#only testosterone gell

[silverrocketship]

Tags

I think it's so funny when people draw Merlin characters with stuff like top surgery scars because it carries the implication that Gaius is a leading medieval gender confirmation surgeon

[johnbrand]

Successor

As soon as the notification came, Alan accepted the weekly meeting with his boss. He readjusted his new tie and tailored navy suit as the invitation sent him through.

“Good morning, Alan.” His boss was an older man, a large, refined one at that. Rumor had it that he would soon be leaving the company for retirement. Alan hypothesized it was arriving much quicker than people realized.

“Good morning, Sir.” Alan had quickly picked up the honorific through these weekly meetings. “How has your day been so far?” 

“We will skip the questions for today and be prompt to work. Hit the ‘Record’ button.”

This always happened. Alan’s boss never wanted to discuss anything outside of business. He was always so worried about the company and their profits. Without a second thought, Alan hit the ‘Record’ button. Across the screen, his boss smiled as Alan face went pale. His eyelids drooped and his jaw went slack.

“That is much more appropriate,” Alan’s boss relished smugly. “Let all those pesky thoughts dissipate and evaporate. Clear your mind completely for our meeting. Let my words be the only thing that resides within your mind.”

Alan remained empty and still on the other end. His boss held a malicious smirk. “You have been coming along swimmingly as my successor, Alan. It still fascinates me that you have not realized it when this is our last meeting.”

It was true. Since these weekly meetings had begun, Alan’s boss had been prescribing various updates into Alan’s system. Each time Alan hit the button to ‘Record’, his conscious state went on standby while his subconscious transcribed each addition, subtraction, and modification his boss made. Once Alan’s boss was finished, the recording ended, leaving Alan unaware of any changes or abnormalities.

“I should have solved this issue long ago, but no more of those brazen personal questions. Being stern and direct is more productive. It is much better commanding attention.”

“Yes sir,” Alan replied flatly.

“Speaking of commanding attention, it is time to address that sound of yours as well. A deeper voice that contains emotions is better suited to keep others calm and in control at all times.”

Alan’s neck thickened, significantly jutting his Adam’s apple.

“Yes sir,” Alan agreed, his voice now mimicking his boss’s deep, disinterested, and gruff texture.

“I see you have acquainted yourself to the glory of a three-piece,” his boss grinned. “But it appears to be a little large on you. If you want to be as successful in my position, then perhaps you ought to wholly fill the space I am leaving behind, would you agree?”

“Yes sir.” 

Each part of Alan seemed to pulse as the recording translated across his body. His legs stretched and thickened, the torso magnificently broadened, his butt swelled from underneath. The chest expanded, his neck and arms bulked, and his height ascended ever so slightly. Even his feet vibrated, slowly expanding and widening until they fit perfectly into the shoes that had been previously tailored and then altered larger by his boss’s words. 

“Tall and thick, just like me,” Alan’s boss purred. ”If you are to lead our company, you ought to have my strong jaw to capture our investors.”

Alan’s face rippled, losing its youthful charm as it morphed into traditional masculine perfection. His bouncy curls receded and thinned slightly, a thick coat of pomade gelling it up into a mature quiff.

Alan’s boss was jubilant. The physical work was always much more fun than the tedious mental tasks they had been dulling over for the past few months. “I believe something will need to house your newfound testosterone, Alan.”

Alan’s crotch tingled, swelling and growing. He now had a thick, juicy member, swollen and throbbing. Alan’s low-hanging balls swelled as he began to palm himself.

“As you are aware, Alan, the majority of our meetings have been spent on realigning how to address this issue.” His boss then pulled out a stiff cock from his suit pants, one identical in length and size to Alan’s. He began stroking it as he continued. “As a leader, I adapted to the needs of the majority. You must do the same.”

Before the meetings with his boss, Alan had been a proud member of the LGBTQ+ community. But week by week, he had found his fantasies shift from his masculine boyfriend to twinks, to femboys, to watching the male in straight porn, to eventually watching the woman in straight porn. His boss had monitored all this behavior, waiting until the lesbian porn appeared in Alan's search history to announce his retirement to the board, and enact the physical changes to his successor.

“You have already given up so much for me, for the company. Your boyfriend, your personality, your figure and identity. Now all that remains is your genetic code.” His boss sniggered taking a dramatic pause before instructing, “Rid of it, Alan.”

With a forceful grunt came a massive load. Alan’s existence was expunged out into the suit pants. His boss smiled with satisfaction, ready to present his successor to the company.

[wakeup01]

Hey, is it still open ? If it is, I've got something to ask. See, the university that I attend is apparently quite focused on sports, when compared to degrees such as mine in linguistics. It means that, on my way to class, I see a lot of hot men with great hairstyles, and I've always felt a bit jealous at that. Don't get me wrong, I love the eyecandy, but it always made me wonder what would happen if, one day, I entered the wrong building. Could you help me to see what would happen ? Just as an experiment, of course, I want to go back to my degree nice and easy after that...

Team Player

Linguistics? Oh dear, oh dear. I hate to be the one to break it to you, but you won’t be getting anywhere with that. But don’t worry, I’m feeling generous today. Okay, listen up. It’s very simple, all you have to do is follow that hot jock with the gelled blond hair to the left. No, no, not the right, the left. Take note of his smile. The way he laughs at literally nothing. Why? Oh, no reason…

Whoops. The locker room you say? What a blunder. Egg on my face, I tell ya. But while you’re there, maybe it’s worth taking in the sights and….smells. Every step is like walking through the humid air of the jungle, a breeze of sweaty jockstraps assaults you from every direction as the Football team get changed. You fail to avert your eyes from their hot glistening bodies, the display of pure strength and testosterone.

The jock you followed in notices you, notices certain inadequacies that need amending if you’re gonna be on the team. The team? Yes, the team. That messy hair for one. You barely get the opportunity to argue as he sits you down and scrapes the clippers across your skull. The buzzing sound makes you shiver. An overwhelming lightheaded feeling allows him to easily tilt your head down and mow the back. Running his hands through what little remains as he gells it up into a spiky jock style. Patting your strapped rear and padded thighs as the dirty, preused tight leggings pull up your legs and cover your cupped crotch. Your mouth opens, opens before your brain has engaged, just hanging ajar for several seconds. “B—bro.” The word is more of a proclamation than anything else. You impulsively adjust your junk, a clear shadow visibly outlines where your big balls push the cup outward.

He tells you that the newbies are liable if the team loses. That would be you. Taking one…or many, so to speak, for the team is the accepted punishment. He tells you this while stroking at his own cupped groin, a rather large bulge growing as you swallow hard.

Before you know it, you’re completely kitted out in the heavy uniform, a thick helmet lowering over your head - silencing those niggling doubts in the back of your increasingly tiny, sports obsessed mind. It’s like a deprivation chamber for your head, your inner monologue being blocked. The only thing that matters to you now is the game.

The game.

The ball.

The team.

The… punishment.

The twitching of your cock and ass makes you wonder if losing would be all that bad. You stand up and admire yourself. You barely recognise what you see, uncontrollably getting turned on by your own appearance. Were your arms always that chunky, that tanned? Like prime cooked beef hanging from your wide shoulders. Looking like a proper jock boy…smelling like one too. Huhuh. You turn, smiling dimly back at your bro. Laughing out loud for a reason you don’t remember. Uhh, I’m sure it’ll come to you…eventually.

I mean, you’re just trying out something new, right? No harm done, you rationalise as you sprint and achieve your first touchdown, your memory of…le..lin….lingizztics? Completely knocked loose from your ‘bro’d out, empty head.

Of course, the team loses anyway. Though you, and the rest of the team have suspicions about how accidental your ‘fumbles’ really were. Never-mind, that didn’t matter so much anymore, not while the whole team form an orderly queue behind your bent over rear. Your blonde bro is first up, he spreads your sweaty cheeks wide, spits on your crack and lines himself up for the ‘shot’. “You ready to learn how to handle some balls dude?”

“Hell yeah brah!”

[justinspoliticalcorner]

Sam Wolfson at The Guardian:

A chill wind swept through Europe this summer. On the continent, far-right parties rose triumphantly in the EU elections, hoisted not just by the grumbles of older xenophobes but on the shoulders of young men. When news crews went out on the streets to train their cameras on these extremists in France, Germany, Finland and the Netherlands, they found no blackshirts, just barbershop trims and Zara chinos worn by young men, enthralled by dreams of ethnonationalism and a return to the values of the 1980s or the 1940s or some other period long before their birth. Then, in Britain this weekend, gangs of mostly young far-right men marauded through northern towns, attacking mosques and accommodation for asylum seekers. The nationalist right is rising once more on the tides of gelled-backed hair and Nike swooshes.

A similar transformation could befall America in November. Until now, twentysomething voters were a thorn in Donald Trump’s side, opposing him robustly in previous elections and making their resistance corporeal as leaders in the Women’s March, Black Lives Matter protests and climate movement. Yet recent election polls suggest that while young women remain committed to the cause, there has been a tremulous withdrawal from young men. In 2016, 51% of young men identified with or leaned toward the Democratic party. By last year, it was down to 39%. Young men now favor Republican control of Congress and their support for Trump has grown since 2020. The Democratic strategist James Carville (he who told Bill Clinton “it’s the economy, stupid”) has been warning Democrats that the party’s eroding numbers among young men and young people of color are “horrifying”: “We’re not shedding them; they’re leaving in droves.”

Of course, many of these fears were emerging when Joe Biden, an octogenarian white man, was still the presumptive Democratic nominee. But while early polling suggests that overall, gen Z is excited by Kamala Harris’s likely nomination, she hasn’t made much impact on gen Z men. Research by the Young Men Research Initiative (YMRI), a group set up in recent months to observe this unexpected drift, shows that men aged 18-29 are split 32% for Harris and 33% for Donald Trump, with Robert F Kennedy Jr taking 15%. This is an almost identical split to when Biden was the frontrunner. Young men used to vote more like young people: left. Now they might start voting like men: right. What changed?

Some pollsters believe we are witnessing a new politics of resentment – that young men feel #MeToo has gone too far, that feminism has left them behind, and that they can only see a home for themselves in a testosterone-fuelled Republican party.

Others – including Richard Reeves, head of the recently founded and influential American Institute for Boys and Men – say this isn’t a cultural issue. While a small, loud minority of men might have become more extreme in their views on feminism, most are responding to other economic and social factors that have meant they have lagged behind women for some time. Young men statistically are more depressed, financially worse off and less educated than young women, and looking for electoral answers. “This is less about young men being pulled towards the right than it is about them being pushed away from the left,” Reeves says. Blue-collar workers, Hispanic voters in Florida, white married women: Democrats have blundered before in assuming they had certain demographics locked up only to find they had taken them for granted. Unless the party can work out why it’s losing young men and how to win them back, Democrats may wake up to a cold new dawn in November, as Europe did in June.

‘A very scary time’: the politics of resentment

In 2018, a gaggle of the White House press corps asked Trump for his opinion on the allegations that Brett Kavanaugh, his nominee for the supreme court, had sexually assaulted Christine Blasey Ford when she was 15 years old. Trump, almost drowned out by the whirring blades of Marine One, could only offer superlatives in response. “High quality”, “top student”, “a great judge”. The reporters sounded desperate: what does it say to boys that someone facing such a serious accusation is still being considered for the supreme court? “Well, I say it’s a very scary time for young men in America,” Trump replied. “You could be somebody that was perfect your entire life and somebody could accuse you of something … and you’re automatically guilty.” Trump had dismissed his own boasts of sexual assault as “locker room talk” during his 2016 campaign, but now he was making his pitch directly to the locker room. Having harnessed the racial resentment of white voters who felt society had become too diverse, could he do the same with young men who felt society had become too feminized?

