have them done.

only ever done when the patient can give informed consent, meaning they know what the surgery entails and what the risks could be and have chosen to do it with that knowledge.

proven to have mental health benefits for the people who receive them, and are often considered medically necessary on that basis.

fundamentally, bottom surgery is an exercise of bodily autonomy while FGM is a violation of it. that’s what makes FGM so bad and makes the two so vitally different. mutilation is an act that causes serious harm without any true benefit; FGM fits that bill, bottom surgery doesn’t. saying the two are the same is like saying a medically performed abortion is the same as pushing a pregnant person down the stairs to cause a miscarriage: it focuses solely on the most literal understanding of what’s being done without any regard for the details or the impact on the people involved.

the problem with FGM is the fact that it’s being performed on people who can’t give informed consent and who will likely suffer from it while not gaining any benefits from it. if you actually care about victims of FGM, you should be upset about the violation of their bodies and lifelong suffering they’re subjected to, not the fact that it’s their genitals that are being altered.

[navree]

i'm sorry hbo allowed this writing team to plan out a ten episode season until a MONTH before shooting when they cut it down to eight????? and then kept production going when the writer's strike started like two weeks after and kept up for the entirety of the filming schedule??????? i said that filming during the writer's strike was the death knell of this season but oh my god i did not expect to be this fucking right