[...] Armed with this sort of feedback, it seems Trump has been heavily courting the young, resentful male vote. He has attended Ultimate Fighting Championship bouts until the early hours, walking out to Kid Rock’s American Badass. He has lately worked hard to position himself as the crypto candidate and is heavily promoting himself on TikTok. When Kid Rock, Hulk Hogan and Dana White, CEO of UFC, introduced him at the Republican convention, Kid Rock screamed at everyone to put their fists in the air and shout “fight!” as Trump had done after the attempt on his life. Trump even attended a sneaker conference to launch his own golden hi-tops. There are millions of progressive young men who won’t be interested in his proposition. LGBTQ+ men, for example, remain solidly progressive, as do young Asian American voters. But for others, Cox says Trump’s effort could work. “Logan Paul just had Trump on his show. He’s got over 7 million followers. Some young men who are not very political might say, ‘Oh, hey, you know, Trump showing up, he’s talking, he’s engaging. I kind of like this.’”

Why are young men moving rightwards in recent years? This Guardian article highlights the role of male resentment and entitlement over their perceived loss in social standing, especially in the #MeToo era.

The increase of testosterone-oriented culture in the UFC and MMA is also helping fuel these trends.

Read the full story at The Guardian.

[happylittledrabbles]

Coincidences

Fandom: Attack on Titan

Pairing: Reiner Braun x Eren Yeager

Rating: 18+ (DNI IF A MINOR)

Genre: Smut

Word Count: 8K

AO3

—

Reiner finds solace in a gay bar to forget about his traumatic past in Paradis. However, the last person he expects to be there, in a gay bar, in Marley, is Eren Yeager. They confront each other until they go hash it out in the bar's bathroom.

Hashing it out turns to fucking very quickly, and it is very public.

—

Reiner had discovered his sexuality a long while ago. With the help of Bertholdt (and his dick), he figured out that those lingering stares at erotic men’s drawings in pornography instead of women wasn’t just because he wanted to look as athletic as them. His eyes took in their muscles and crotches, but he never compared himself to them. They went there because he wondered how their skin would feel underneath his fingers, how he’d trace the collarbones jutting out above their broad chests, kiss the happy trail leading to their jeans, and grip their full crotches—

“Hey.” A gruff voice broke him out of his thoughts, causing him to snap his eyes from staring at his whiskey up to meet the eyes of the man beside him. He was tall, dark, and handsome. Just his type. He had muscles for days, and he had that scruff that made him look edgy but manly.

He never thought he’d find himself wandering into a gay bar on the outskirts of Marley, just a few avenues down from his childhood home. Who knew such a masculine and testosterone-fueled haven was so close by his entire life? He had found it through connections, through men he hooked up with and used their bodies to forget the pain of his past when he returned home. Now it was like a second home: the aroma of sweat and liquor, the flashing lights that displayed colors he never thought lights could be, the warm press of bodies next to each other on the dance floor, exchanging sweat, saliva, and breaths. He couldn’t have imagined being anywhere else on a Friday night. His mother thought he was out at a bar with friends, having good, innocent fun—only half of that was true.

A hand slipped around his waist, tentative but strong.

“Hello,” Reiner replied, his voice low and smooth. His eyes dropped to the hand on his hip and took a step closer to the man, facing front as he lifted the whiskey glass to his lips.

“Whatcha drinkin’?” the man asked, taking another step forward until their shoes were toe-to-toe with each other. Reiner could see the man’s Adam’s apple jump as he swallowed in anticipation, his collarbones straining against the tight button-up shirt. All he wanted to do was dive forward and kiss it until hickeys decorated the entirety of his tan exposed neck.

He was tipsy on whiskey, but he was high on adrenaline and desire. The man’s piercing eyes made his mouth dry, the way his gelled hair flopped into his eyes made his fingers numb, and his musk made his crotch ache. It hurt him to hold back from making out with that man right then and there.

But what was stopping him? Everybody around here was homosexual. People didn’t come to this place to enter a relationship. They came here to enter or be entered by somebody else without any strings attached.

“Whiskey,” he replied, snaking a hand behind the man’s neck and giving the back of his hair a playful tug. The man let out a hissing groan, one that made Reiner’s toes curl in his boots. “Want a taste?”

The man wasted no time in leaning down, and Reiner wasted no time in reciprocating. The kiss was heated and hungry, with the man groaning as if he was eating the best food of his life. He was devouring the blond, and Reiner couldn’t complain. It made his chest tight as if he was wearing a corset. He took the man’s lip in between his teeth, nibbling on it like a biscuit snack. He could taste the salt of the nuts and the bitterness of the beer on the man’s tongue, and it mixed delectably with the whiskey taste in his mouth. His whiskey had long since been abandoned on the counter, their hands on every square centimeter of each other’s bodies. They were breathless, their lungs begging for oxygen, but the kiss was far too delicious to separate.

Reiner swore he was about to pass out, his eyes rolling into the back of his head until the man finally separated, his strong arm holding Reiner’s near-limp body by the small of his back. That made him feel even more weightless—what was better than being cradled in the strong arms of another man?

“Woah there,” the man murmured with a chuckle. “Don’t get too carried away. I don’t want to kill ya.”

“Mm,” was all Reiner could reply with before tilting his head up again, his cherry-red lips pouting for another kiss. The man chuckled again, rolled his eyes as if to say this idiot, and leaned down.

At the last moment, his eyes clouded by the man before him, his eyes darted to the left.

He didn’t know why they did, or how he knew to look, but he sincerely wished he hadn’t.

He regretted it immediately, especially when his eyes locked with the Eren Yeager.

He blinked, blinked again, and before he knew it, his vision was swarmed by the man’s face, his lips on his once again. Except this time, Reiner was not reciprocating. He was in too much shock to process what was happening before him.

Eren? Eren Yeager in Marley?

His eyes darted to the whiskey on the counter. Yes, it must be that. There was no fucking chance that Eren Yeager was in Marley.

“What’s wrong?” the man asked, quickly realizing that Reiner wasn’t kissing back. He lifted his head, a quizzical look on his face before a smirk overtook his agape mouth. “Oh…” He trailed off, his hand trailing down from Reiner’s waist to his ass, giving it a firm squeeze. “Do you want to move on?”

Reiner blinked again, his eyes focusing on the man. His mind registered the squeeze, registered the fiery look in the man’s almond eyes, and pushed the impossible idea of Eren Yeager being here out of his head. A weary smile crossed his lips, his hand slipping on top of the man’s behind him.

“Ye—” He didn’t even finish his reply before the man was forcefully pushed aside, revealing none other than Eren Yeager—in the flesh—on the other side of him.

“Hey!” the man exclaimed, but the two other men were dead silent. Reiner and Eren were staring at each other, jaws slack and eyes wide as saucers. Eren’s pupils sliced down his green irises, the mere sight of Reiner setting them aflame in two balls of fury. Reiner’s eyes, on the other hand, were narrow slits, his vision clouded by tears of stress and a mist of terror. But his eyes were narrowed for something else, something that made him cock his head when he realized just where he discovered Eren, the main reason for his persistent night terrors. He found Eren here, in a gay bar. Now, what the hell was Eren Yeager doing in a gay bar? The question made Reiner’s fear soften when a new state of confusion took over, one that was pleasantly surprised. He began to ask, but it seemed as if Eren had the same idea.

“What—”

“What—”

“—are you doing—”

“—the fuck are you doing—”

“—here?!”

They both pointed fingers at each other at the same time, and it would have been a comedic sight if Eren wasn’t confused out of his mind and Reiner wasn’t terrified out of his. There was a long pause, and none of them blinked once.

“What is going on here?” the man asked, his gaze switching between the stare-down in front of him, stepping away from the two men as if he’d get stabbed by the daggers in their glares. His eyes settled on Reiner, stepping closer to him and slipping a hand on his lower back for reassurance, his previously ravenous look morphing into one of genuine care. “You need me to get rid of this guy for you?”

Reiner snapped out of his fear-induced coma at the man’s tender touch, but he quickly grasped the man’s wrist and gave him a gentle push. Without another word, he yanked Eren by the collar of his shirt, not caring about the horrid popping sound the seams made as they stretched and broke—Eren could buy another shirt. But, even though he expected some resistance, he found that Eren’s footsteps fell easily behind his until he was flung against the bathroom door, stumbling into the tiled bathroom only to turn around to reveal an absolutely incensed Reiner Braun. He looked like a bull ready to charge, his stout chest rising and falling erratically as he tried to level out his anger fused with fright, but the deep breaths he taught himself to do to subside an anxiety attack only made him more irritated.

“What,” he finally spoke, breaking the ten-minute long bout of silence between them, “the actual fuck are you doing in Marley? Here, of all places?”

Eren flinched at Reiner’s voice as if he wasn’t expecting it to sound like that as if he forgot what Reiner sounded like. The flinch made Reiner gain some of his bravery back, leading him to square his shoulder up and take a step forward even though he was quite a few centimeters shorter than the other man. When did that happen? Of course Eren had to outgrow him—yet another reason on a long list of tally marks as to why Reiner despised everything about the embodiment of the Attack Titan.

“Fancy seeing you here. It’s nice to see you, too, Reiner.” Eren rolled his eyes before continuing with an explanation. “I…” He paused. Reiner thought he could visually see the gears turning in the brunet’s head, but it wasn’t amusing. It just made him angrier to think that Eren was trying to think of a way out of this, using his dastardly brain to create a plan that would somehow solve the problem.

“If you transform into a Titan, I swear to—”

“I won’t,” Eren interrupted, then chuckled. The chuckle was so evil, dripping with such malice, Reiner’s hands curled into fists to hold himself back from lunging and leaving a beautiful purple mark to decorate that piece-of-shit face.

“I’m here visiting the place my father came from,” Eren continued, breaking Reiner out of his murderous train of thought. “Can’t a boy visit his father’s birthplace?” He shrugged. “Didn’t you kidnap me to bring me here in the first place?”

“God, you infuriating bastard,” Reiner grumbled. “What are you really doing here?”

Eren giggled—he giggled—and shrugged. “I can’t tell you why I’m in Marley,” he replied, lifting a hand as he explained, “but I can tell you why I’m at this bar.”

Confusion once again replaced the rage inside Reiner, and his eyebrows softened with one quirking up in intrigue. Eren found this endearing and took a step forward, leaving barely a meter between them. With the brunet being this close, Reiner could see the sickly blue dark circles under his eyes, the veins crawling underneath his translucent skin, the grease in his hair. Everything about him was repulsive—so why was the blond feeling something stir in his stomach when he saw a flick of mocking amusement in those emerald eyes? He attributed that uncharacteristic stirring to the whiskey, but he was completely sober by now—he knew that very well. He just didn’t want to think about what else that stir could possibly mean.

“Why…” Reiner’s voice fried, dropping out. He cleared his throat to restart his voice, his eyes dropping to the ground when Eren’s gaze was too heavy to match. “Why are you here, then?”

The heel of Eren’s shoes clicking on the tile echoed off the walls as he took a step forward, causing Reiner’s shoulders to hike up to his ears. He refused to meet Eren’s eyes, chewing on his bottom lip in a fit of anxiety. Or was it anticipation? Reiner shook that idea out of his head—he was too tipsy for this. Except he wasn’t.

“I’m here for the same reasons you are,” Eren replied. “You look different, Reiner. Stronger. Maybe it’s the facial hair.” His eyes raked over Reiner’s body, leaving the blond shivering. “But you’ve become more submissive. Is it the guilt taking over? Or is this how you really are, and you were just projecting the entire time?”

He took another step forward. Reiner closed his eyes, preparing for whatever was coming next. Except, instead of a punch, it was Eren’s finger stroking his facial hair, twirling a long strand between his fingers. His slowly opened them to view Eren closely examining the hair before dropping his hand to his side. He closed them again, afraid that the tender stroking was a warm-up for the real beatdown. His ears pricked at the sound of Eren sighing deeply.

When he opened his eyes again, Eren’s back was to him, the brunet facing the door.

“Why are you here, Reiner?” Eren asked, still not turning around. He scoffed, the sound causing Reiner’s stomach to drop as if he ate twenty bricks. “You and Bertholdt were pretty obvious in the barracks, but I thought you’d take a little longer to mourn the death of your boyfriend.”

“H-he wasn’t—!” Reiner cut himself off, unsure of what to say. Bertholdt was…Bertholdt was Bertholdt to him, and he took plenty of time to grieve him. In fact, he was using and disposing of bodies in order to distract from the fact that his bed was too cold at night, that hugging the pillow was no match for cuddling the almost two-meter tall man that crawled next to him every night.

He finally looked up, swinging his gaze up to meet the nape of Eren’s neck. “I’m here to fuck.”

There was a long stretch of silence between them again, the band outside and the dripping of the sink the only sounds in the restroom.

“I was talking to a cute blond before you surprised me,” Eren mumbled, scratching the back of his neck. “I was about to fuck him, too. We were about to leave together.” He sucked in a sharp breath between his teeth. “Maaan, I hate being blue-balled. Don’t you?”

Eren swiveled around, and, what seemed to be at the speed of light, crossed the room and pushed Reiner’s shoulder back until his back thumped against the tile wall, causing him to let out a surprised grunt.

His tongue slid over his top teeth and made them glisten in the flickering dim bathroom lights. His eyes, despite the low lighting, were gleaming, one of them twitching with excitement. “I decided to dabble in the nightlife while I’ve been here in beautiful Marley and stumbled upon this club. Man, you’ve been hiding some beautiful men back home, Reiner. I really should’ve come with you all that time ago. I haven’t stopped fucking since I got here.” He reached up and pinched Reiner’s chin between his thumb and forefinger, gently tipping it back to force Reiner to meet his gaze. “So, Reiner, you come here to fuck? Or to get fucked?”

His eyes went dark. “You ruined my chance at getting some ass. I think you should make up for it.”

Reiner swallowed and blinked, his mouth agape as he tried to process all that was happening to him. Once he finally got a grip, he swatted Eren’s hand away and pushed against his chest, to no avail. “What the hell are you doing here in Marley? I don’t give a shit about how much you’ve been fucking. And I definitely don’t want to know what ‘making up’ for blue-balling you insinuates. Why the hell are you here?”

Eren’s hand crumpled into a half-fist from frustration, causing Reiner’s eyes to flinch slightly, before it shot out to grip the space of wall next to Reiner’s head, essentially trapping the blond underneath him.

“That’s neither here nor there. What I’m excited about is that I finally have you where I want you. No Bertholdt, no other cadets. And you’ve finally confirmed that you like men.” He chuckled darkly, a few strands of his hair slipping from the bun it was in to fall in front of his eyes. “Who would’ve thought the guy I looked up to would turn out to be such a slut?”

While Reiner tried to act offended, he couldn’t deny the word had the opposite effect he desired on his body.

“Listen, I would let you go and run off with that guy that’s basically a replica of me—kinda weird if you ask me—but I think the real deal will satisfy you better.” Eren stuck his bottom lip out and cocked his head in a mockery of empathy. “For old time’s sake?”

Reiner’s body was thrumming with warmth and electricity, and all the pent-up energy in his body came out as a sudden swing of his arm, his fist connecting with Eren’s jaw with a sharp crack.

However, before he or Eren could process what just happened, Reiner’s body moved on its own, his hands cupping Eren’s horrid, disgusting, infuriating face and bringing it down to cover those dastardly lips with his own. Those same lips that once spilled how much he wanted to be Reiner one day, how he admired him, that now just called him a slut. Reiner should be furious. He should beat Eren to a bloody pulp and report him so they can get one of their Warriors to eat him for the Attack Titan. But instead, he’s eating up Eren’s lips, and the brunet had the audacity to reciprocate Reiner’s repulsive behavior, and Reiner’s body had to audacity to thrust itself forward at the feeling of Eren’s knee between his legs.

“You’ve got an arm on you, Reiner,” Eren murmured against Reiner’s lips as they caught their breaths. “You’ve definitely gotten stronger since training. Remember when—”

Reiner dove back into Eren, cutting him off from dredging up any more painful memories that the blond had tried desperately all these years to suppress with alcohol and anonymous bodies. Those memories were painful mainly because he betrayed his closest friends, but they were also painful because he remembered Eren as being a spry fifteen-year-old who bragged about getting his first pubic hair, not this prideful, exasperating, sexy man—who, from what Reiner could feel, had much more than one pubic hair.

Eren tasted of the coppery blood leaking from his lip, brandy, and cigarettes. Since when did Eren smoke? Reiner had half a mind to even think about lecturing Eren about smoking. He was no longer the boy’s mentor. No, now he’s going to fuck—no, be fucked by the man that used to be that innocent boy whose main mission was to avenge his family by killing all the Titans. Now Eren was a Titan, and who knew what his dark, pride-fueled mind was planning for Marley? But that hardly mattered when Reiner was already half-erect and lust was plaguing his mind and preventing any logical thoughts from forming. Eren was worse than alcohol for the brain; he was the liquid in those syringes in the Underground that left you waking up in a puddle of mystery blood with a broken arm and an STD with no recollection of the previous days. Reiner could only hope he woke from this fugue state with no memory of Eren. And no STDs.

“Reiner, R-Reiner, hold on,” Eren pleaded. His voice kept getting muffled with every kiss Reiner planted on his lips, and he had to use both his hands to grip Reiner’s shoulders to pull him back. The look on his face was almost…genuine, Reiner thought. He looked almost cute.

“You’re clean, right?”

Not anymore.

“For fuck’s sake, shut up,” Reiner groaned, pulling Eren in by the back of the neck and smashing their lips together once again. Eren’s lips provided him some comfort from its heat, but most of all, it prevented the fucker from speaking and ruining the moment.

“Hey, it’s an honest quest—” Nope. Reiner cut him off quickly by moving his lips to Eren’s neck, nipping at the soft skin underneath the stubble on his jawline (since when did Eren grow stubble?). Each centimeter of his body Reiner explored reminded him of the fact that he really hadn’t seen Eren in four years, and a lot could happen in four years during puberty.

Eren let out a sharp gasp as Reiner left a particularly big hickey, an amused snicker escaping his reddened lips. “God, you’re eager. It’s honestly a compliment that you want to get fucked this bad.”

“Do you always talk this much during hookups?” Reiner grumbled, lifting his head back up as his hands fell to the hem of Eren’s shirt, fluffing it to indicate he wanted it off, now.

Eren leaned forward, his lips brushing the shell of Reiner’s highlighter-pink ear, and whispered, “Nope, just with you.”

For some inexplicable reason, Reiner’s body betrayed him again at that by sending a chill down his spine, causing it to curve toward Eren’s body as if saying give me more of what’s making me feel this good. Reiner, as much as he wanted to pull away, couldn’t deny the pain in the crotch of his pants or the fact that his heart was fluttering against his throat. Eren suddenly became a sweet-talker, which somehow was a side effect of puberty just for him, and Reiner was ashamed to admit that it was working.

“Take this off,” Reiner demanded, kissing Eren’s face in a frenzy as his hands explored the tan skin that was his for the taking.

“Slow down, Reiner,” Eren murmured, gripping both of Reiner’s wrists in his scarred hands with knobby knuckles wrapped with veins that Reiner desperately wanted to lick. “Let’s take this to the stall.”

Now, instead of the cold tile pressing into Reiner’s back, it was the stall wall. A shaky breath left his mouth as he watched Eren slide the lock over before sauntering over to meet the blond again, a shit-eating grin on his chapped, broken lips.

“Now we can resume,” he said, pulling his shirt over his head and discarding it onto the tile. His bun was fully undone at this point, and Reiner wasted no time in pulling him in and running that hair through his fingers as he listened to the soundtrack of their lips smacking echoing off the walls and the muffled band just outside the door. The only time they separated was for Eren to yank Reiner’s shirt off and throw it on top of his own before mauling his lips once again.

However, he had gotten too swept up in the kiss because he hardly noticed as Eren moved them over to the toilet, sitting down and pulling Reiner on top to straddle him. The blond only opened his eyes when he felt Eren’s hand gripping his ass while the other hand slipped underneath his trousers and underwear to get dangerously close to his hole.

“W-wait!” Reiner cried, reaching back to grip Eren’s wrist.

“What?”

Reiner’s blush covered his entire face and ears like a red cloth. He squeezed his eyes closed and bit off a chunk of skin from his lips before hesitantly whispering, “Do…do you have lubricant?”

Eren let out a sharp breath and lowered his head, shaking it slowly. “Damn, I thought you were having second thoughts.”

Was Eren scared that he had been about to say no? Of course, no man likes being blue-balled, but Eren didn’t seem just disappointed—he seemed scared that he wouldn’t have sex with Reiner. He didn’t like the implications of that.

“No,” Reiner replied slowly, extracting Eren’s hand from his underwear. “I just, uh, don’t want to bleed.”

“Fair.” Eren used the hand that was once in Reiner’s underwear and reached into his pocket, flashing a glass vial of colorless liquid with a toothy grin and waggling eyebrows. “Let’s get the party started.”

“It’s a wonder you’ve had sex more than once,” Reiner grumbled as he watched Eren unscrew the top of the vial, his blush still endless and incessant. As much as he was taken aback by Eren’s masculine transformation, his core personality stayed the same: an awkward goof who never knew when to shut his mouth. It got him beat up within an inch of his life by Levi back in training, and it earned him a split lip from Reiner now. But as much as it was annoying, Reiner found that it was the only thing that had made him genuinely smile in quite a long time.

“You’ll find out soon why I’ve had so much sex,” Eren said with a wink. He tipped a generous amount of lube onto two fingers and watched as the liquid swirled around them, leaving them slick and gleaming in the light.

“I’m jumping for joy,” Reiner replied flatly. He was about to say something else, but a gasp sharply interrupted him as the cold wetness of the lube trailed down from the dimples of Venus to his inner left cheek, spreading them apart to make room for his long fingers. “A-ah—!”

Even Eren’s fingers changed, both and length and girth, from what Reiner remembered. He recalled holding Eren’s fist in his when they sparred during training, feeling how minuscule the hand to his and how the entire fist fit in his palm. Now, as he looked down and braved himself to lace his fingers with Eren’s other hand, he found that they were more or less the same size. Reiner’s hand was wider, but Eren’s was longer. He could’ve stared at their intertwined hands all day if his entrance wasn’t stretched to accommodate the two fingers inching into it.

“Eren!” Reiner gasped, his eyes wide and his nails clamping down onto Eren’s knuckles as he flung his other arm around the other’s shoulders. “T-too much!”

“Oh, sorry, I should’ve started with one, huh?” Eren asked, and the question was laughably genuine as if he really didn’t know how to prepare a man. “I thought you would’ve been looser by now.”

Reiner’s hand twitched to punch Eren again, but his body, again, heated up at the insinuation of him being a slut. It was a confusing dichotomy, but his mind didn’t have the time nor the energy to sort it out as those long fingers began to pump in and out of him at a languid pace. He shivered, burying his face in the crook of Eren’s neck as he tattooed the back of his hand with crescent-shaped fingernail indents.

Eren grunted at the sharp pain of Reiner’s fingers digging into his skin, sending another dreadful shiver down his spine at the sound. “Is it hurting?”

Eren’s concern was almost touching. Reiner shook his head in the safety of Eren’s neck. “N-no, just feels weird.”

Eren said nothing in response, just kept stretching and scissoring Reiner open. The sounds were positively lewd, squelching and squishing, and it made Reiner want to go deaf. However, the next sound made him want to die, and it came directly from him.

“M-mmm!” he moaned, tossing his head back just as Eren hit that special spot that he had tried to reach himself but was unsuccessful. His own fingers couldn’t reach that spot, but Eren’s were long and tactical enough to find and press it with every thrust inside they did. “Ngh-! There, there…”

Reiner gasped, his teeth digging into his bottom lip to suppress more of his moans. He had almost forgotten that they were in a public bathroom and that anybody could come in at any moment and come upon two pairs of feet underneath the gap in the stall and two voices, one lewdly moaning and the other chuckling teasingly. It wouldn’t be hard to piece together what was going on. They needed to move quicker.

“Put it inside…put it inside me,” Reiner rasped, his voice coming out in puffs.

Eren’s eyes went wide at that. He slowly withdrew his fingers and grasped Reiner’s hip tight, the other squeezing Reiner’s hand. Only then did the brunet realize that he was holding Reiner’s hand and the implications of such an intimate move. Sure, his fingers had just been inside the other and he was about to put his dick inside him, but holding hands during sex? Now that was intimate. But…it almost felt right.

Eren didn’t speak. He simply undid Reiner’s trousers at the speed of light and pushed them down and reached down to unbuckle his own belt. Reiner sighed at the relief of pressure in his crotch, his cock tenting in his boxers. He began to salivate at the sound of him undoing the zipper so desperately (he could only imagine how much it hurt to keep himself trapped in his pants for so long), watching expectantly as he reached underneath the fabric of his underwear and brought out a cock that would surely make him walk funny the next day. Yep, Eren was a boy no longer, that was for sure.

“Like what you see?” Eren asked with a snicker.

Without saying a word, Reiner lifted his hips and pushed his trousers down before reaching back to grasp Eren’s cock tightly, eliciting a groan.

“F-fuck,” he whispered under a heavy breath, leaving Reiner’s legs trembling with a simple curse. He snuck out the vial from Eren’s pocket and tipped the remaining liquid onto his cock, tossing the vial onto the floor.

He lined his entrance up with the pulsing cock in his hand and slowly lowered his tips, sucking in a sharp breath when he felt the head, leaking with precome, press against his hole. Slowly, centimeter by centimeter, he felt the rim stretching to accommodate Eren’s girth and his walls wrapping around his cock as if giving an old friend a warm, tight hug.

“Holy shit, y-you’re…mmm…tight…” Eren grunted out, moans interjecting themselves into his speech.

Reiner was too focused on not squealing in pain and trying to go slowly, lowering his hips until he was sitting prim and proper in Eren’s lap again, except this time, he had a hard pole lodged inside his ass. He abandoned holding Eren’s hand in favor of digging both sets of fingernails into his bare shoulders for dear life. He tried to regulate his breathing and hold himself back from making any sounds, but a strangled cry emerged from his throat, and he squeezed his eyes shut to avoid the patronizing look that was sure to be on Eren’s face. His eyebrows furrowed as he tried to get used to the feeling, shifting his hips a minuscule amount in each direction to try and find his spot.

“I’m so…full,” he said after what felt like an eternity. He continued to swirl his hips, detaching one of his claws from Eren’s shoulder to reach behind him and use Eren’s leg as leverage. He felt his own cock slapping against his stomach the faster he went, and as much as he still needed to get used to the feeling, he needed this to be over quick before anybody discovered them fucking in the bathroom.

“God, you feel good,” Eren growled, his hands massaging Reiner’s hips and going along for the ride as Reiner began to lift himself up and down to try and feel some pleasure. “No wonder so many guys want your ass.”

“N—aahn!” Reiner had no retort as he felt just a smidge of what was hopefully to come as Eren’s cock brushed up against that spot, leaving his body wracked with tremors and his eyes fluttering. “More…I n-need more…”

“More? You want more?” Eren asked, and before Reiner could reply, bucked his hips upward simultaneously with the pulling down of Reiner’s hips to meet in a back-breaking, star-exploding match.

“Ugh! Eren, oh my—nngh!” Reiner’s chin went skyward, his body failing to stay upright with the wave of pleasure brought about by Eren nailing that spot right on the head. “Fuck, again!”

Eren took over for Reiner full-time and continued to thrust his hips upward, the toilet creaking underneath them from their sudden movements. He wrapped his arms securely around Reiner’s waist, which was a lot more built than he remembered it, and brought the mewling blond forward. He nuzzled the coarse facial hair with his nose, suckling on Reiner’s chin, causing the other to let out more crazed sounds.

“Eren, i-it feels—mm, so hot, I-I need more,” he was blabbering at this point, but he didn’t care. “Your cock—I love it s-so—guh, faster! Please, plea—”

The scrape of the bathroom door against the tile was the only thing that could have shut Reiner up at that moment, and it surely did. The slapping, groaning, creaking, and squelching sounds came to a screeching halt, followed by the small talk of two men walking into the bathroom.

“Did you see the ass on that redhead?” one of them said.

“I’m not into redheads,” the other replied.

“How can you not be into redheads?”

Reiner wasn’t focused on the conversation, however. He was focused on the fact that he was about to bite through the palm of his hand to silence himself due to Eren’s cock being pressed resolutely against his spot.

The men in the bathroom continued to talk about inane things, things that Reiner used to distract himself from the fact that his voice was about to come out at any second. Eren, on the other hand, was not stressed at all. In fact, this scenario had been bound to happen, and he was thoroughly cherishing every moment of it. From Reiner’s erratic breathing to the minute body shudders to his weeping cock, everything about the muscular blond sitting on his lap was picture-perfect. Reiner’s trembling thighs were squeezing Eren’s hips tightly as if that would take away the mind-numbing pleasure he was feeling in that moment, and it was beyond endearing to watch. However, as much as Eren loved to sit back and watch, he’d had enough of Reiner directing the show. And Reiner’s thighs squeezing him gave him a dirty, dirty idea…

Eren licked his lips, bracing his arms for the move he was about to pull. Reiner was oblivious to Eren’s scheming, oblivious up until the point that his back was pressed against the cold stall door and his legs were waving wildly in the air, his arms searching for security in the form of Eren’s already scratched-up shoulders.

“Wha—” But his momentary outburst was immediately covered by Eren’s hand, his palm practically crushing Reiner’s teeth back into his mouth.

“Sh,” Eren whispered, which made Reiner’s nostrils flare with fury.

“What was that?” one of the men asked, followed by a singular footstep.

“Sounds like buddy in there is having some trouble,” the other whispered poorly. He was probably drunk, but it didn’t matter. “Let’s give him some privacy.”

Yes, yes, Reiner thought. Privacy is exactly what I—

“Mmph!” he cried into Eren’s hand as the brunet thrust upwards into him, and he swore he could feel the tip pressing against his stomach.

“Yikes,” the other whispered, probably also drunk. Or they just had terrible stage whispering abilities. Whatever it was, it meant they were also incompetent, which is exactly what Reiner wanted.

“Eren,” Reiner practically mouthed, trying to disguise his voice with the music outside as a sound cover. “What the fuck do you think you’re doing?”

“What,” Eren replied mockingly, “do you really think I’ll stop because a few people came in?”

He swiftly cut off Reiner’s response with another savage thrust, digging his fingers into the back of Reiner’s thighs to prevent himself from crying out, too. He acted as if he didn’t care, but truly, he didn’t want to risk getting charged with public indecency, even though this was a gay bar.

However, the risk was worth it to see Reiner’s eyes roll back and his Adam’s apple stutter in a poor attempt to silence himself. Eren almost felt bad. Almost.

He continued to torture Reiner, slamming into him hard enough to cause the door to rattle.

“Is his shit rattling the door?” one of them whispered as he flushed the urinal.

“Lactose intolerant, probably,” the other replied, a shuffle in clothes indicating a shrug. “Hey, are you okay in there?”

Never have the two men ever met eyes so quickly before, and both had the same expression on their faces. Sure, Eren expected the men to be confused about the actions and sounds made by the stranger in the stall, but he didn’t expect them to actually begin a conversation.

He tipped his chin up at Reiner to signal him to talk, and the blond immediately shook his head.

No, Reiner mouthed, his eyes wide to indicate how incredulous of an idea it was.

“Hello?”

Footsteps. Footsteps. A knock. A knock!

“You need any help?”

Reiner felt the knock on his back, and he felt as if he could cry from frustration. That didn’t stop Eren from continuing to swirl his hips, causing the blond to let out a pathetic whimper. He begged Eren to say something, anything, promised in his head to do anything Eren wanted afterward as long as the brunet said something, but, unfortunately, Eren Yeager wasn’t telepathic. He could be the Attack Titan, but reading facial expressions was apparently too much to ask from him.

Reiner sighed a sigh of defeat and raised his head, clearing his throat of any lingering moans and strange sounds. “Hey, yeah, I’m—nngh-!”

So that’s what Eren was planning the entire time. That’s why he didn’t want to talk. The fucker.

“You’re what? You don’t sound good, bud,” the man continued.

The door rattled.

“No, no!” Reiner shouted, and he heard the man step back slightly. Good. “I’m fine! Just ate s-something…hah…weird, is all.”

Reiner’s face was the ugliest shade of red, hiding his face behind his forearm to prevent Eren from seeing and to prevent himself from seeing the look of nauseating satisfaction on the other’s face.

“Damn, okay.” More shuffle of clothes.

Please just go away! Reiner begged desperately.

“Do you need anything from us?” the other man asked.

Something hit Reiner on the shoulder, and he lifted his head from his forearm to see toilet paper hanging from the top of the stall. From the man’s hand.

“Oh,” Reiner mumbled, reaching upwards to grab it. “Thank—”

Another brutal thrust from Eren drew out a yelp and a curse from the blond, causing footsteps to draw back from the stall.

“Holy shit, man, you should get yourself checked out,” one of them said. It didn’t matter who was who anymore in Reiner’s fucked-out head. He was thoroughly mind-broken, having taken one too many hits to the prostate to come out conscious.

“We’re going to leave you now,” one of them said. “If you need help, just, uh, scream. I don’t know.”

“T-thank you,” Reiner panted, completely fatigued. His eyelids were drooping, and he flinched when he felt Eren’s body move in anticipation of another thrust, but none came. Even Eren could see how tired the blond was, emotionally and physically, but that didn’t stop the deep chuckle of pleasure he took in seeing his mentor wholly and utterly broken at his hand.

The sound of the door closing pierced through their hisses and sighs, and the two rutting men went silent at the creaking and final thud of the door against its frame. Eren looked up, meeting Reiner’s stare.

“Eren, Eren,” Reiner harshly whispered, his arms around the other’s neck forcing him to lean forward. He brushed his lips against Eren’s ear, copying his previous move, and said, “I hope you die.”

“How romantic,” Eren replied with a malicious grin. He dove forward and left his mark on Reiner’s pale skin in the form of a deep bite, certainly not forgetting to snap his hips forward to hear those gasps and sighs up close. He could feel Reiner’s hot breath against the side of his head as he whimpers, hissed at the scratches left on his shoulders and back. Reiner, on the other hand, could feel Eren’s cock pulsing inside of him, indicating—

Oh, no, Reiner thought, eyes snapping open in realization. Oh no oh no oh no oh no—

“Oh!” Reiner screamed as Eren started pounding into him, an unbreakable streak that nothing could stop now. “Fuck, fuck—w-wait, too f-fast!”

“S-shiiit,” Eren sighed, manhandling Reiner’s thighs and hips as he continually tried to find a good grip on the other’s sweat-slicked body. “This—hah—you feel so good…”

Reiner kept one hand firmly on the back of Eren’s neck and the other flung up to cling onto the top of the bathroom stall door for leverage, his chin tucking into his chest as he tried to hold back. He could have come right there and then since every thrust pounded straight into his spot, sending uncontrollable spasms and jitters in his legs and stomach.

After kissing the fresh imprint of his teeth in the other’s skin, effectively marking him as his, Eren moved onto Reiner’s broad chest, plummeting his face between them and taking in the musk of salty sweat and oaky cologne as well as two fleshy pecs on either side of his face.

“Good set of tits you got here,” he said, his voice muffled.

“God, s-shut up!” Reiner whined, his mouth pressed into a thin line, but that didn’t stop the drool accumulating on either side. He squeezed his eyes shut, but that also didn’t stop the tears of pure ecstasy from sliding down the sides of his face. Eren was lasting forever, even though he could feel the cock inside him just throbbing to release. Reiner was fatigued beyond imagination, but he knew that if he allowed himself to come now, Eren would carry on hammering into him, and he’d become so overstimulated, he’d pass out.

“Just come already!” he cried out, scratching Eren’s back so desperately he was surprised he hadn’t drawn blood yet.

“Without you coming first?” Eren asked, and although he tried to keep his cocky tone of voice, he was nearing the end and thus running out of control. It didn’t help that Reiner was trying to skin him alive. “Th…that wouldn’t be very gentle…manly of me.”

He lowered his head from between Reiner’s pecs to one of his nipples, which seemed almost painfully hard with how erect they were. He latched onto one, giving it a playful bite before lapping at the pink areola and bud. The action seemed inconsequential in the grand scheme of his ravaging of Reiner’s body, but little did Eren know, Reiner’s nipples were the most sensitive part of his body, second to his dick.

“A-a-AH!” Reiner began to scream, but it was cut off by a sharp gasp before his lungs stuttered and gave out. His chest was painted white with glistening semen, mingling with the dewdrops of sweat gathering in the valleys of his ab muscles. His whole body tensed, his muscles locking as he rode the wave of mind-numbing, blinding ecstasy, the whites of his eyes making a prolonged appearance. Then, as quickly as his body tightened, it slackened with deep fatigue. Every single one of his muscles was sore. His walls were pulsating around Eren’s cock from every micromovement the brunet made, racking his body with tremors.

“Woah,” Eren breathed, adjusting his grip on Reiner’s body to make sure he didn’t fall now that he was the sole supporter. “That was intense.”

In Reiner’s bleary state, it seemed as if Eren’s voice was coming from underwater. Once his irises returned to their rightful state, he saw Eren’s blurry figure in front of him. However, as blurry as he was, the taunting intrigue was more than clear.

“How…” Reiner was beyond out of breath—stringing simple sentences was proving to be a chore after an orgasm that intense. “How have you still…n-not come?”

Eren scoffed. “I will admit, it got real hard toward the end, especially with how tight you got on me.” He looked down to where they connected, seeing the built-up precome mixing in with the lube on himself. “I could barely move. I was getting sucked in.”

“Ngh…” Reiner shook his head. Even though it seemed like Eren’s voice was coming in bubbles, it was still too loud and much too obscene.

“I need to come soon, though, before anybody else comes in,” Eren continued. Before Reiner could even begin feeling his limbs again, Eren snapped his hips forward in a rough thrust, causing the blond’s body to seize up and for his head to slide down the door as it craned back.

“GUH—!” Reiner scrambled to ride out the oversensitivity, struggling to hang onto Eren’s sweat-soaked shoulders, but it was all too much. “S-stop! Stop! Pl…please…”

“What?” Eren asked, raising a brow. “Are you crying? Does it feel that good?” Despite his cruel teasing, his hips stilled. “I need to come, you know.”

Reiner inhaled erratically, his chest faltering in its expansion. His head lolled to the side, his eyes slowly rolling up to meet Eren’s heavily lustful gaze. “You used to be so sweet.”

This was the first time he’d ever seen Eren dumbfounded. He’d always have something to say, whether it was his friend or his superior. He could never settle down and listen. But here, with six words, he had put Eren in his place. Or, at least he thought.

Eren grit his teeth, his nose scrunching as he tried to hold back from moving. “And you used to be my friend.” His voice held that same sarcastic mockery, but his mouth was a thin pressed line, and his eyes held no humor. “That kid is dead because of you. There’s nothing we can do to go back. Now, are you going to let me keep fucking you or not?”

Reiner was taken aback, left speechless because, well, Eren was right. It was all his fault that Eren turned into such a self-obsessed monster. But there was no changing the past. Eren was right about that much. Now, all there was left was to continue being savagely fucked.

His body had recovered in the time they spent staring at each other, and his mind was much more conscious. Besides, he felt a certain weight off his shoulders. There really was nothing he could do to fix this fucked up relationship he had with Eren or the situation they found themselves in presently. He had tortured himself every single second of every single goddamned day since he’d returned to Marley about what he could’ve done differently, what would have happened had he never joined the Warriors at all. But he couldn’t change the past. He could only focus on the present, and presently, he was still in a public bathroom, still had a pulsating cock inside him, and was still hard.

Reiner, too shy to verbalize it, nodded and pulled Eren close to him, smearing his semen onto both of their chests. He gasped weakly at Eren’s lips on his neck, leaving hickeys galore, and the languid pace of his hips diving back inside him. The sounds were even more explicit now that he had come, and Eren’s moans and heavy breaths next to his ear did not help his predicament.

“Please…please come,” Reiner pleaded, mussing his fingers in Eren’s hair as he continued to be spread open and to have his walls rubbed raw.

“Where do you want it?” Eren asked, nipping at Reiner’s earlobe.

“Inside me—inside, please!” Reiner turned his head to moan as Eren increased his pace, and he could feel the cock throbbing inside him once again.

“S-so close,” Eren whispered, giving the side of Reiner’s face a sloppy kiss. “Can I fuck you harder?”

“M…mhm.” Reiner nodded desperately. Then, he turned his head until the tip of his nose bumped Eren’s, their glowing eyes meeting each other in a heated exchange of lust and hot breaths. He pushed Eren’s head forward, clutching that long brown hair in fistfuls as he kissed Eren, hot and heavy. He sucked on his bottom lip until Eren captured the rest of his lips and slipped his tongue inside right as he gave two of the roughest thrusts of the night, causing the bathroom door to rattle so hard he was afraid the entire stall would come down.

“Eren! Eren!” Reiner squealed.

His name in Reiner’s mouth, being screamed so desperately, was all Eren needed to finally close out the night in the form of filling the mewling blond up to the brim and causing him to splatter a fresh set of come onto both of their chests for the second time. His hips sputtered as he struggled to thrust out the rest of his orgasm with how tight Reiner had become—between his tightening walls and the amount of semen inside him, there was barely any room for Eren to move.

“FUCK!” Eren shouted out, slamming a hand onto the stall door while his other arm was shaking from supporting all of Reiner’s weight. His head fell onto Reiner’s shoulder and left the final hickey of the night once his lips stopped trembling.

“Ah…” Reiner sighed, fatigued and defeated and full. He followed Eren’s movements as he was slowly lowered, his legs carefully placing themselves underneath him. However, that didn’t last long, and he collapsed onto the floor. Thankfully, his pants had gotten pulled up in the move, saving his bare ass from leaking cum onto the bare bathroom floor.

Eren caught his breath, raising a hand to wipe the thick layer of sweat from his brow. He blinked, then blinked again, almost as if coming out of a trance. He slowly turned his head to Reiner, whose head was lolled to the side and eyes were closed, as if to confirm that the previous encounter had actually happened and wasn’t just a fever dream. He wiped some saliva from the corner of his mouth and swept his hair up into a quick bun to try and quickly dry down some of the sweat on the back of his neck.

“Are you going to stay on the floor?” he asked with a chuckle. All he received was a grunt as a response.

Eren tucked himself back into his underwear and fumbled with his zipper, fastening it and fixing his belt. He bent down to pick up his shirt, slipping it on and walking back over to the door. His hand was on the lock, ready to slide it open, but he paused.

“You know, you should get up before somebody comes across you like this,” Eren said. Why did he care so much about the man who ruined his life, especially since he planned on killing him later that week?

“Yeah, yeah,” was all that Reiner said as he slowly pushed himself off the tile and reached over for some toilet paper to clean himself up. Eren turned away to give him privacy and only turned back around when he heard the clinking of Reiner’s belt as he did it.

“Great.” Eren’s duty as a sensible human being was done now. He turned to bolt out of the bathroom, but something was still holding him back. Instead, he went over to the sinks to pretend as if he cared about washing his hands, and Reiner followed suit, an awkward silence ensuing.

“I’m, uh, sorry.”

Eren’s head whipped around so fast, he felt something in his neck snap. He shook it off and turned his attention back to Reiner, who was staring resolutely at a tiny puddle of water next to the sink on the counter.

Reiner continued, “For ruining your life.”

Eren’s eyes lowered to the counter bit by bit, unsure of how to process or even respond to the apology. He eventually decided on shrugging. “My life would’ve been ruined by Titans anyway. You just sped up the process.” His eyes dropped to Reiner’s ass, and he dried his hands before reaching over and giving it a quick squeeze. “You’ve made up for it, though. Somewhat.”

Reiner yelped before rolling his eyes and drying his hands. “Yeah, well. I’m glad.” He lifted his head, and, without making eye contact, let a small smile cross those bitten-up, cherry red lips.

Eren felt something stir in his chest, something foreign. Not lust, no. Something he did not have the mental capacity to process in the aftermath of the best sex he’d ever had in his whole life. But all he knew was he wanted to kiss Reiner, badly.

So, he did. He slid a finger underneath the unassuming blond’s chin, guiding it to face him and gently tipping it up before leaning forward and brushing their lips together in their gentlest kiss of the night. He then moved his lips to Reiner’s temple in a quick peck before tucking in his shirt, fixing his hair, and turning to exit, leaving a baffled, emotionally confused, and satisfied Reiner in his wake.

“See you next Friday.” With a wink, he was gone and ready to come back for more.

[dream-a-little-bigger-x]

An Unforgettable Halloween | Luke Patterson

Requested by anon:  hiiiii! can i do a jatp luke x reader imagine where it’s halloween and reader runs into Luke and they spend the whole day making Luke forget he’s dead? thanks! <3 love your writing by the way

A/N: Thank you for this request, anon! I really enjoyed writing it! I hope you like it!! Idk why I always need to have the reader and Luke/Charlie singing together, but here ya go anyway. The song used is Favorite Place by All Time Low. :) 

Pairing: Luke x fem!reader

Warnings: fluff

Words: 4,447

Halloween. It’s never been my favorite holiday. My poor, feeble heart can’t handle all the scares and creepy stuff. And besides, it’s over commercialized, in my opinion. Capitalism just needed another reason to exploit a holiday. My best friend, Ava,  tells me I hate the holiday because it reminds me of two years ago when a Halloween party traumatized me for the rest of my life. “Just because Brent made that day terrible, doesn’t mean the day will forever be terrible, Y/N,” she’d always say. Though that might be true, I still like to believe that’s not the only reason why I  hate the holiday. “Just come with me to the party tonight, and you’ll see it’s not as bad as you think it is!” We’re on FaceTime while I’m doing homework and she’s trying to figure out what to wear to the annual Halloween party at Charlotte the popular girl’s house. Another reason to hate the holiday. Charlotte Parks is the typical popular girl trope in this story. Pretty, popular with the guys, a cheerleader. The cliché. “I don’t think I’m gonna do that, Av,” I say whilst tucking my pencil behind my ear and staring down the phone in front of me, balancing against my backpack on the end of my bed. “You know Charlotte and I don’t mix well together.” That’s true. Charlotte has always despised me, God knows why. For some reason unknown to me, she always has to find a way to ruin my life. “Her house is so big, you won’t even see her!” Ava reasons from her walk-in closet before walking back onto the screen, another dress in her hand. This one is a black bodycon number with a white collar at the top and fringes at the sleeves. “How about this one?” “That’s very Wednesday Adams!” I exclaim with a wide smile on my face, to which I receive a very impressed nod from my best friend. “You know Bobbi’s coming tonight, Av. Can’t cancel on her!” Roberta’s my cousin of 13, and she’s one of my best friends, no matter how lame that sounds. We’ve always been pretty good pals, since we’re the only girls in the family. We kind of had to stick together against the testosterone of our other cousins. She’s not actually coming tonight, but I needed a good excuse to get out of this party. “Take her with you!” she yells both excited and kind of desperate at the same  time. “Ooh! How about I wear my pleather pants with, like, a black body and cat ears?!” She disappears into the wardrobe again. “She’s 13, Av! I’m not going to take her to a high school party!” I yell back whilst shaking my head in disappointment. “Wear whatever you want, Ava. I’m sure you’ll look amazing.” She appears into the picture again, her pleather pants halfway her butt and her bra on show. “Hey, is that my bra?!” I recognize that black lace with the gold detailing down the bust anywhere and I’ve lost that bra three weeks ago. “What? No! This is mine!” she says, but I can tell she’s lying. “You are unbelievable, Av!” I shake my head, grinning at my best friend. “I’m gonna have to go though. Send me a snap of  your outfit once you’ve chosen!” She nods her head in response, walking up closer to her phone, which she had balanced somewhere on her drawers. “I really can’t convince you to come?” Her expression has suddenly turned serious. She really is bummed I don’t want to come out, but I don’t care. I can’t care. This is for my own good. At least then, I don’t have to see Charlotte. Or Brent. “I’m really sorry, Ava.... Maybe next year, yeah?” She sighs mournfully before nodding her head. “Have fun, okay? And be careful!” A smile appears on her face again. “I will, babes. Have fun with Bobbi!” She offers me a wave, which I return before yelling ‘bye’ and pressing the red button on my phone screen. Lying to my best friend is not my favorite thing to do, but she wouldn’t shut up when she found out what I’m actually gonna be doing. With a sharp exhale, I crawl off my bed and head downstairs where my parents are getting ready for their little get-together with their friends. Dad’s dressed in a pin-stripe suit, a fake mustache stuck on his upper lip and his hair gelled back tightly whilst mom’s wearing a black dress with a deeply cut V-neck and a large slit down the side. Gomez and Morticia Addams. Very spooky. “Don’t you two look dashing,” I compliment, watching them from the middle of the stairs, sitting down. Mom shoots me a kind smile as she fixes her slick hair. “What are you gonna do tonight, sweetie?” Dad asks, tightening his tie. “Probably gonna go get some food and watch some movies,” I shrug, placing my head in my hand, my elbow resting on my knee. “You know, the use.” Dad exhales sharply, smiling sympathetically. “Don’t give me that look, dad.” “I’m sorry, sweets. But I just wish you would act like a seventeen-year-old instead of an eighty  year old.” I scoff at his statement. We had this discussion last year too. Both of them know what happened and why it’s so hard for me to enjoy this day. But they still give me shit for it. “I’m gonna have plenty of fun by myself. Even more so than if I did go to the stupid party,” I reason with him. He raises his hands in defeat before turning to his wife. “Just make sure the kids get their candies, yeah?” mom says instead, climbing a couple of stairs to press a kiss to my head. “I love you,” she whispers and heads down again. “Love you too. Have fun, guys.” Dad comes up to kiss me too before heading to the door with mom. With his hand on the doorknob, he looks back at me. “You know we only want you to be happy, right?” he says. I nod my head, offering him a smile. “I love you, sweets.” He walks out and shuts the door behind him, leaving me alone in the empty house. I sigh deeply before heading down and grabbing my Vans. Once they’re on my feet, I grab my wallet and exit the house. The cool October air hits my sweater-clad arms, sending a chill down my spine. As my feet tread down the pavement, my mind wanders to this day two years ago. Around this time, everything seemed normal. I was happy and excited to get to the Charlotte Parks Halloween extravaganza with my boyfriend Brent. We’d picked out a great couples’ costume. He was a wolf, and I was dressed as Red Riding Hood. I’d even taken the liberty to go all out with makeup and put a slash near my eye as though I’d been attacked by the wolf. Ava was a fan of that costume, more than Brent was. But when we neared the end of the night, everything crumbled down into shreds of sadness and anger. The residue of that anger wells up again until it’s knocked out of me when I bump into someone, making me stumble backwards. I would’ve fallen on my ass if it wasn’t for the hands capturing my arms to keep me from doing so. “I am so sorry, I--” I stop in my tracks as I look up into the gorgeous green eyes that belong to the attractive brunette that saved me from landing on the cold pavement. “A-are you okay?” he asks, letting go of me. “I--wait…” He furrows his eyebrows in confusion. “You can see me? And you can touch me?” That’s the weirdest question I’d ever gotten. My eyebrows knit together now too, trying to figure out what’s happening and why this boy is so confused about our entire interaction. “Uhm, yeah? Isn’t that what you’re supposed to do with people?” “No. I mean -- yeah, but I’m not a person, technically,” he replies in a mumble. He cautiously looks up at me again. “I’m a ghost, actually.” I let the words sizzle through my brain until it decides to send me into a fit of laughter. “Right, yeah, it’s Halloween. Ghosts. I get it. Good one,” I say between laughs, patting the boy’s shoulder, which only sends him to more confusion. To be fair, he doesn’t feel like a normal person. His arms don’t feel like they’re made of flesh and blood, but rather something light and airy. He gapes at me with this inquisitive look on his face, which calms down the laughter abruptly. “You’re not really a ghost, are you?” I ask, just to be certain. “I am, actually…” he mutters and jams his hands into the pockets of his black jeans. “Me and my bandmates died in 1995 and this girl, Julie, brought us back as ghosts… She’s the only one who could see us… Until now,” he looks up at me with hope and confusion written all over his face. “But she can’t touch us… Are you sure you’re not dead either?” I snort at his last question. “Kinda wish I was today,” I blurt out. My eyes widen after the words left my mouth. “That sounds way too dark…” I chuckle, and the boy does too, but I think it’s more out of awkwardness than finding it funny. “Are you okay?” he asks. At first, I think about answering it superficially, but there’s this look on his face that makes me want to spill all the beans. He, too, seems lonely and distraught on this Halloween night. “I’m not actually,” I glance down at my feet, finding his feet are clad in the same shoes. I then let my eyes glide from his shoes all the way up to his face. He’s urging me to continue by tilting his head a little, shooting me a questioning glance. “Halloween isn’t my favorite holiday…” I clarify. The boy nods his head understandingly. “That explains the lack of costume,” he says, which makes me glance down at my doodled-on mom jeans and oversized sweater before chuckling. “You don’t do the dressing up either? Or is that not something ghosts do?” I query, pointing at his ensemble. He’s wearing black jeans with a shirt and long-lined jean jacket. “I mean, it’s not like anyone would see,” he jokingly says, which lets a giggle escape from my mouth. His smile widens upon hearing this ridiculous sound coming from me. “Where were you going so determinedly before I smashed into you?” he asks after a few beats of silence. “Oh, I was getting some food from the place on the end of our street. They got pretty decent sushi, and since I’m home alone tonight, I thought, why the heck not treat myself, right?” I curse at myself for sharing this much with a complete stranger, who is a ghost, nonetheless, but the chuckle that reaches my ears comforts me a little. “No parties to go to? Back in my day, Halloween parties were always the best.” I feel the smile on my face fade away at the reminder of the Halloween party I’m not attending tonight. “Yeah, no… I haven’t gone to any Halloween party in two years… Like I said, Halloween isn’t my favorite holiday.” He offers me a sympathetic smile. A silence then falls over us as we stand in the middle of the street, looking at each other, debating what to say. “So… I’m gonna go and get my sushi. Uhm… Sorry for bumping into you,” I apologize and lift a foot to start walking away, but his voice stops me. “Would you mind if I tagged along?” he asks, which renders me surprised. “I don’t eat, so you don’t have to buy me sushi, but I think I could use some company tonight… If you don’t mind, of course.” His eyes are filled with hope, and some sort of desire to hang out with someone other than those bandmates he was talking about. “Uhm, no… Yeah, sure. You can tag along. It might be a nice change from that lonely Halloween I always have,” I chuckle, and he does too. “I’m Y/N, by the way,” I say as he turns and falls into step with me. “Luke,” he introduces himself with a smile. “Why don’t you go to Halloween parties, Y/N?” I inhale sharply at this question. I was hoping he wouldn’t ask too much about it. But I guess I can never get out of that question anymore. Halloween is a big holiday around here. “Two years ago, I went to one with my boyfriend. It’s the party where I found out he was cheating on me with the one girl who always had it out for me.” It rolls off my lips with ease. Normally, I’d choke or start bawling my eyes out. But Luke’s aura is so calming and reassuring that I can’t help but feel okay telling the story. “I haven’t been able to go back since, much to my best friend’s dismay.” I roll my eyes amusedly thinking about Ava and her desperate attempts to get me to go each year. “That sucks, I’m sorry,” he says as we enter the sushi place. “You better grab your phone now if you wanna talk to me. People tend to give weird looks at people talking to themselves.” I get my phone from my back pocket and pretend to dial a number before pressing it to my ear, glancing up at Luke with a smile on my face. “Hey, how you doing?” I say into the phone, which makes Luke giggle. “Just know that your ex-boyfriend’s stupid for ever cheating on you,” he tells me before looking down at his feet. “I would never wanna hurt someone as pretty as you.”  I can feel a blush creeping its way onto my cheeks, but decide to conceal it by jokingly saying, “Aw, you think I’m pretty.” He rolls his eyes, an amused smile on his face. “Next!” the guy from the sushi place yells. “Oh, hold on,” I say into my phone before placing it on the counter and facing the employer. “Uhm, the Halloween surprise box, please,” I order politely. The man nods curtly before getting into action. I grab my phone again and press it to my ear to continue talking to Luke while we make our way to a couple of chairs and tables set up for waiting customers. I let my eyes wander around the room. It’s decorated to the max with spiders in spiderwebs, pumpkins, skeletons, ghosts,... The lot. Then, my eyes fall onto Luke. He’s glancing around the place, letting his eyes wander until they find their way back to me. A shimmer appears in them when he finds me already looking at him. “So, you said you were in a band?” I ask, pretending to talk to the person on the other side of the line. “Oh, yeah! Me and three of my best friends were in this band called Sunset Curve. Three of us died on the night we were supposed to play the Orpheum,” he explains, and my eyes nearly bulge out of their sockets upon hearing the name of the venue. “The Orpheum?! You’re kidding, right?” He shakes his head, smirking. “You would’ve been legends.” The words come out in a whisper, hoping it wouldn’t upset him too much. “Yea, we would’ve been,” he sighs, then suddenly perks up again like an excited puppy, “But the girl I told you about, Julie? She can make us visible whenever we play with her! We’re now a band with her called Julie and The Phantoms!” I giggle at his endearing enthusiasm. “We would’ve had a gig at this really cool party in the Bel Air, but Julie got sick and had to cancel.” My eyes widen upon the words ‘party’ and ‘Bel Air’. Charlotte Parks lives in Bel Air. “That would be the party I’m not going to tonight,” I tell him, chuckling. “So, we would’ve met tonight either way.” He adds with a cheeky smile, “Some would say it’s fate.”  I shake my head at him, but can’t help the smile on my face either. I want to add something to debunk his theory, but my name is called out by the sushi guy. I get up and take the box of sushi from him, shooting him a quick thank you before leaving the joint with Luke in tow. “Where do you wanna go?” he asks, bouncing up and down. “Oh, I was planning on watching some movies at home, but if you have a better idea to spend tonight? Anything is better than going to that Halloween party.” He purses his lips in ponder, his eyes darting up to the night sky. “Ooh! There’s this park I like to hang out at sometimes?” I raise my eyebrows at his suggestion, popping a piece of sushi in my mouth. I’m way too hungry to wait until we sit down to eat. “You haunt children’s playgrounds?” I ask after having swallowed the seafood. His eyebrows knit together at this as he narrows his eyes at me. “I don’t haunt children’s playgrounds. I hang out at them,” he corrects me. “You’re a ghost, sweetie. That’s haunting.” “It’s not!” he shouts. “It is so!” I laugh loudly, throwing my head back. “You’re lucky the kids are all trick or treating tonight, so we can go there. Might be a little more secluded for me to talk freely to you without worrying people will think I’m crazy.” He nods his head agreeingly. Once at the park, we take a seat in the grass. I have my legs crossed whilst Luke’s are spread out, his hands supporting the rest of his body behind him. “So, what do you do in life, Y/N? You know, besides avoiding parties,” he asks with a little smile plastered on his face. I look at him for a moment, chewing my sushi. This gives me the time to really look at him. He has really great bone structure. Sharp jawline, chiseled cheekbones, fine nose, deep-set, dreamy eyes. “Eating sushi,” I reply jokingly after I’d swallowed the piece of deliciousness. Luke lets out a laugh too. “I’m still in school, so I’m spending most of my time studying. And I like to think I’m a pretty decent writer.” He stares at me, giving me his undivided attention with the cutest smile plastered on his face. “What do you write?” he asks curiously as I pop another sushi in my mouth. I lift my hand to my mouth, and reply, “Poems,” before continuing to chew quickly. “Kinda like songs, then?” I shrug my shoulders. “They could be, but I don’t play any  instrument, so I haven’t tried,” I reply and place the half-eaten box of sushi to the side, pulling my legs up to my chest and wrapping my arms around them. “Do you write your own music?” He nods his head. “I wrote most of the songs in our band and now, I write with Julie for the new band,” he answers. As I’m thinking how much I’d like to hear him and his band play, he cuts those thoughts in two by asking, “Can I see your work?” I open my mouth, then close it. Then open again. I must look like a goldfish breathing. “I’ve never really shown anyone my work…” I trail off, debating whether or not I should show him. “Besides, my notebook is at home.” Luke suddenly gets up from the grass and reaches out his hand for me to take. I hesitate. Am  I really going to take a complete stranger, a ghost, to my house to show my poetry, only to find out he hates it because it’s nothing like his songwriting? The answer is yes. I place my hand in his and let him pull me to my feet. Without letting go of my hand, he grabs the box of sushi and then guides me out of the park and lets me lead us towards my house. “Wait here,” I tell him as we’re in the foyer. He simply jams his hands into his pockets and nods his head curtly. I run up the stairs, taking them two at a time, and then go to grab my notebook from my room, quickly storming back downstairs where Luke’s still waiting. I make my way to the living room and sit down on the couch. The boy cautiously trails behind me, and only comes to sit down after I pat the spot beside me. “It’s not that great, but… You know, it’s fun to do and a great outlet for anything I may be feeling.” I hand him the notebook and let him flip through all the pages. He stops on a few, reading it a little more thoroughly. It’s building some suspense in me. What if he doesn’t even like them? What if he, a songwriter, hates them? “Ah! This one!” he exclaims, and suddenly, with a whoosh, there’s an acoustic guitar on his lap. “One of the perks of being a musician spirit,” he tells me with a grin before strumming the instrument a little. He abruptly stops, looks at the page in my notebook again, and then softly tickles the strings. A beautiful melody pours out of the instrument before his melodic voice joins in too with the words I wrote. “I saw your face in the fire again I touched the flames and burned down everything I hear the sirens west of 8th now” He looks at me with a questioning glance as if asking for encouragement of some sorts. I offer him a smile, unsure of anything else I could be doing right now. His voice has rendered me silent. I think I could listen to him sing for hours.  “Wonder if you're hearin' them too And I know you don't belong  Know you don't belong to anyone” He focuses on the instrument again, making sure he’s still playing the right chords.  “No you can't be tamed love Maybe I was wrong  Maybe I was wrong for this But you feel like the perfect escape now Just like the sun on my face” His voice grows a little stronger, almost sounding raspier and more like a growl as he looks up again. I always thought it’d be cliché to melt when an attractive boy sings to me, but it’s actually happening to me right now.  “So can we close the space between us now It's the distance we don't need  Yeah, you're everything I love about The things I hate in me  So come on, come on, come over now and Fix me with your grace 'Cause I'm not too far and you're my favorite place” “You sing this last part,” he tells me, pushing the notebook towards me before going back to playing his guitar.  “I can’t sing, Luke,” I tell him, slightly panicking.  “Sure you can. I’ll sing along, don’t worry,” he offers me a reassuring smile before putting more power behind his strumming while also leaning closer toward me to read the words.  “So come on, come on, come over now and Fix me with your grace 'Cause I'm not too far and you're my favorite place” He now quits playing, placing his hands flat on the strings, and for a while we just stare at each other in disbelief. Disbelief about the song we just made together. Disbelief about how beautiful a voice he has. Disbelief about how attractive he is.  I cough, breaking the eye contact, “That’s a great song, Luke… You can have it if you want,” I offer with a smile to try and hide the blush from heating up my cheeks.  “No, Y/N, I couldn’t. That’s yours. Those are your words. Your words made this a great song.”  “They’re just words without a melody,” I mutter, folding the edges of the paper nervously.  “A song is quite boring without words though, isn’t it?”  For some reason, I’m starting to think all of this could be a metaphor for us. Him being the melody and me being the words. I would be a plain and simple poem without him, and his life -- though I doubt it -- would be boring without me.  “It would still be a song though,” I add, looking up at him again. One corner of his mouth curls up into a smirk, which makes me think he caught onto that metaphor I was thinking about. He suddenly grabs my hand and laces our fingers together. Before I can even register what’s happening, the front door suddenly opens, revealing a distraught-looking Ava. I let go of Luke’s hand and get up to help my best friend.  “What’s wrong?” I ask her as she stumbles inside. I grab her just in time before she can hurt herself. She looks up at me, her makeup run out all the way to her chin and blood trickling down her nose, though I’m not sure if it’s real blood or part of her cat costume.  “I punched Brent in the face and Charlotte punched me back,” she get out through sobs and hiccups. My eyes dart over to Luke, who’s watching this from the sofa. I almost forgot she can’t even see him. He offers me a small smile.  “Why?” I ask and guide her to the couch. She nearly sits down on top of Luke, but I’m quick enough to guide her next to him while he vanishes. He pops back behind the couch, looking down at the drunk girl lying down on the sofa.  “Because he was boasting about how he even managed to wrap the prude around his finger two years ago and got her to anything he wanted,” I swallow, remember those times people called me a prude because I covered up unlike girls like Charlotte who wore short skirts and plunging necklines. “I really don’t get what you saw in him, Y/N,” she mumbles while cuddling up to the pillow and letting her eyes flutter shut. “I hope you find someone that looks at you like I look at pizza.” I giggle at her drunken words before looking up at Luke to find him already looking at me. Kind of the same way Ava looks at pizza. A smile then finds its way to my face. Maybe Halloween isn’t as bad as I always thought it was. 

Taglist: @hannahhistorian92 @marinettepotterandplagg @thequirkybookaholic @bookdealer5 @tenaciousperfectionunknown @hemmingsness @iainttakingshitfromnobody @ifilwtmfc @angryknightstatesmantrash @kiss-themoongoodbye @rudysbay @thedarkqueenofavalon @caitsymichelle13 @calamitykaty @parkeret @lukeys-giggle @gingerxarmy @lovesanimals @lolychu @perfectlywrongformend3s @luckylouiebug @camiladelrio98 @myfriendscallmebeans

[sjw-publishings]

Stay Straight Babe

“Im so glad I still have my lovely boyfriend with me during Quarantine, Amirite Cherry?”

“Yeah...hehe, so glad to have Sammie with me too...”

Anton, the Drama Queen laughed with his lesbian shy bookworm bestie as they discussed about theatre and all about. Of course, they would’ve invited their lovers along, but they were too busy being techno geeks and talking computer games in their gaming rooms.

“Did you have lunch yet?”

“Yeah, tried takeout from that famous Chinese restaurant downtown! Was super good!”

“Oh my god! Me too sistah!!!”

“OooooooAHHHH!”

A large groan came from their study, where his boyfriend’s currently at. Anton naturally looked concerned for his boyfriend.

“What was that?”

“I don’t know! But something came from Sammie’s room too...”

“Yeah! I gotta check Kenny, Brb!”

Ending the call, Anton left the bedroom, and headed his way outside the study, about to open the door, but then a loud masculine voice rumbled from behind the door.

“Samantha? You’re just such a great fri... girlfriend... eungh so hot...”

Samantha? Who is that....But more importantly, why would his friend...boyfriend be moaning to a lady? Is he...cheating on him? But that can’t be, his geeky nerd cutie is as queer as a three dollar bill! But still, he had to check it out....that deep voice certainly did not sound like a nerd’s...

“SO HOT!”

As Anton walked into the room, his eyes widened at the pile of clothes and tossed garments on the ground. Large XL sandblasted jeans, track pants, sneakers. Tons of sports posters and trophies decorating the shelves, and a large television screen playing the latest soccer match...though for some reason, he vaguely recalled seeing football and baseball at intervals.

But it definitely did not look like a study room...despite him initially thinking that it was. Alongside a couple of dart boards, some sports equipment, and a pool table, seemed like a recreation room...but since when could they afford...

“oooooOOOOAAAAAAHHH!”

A large moan came from the couch, as Anton came to the front of it, all his eyes focused on was an incredibly muscular asian hunk man-spreading in bliss, dressed in a white tee with an iconic sporting good logo in the front, left hand gripping his cellphone while his right hand dug deep into his clean white boxers. The man panted out of relief, and relaxation, like a weight lifted off his shoulders. Whispering into branded phone with his deep husky, asian tone.

“Stay Straight Babe~”

CLICK!

So hot...NO! Anton get a hold of yourself! Who was this Asian man? Where was his roommate? He had to get questions, even if this...extremely hunky cutie, looked so sexy dazed and looking up.

“What?...Who are you!”

The Asian man snapped out of his trace, eyes opened...but ever so slightly. He was asian after all, but he was chill...in control. Still leaning back on the couch, he looked at Anton, puzzled, before looking down at his exposed boxers and then back at the stranger. His mind cleared up in an instant, forcing out a-

“Kevin Lang, Fag!”

The man said it, and gave that signature sarcastic response from only a jock bully like him. Smirking condescendingly, he was in charge, and that theatre gay started to tremble.

“Listen Queer, I know you’re thirsty and all for men during this. But some of us got girlfriends who we can’t visit. So stop being a WUSS and deal with it.”

“I...wasn’t...I...”

Now this really pissed him, not even caring about the stickiness on his right hand, or that he had a pitched tent. All he knows now is to deal with this gay of a roommate who spied on him and his girlfriend. The tall 6ft 2 jock cornered Anton to the door.

“Go jerk to your boyfriend or something...oh that’s right! Even a FAG like you doesn’t have one!”

Anton was in tears, he remembered the countless dates that he had, alongside the taunts made by this douchebag Kevin who somehow managed to wolf his way into his life throughout college. He had to get out of there..., quickly opening the door and running back to the bedroom, locking it.

“I...I have to call Cherry...”

As he typed for her number, a sudden ringing notification popped up for the name Chelsea. Must be a typo when he was saving Cherry’s contact right? Cause that number definitely was Cherry’s.

“Anton....”

“What happened?”

Almost suddenly, his mind shrugged off of whatever his homophobic roommate had said. His best friend was weak right now, he had to help her.

Gripping ahold of the phone, he didn’t notice the warm tanned spot spreading on his palms, down his wrists every second as he held the cellphone.

“Samantha...called me a dyke.”

“Samantha?”

“You know! My roommate, the one that’s dating yours!”

It made sense now, the two of them bonded over how much they despised their roommates bullying...and the strangeness of how the douchebag jock and queen bee couple somehow always interfered in their respective love lives...

Clutching the phone tighter, his wrists tightened as definition thickened his forearms. Curling his biceps subconsciously, toning strongly till they were the size of baseballs.

“Yeah Kevin was such a douche, had to defend myself from him tryin’ to whoop me...”

“Yeah, had to backflip and dodge Samantha’s attacks. Didn’t feel good knowing she still holds a grudge about me being a dyke.”

Heh, he knew his best friend could handle herself. She was still a cheerleader in training, but could whoop Samantha’s arrogant butt anytime. Must also be her half asian genetics like his.

Sitting up straighter, Aiton’s broad shoulders filled out his sweater, which almost ripped if it was not for that white stain sealing up the cracks. That white stain...which came from Kevin...right? Was there a stain?

The white coloration spread all across the attire, shrinking up the sleeves to simply resting just below his shoulders, accentuating his large biceps which he proudly admired. Alongside his large back which occupied his entire bed...wait, didn’t he?

Taking a closer look at his bedroom...wait, looking DOWN at his bedroom. He was on the upper bed of a double decker, with training equipment at the side and a couple of sports memorabilia which looked reminiscent of the recreational room.

Yeah of course that douchebag Kevin had to have most of the room with his crap...though it was not all bad. He worked out quite often during his spare time...outside of that artsy degree he had no idea why he took...did he take an artsy degree? He shrugged, doesn’t matter, he worked out.

Anyways it showed, leaning back and taking full charge of the entire bed. At least he was the alpha HERE! Listening to what his best friend spoke...though she was mostly talking about drama with her roommate, not the kind of thing he was interested in.

But he always liked her voice...

“At least...I think I like girls? But that was an accident! I don’t like Samantha!”

Aiton nodded, unsure of what to say, but felt...pretty cool about it. Crossing his legs, as he saw those large trunks that trained...almost like for years. They which reached the end of the bedside, as those khakis lengthened and stretched into XL sweatpants...gotta snatch that back his junk from Kevin later, but not now. He was cool, now. Kicking off his large trainers which went-

CLUNK CLUNK!

As they hit the floor, wiggling his size 12 feet beneath those white socks. Kevin could insult him all he wants later, it was his room too. The fledgeling Jock can say whatever he wants to anybody, and he says-

“You were like ‘I think I like girls’, sounded pretty dyke to me.”

Aiton smirked, teasing the cheerleader from across the phone. He always liked doing that, he was in charge after all.

He knew how icky the two cheerleaders felt towards homosexuals...but then again, wasn’t he a bit rude towards them as well? Not as bad as Kevin but an occasional joke here and there meant nothing right?

“Who you callin’ dyke, Fag?”

“Who you callin’ Fag, Dyke?”

Okay...maybe he didn’t like being called Fag either. But it was just insults between him, Cherlse, and Kevin and Samantha. Anyone else and they answer TO HIS FISTS....except maybe ladies...especially hot babes.

He began to palm himself, and as he kneaded his hard rocket, he sneered in disgust over a rainbow wristband on his wrist. He blinked, in its faggy place was a white sports watch. His rocket doubled up in size, while darkening in tan, its always time to be a Jerk, just like his Bro Kevin.

“You know i get weak when you use my own words~”

Cherlsea opened up her phone webcam, and Aidon did the same. Both smirking at the other. The Jock knew it was always ladies first, but he was a Jerk so-

“Oh damn...she’s hot!”

“Of course I am, do I still look pretty dyke to you~?”

Watching her seductively pose on her bed, it felt like ages since he had seen a woman like that! In that revealing tank and double Ds he could just!

SQUEEZE!

“Oooaahhh!”

Squeezing his own chest, feeling rock solid muscle layering his nipples, pectorals filling his sports shirt massively like the man he was. Feeling those abdominals as a well deserved 6 pack emerged from years of crunches.

“I....I NEED RELEASE!”

“So hawt~”

“I...I AINT A FAG!”

“Course you aren’t hunky~you are so hawt, ooooooaaaaah!”

The Queen Bee’s second in command had let out her mating’s call, the asian babe was too much for the Douchebag Jock’s right hand man, and vice versa. As their desires linked up, with the help of a fortune cookie they ate prior, they were about to finally be set into motion.

Each of them felt a tight stinging to their holes simultaneously. As the Asian Jock’s butt hole tightened, the Cheerleader’s lady hole expanded. Like a trade of preferences, but that is not all.

As testosterone pumped in the man, churning larger sacks, as he watched his babe’s hair lengthen, his shrunk, and BUZZED off the sides and back, leaving a stylish gelled top, maintained with a pair of shavers, scissors, and his Bro. Not actually brothers, but they were asian , jocks, and total jerks. Wouldn’t be surprised if they were related.

Speaking of Asian, his tan had bathed his facial features alongside the rest of his body. Cleansing the GAY away from him as his jaw hardened into a fierce square. His lips snarled in momentary disgust, before his raising his cheeks, as that scowl shifted to an arrogant smirk as he watched his girlfriend do the same.

“Ooooaaaaaah~”

His brows complimented his prominent features, as they frowned, closing his eyes as his girlfriend’s moan was too much to bear...he needed RELEASE! RELEASE!

“OAAAAAAAH!”

Aidan Long expelled a thick goo from below, as his eyes gave way to a thin fierce asian dark brown. Staring into the ceiling in a haze...before the sounds of his lover’s panting sent him back to reality.

“Man...that feels good, but still miss our hot damn ‘Dragon and Empress’ sessions before all this happened.”

“Yeah totally...stuck with bestie the whole day is fun and all but...she and your douche roommate keep doing it all day.”

“Caught him jerkin’ off too jus now...”

“Whaaaaaat! Omg same, saw Samantha doing that too!”

“Course...nothin’ beats my empress...”

“Same for you too...my long muscular dragon.”

Almost instantly, the doors slammed open. Of course, Kevin had the spare keys to the bedroom too, and he was sneering right at the door.

“AND YOU SAY IM A FAGGOT!”

“SHADDUP KEV! YOU GAY!”

“NO YOU GAY!”

“NO YOU GAY!”

“HAHAHA!”

The two jocks laughed arrogantly, before sneering at each other. The two of them were thirsty, and they understood and respected that.

“Ohhh almost forgot, mwah mwah mwah!”

“Mwah mwah mwah back to you GAY!”

Kevin left the room, most likely going to order more of that Chinese take out or something. Doesn’t matter to Aidan though...he was friends with the man, but he wasn’t INTO INTO him.

“I swear this stay at home thing is turning me gay...”

“Oh there’s nothing wrong with some bonding sessions. Me and Samantha are pointing each other’s nails later on, and that isn’t DYKE!”

“Yeah, should probably binge watch soccer with that douche. Felt like We haven’t did a sports marathon in ages!...No homo of course.”

The two of them chatted for a while more, loving the company of the other intimately as they teased one another like the lovers they are.

But they eventually have to go to other stuff. And by stuff he wants to do, is CHILL.

“Love you hunky, talk to you l8r!”

The Jock simply posed to the camera,and spoke.

“Stay Straight Babe”

[jjoutermaybanks]

With You In My Head || Rafe Cameron x Reader

part one part two part three part four part five part six part seven part eight

summary: it’s going to be a long summer. living in the Outer Banks with your trailer park mom and fancy mansion dad, you know it’s going to be a tough three months. things only get harder when your best friend’s brother, the notorious Rafe Cameron, begins to complicate your life even more. but will the island’s biggest wildcard successfully steal your heart, or leave you more broken than before?

word count: 3.3k

warnings: references sex, angst

*not my gif, credit to owner*

PART FOUR

You had never run home faster in your life.  By the time you shut the door and collapsed against it, you were out of breath and aching from your miles of sprinting.  But the fear and adrenaline was what gave you the energy to make it, and now that you were home the real anxiety could set in.

Tonight was way too close.  One second later and Sarah could’ve found you in quite a compromising position with her brother.  You knew the tumultuous relationship between the two of them, and because you were Sarah’s best friend you obviously had to be on her side.  You knew that if she found out what you did tonight--and what you had wanted to do before you were interrupted--that Sarah might stay mad at you forever.

Blowing out a sigh, you anxiously pushed a hand through your hair and tried to forget about how good tonight felt.  In between flashes of Rafe’s hands on your body, you forced yourself to remember your anger at him, your frustration at being stranded at the party.  But the feeling of his lips on your skin and his voice in your ear was too much to ignore--he was everywhere, all over you, despite the distance you’d forced between you.  You craved his touch again, and only wished you could’ve returned the favor.

Shut up, you scolded yourself.  It was a stupid thing to do, and it’s over now.  You don’t have to see him again.  You changed out of your clothes from the party, throwing them into the corner of your room as you tugged on a big sweatshirt.  You hoped the warm fabric would drown out the lingering fire left by Rafe’s fingers.  As you climbed into bed, you focused your brain on anything but the boy you left behind.

But despite your better judgment, the smallest yearning to see his bright blue eyes stuck with you, no matter how hard you tried to move on.  This yearning stuck around through the next day, which you spent determinedly at home.  When Sarah texted you asking to hang out, you faked a stomach bug so you could lay around moping.  Your mother didn’t ask any questions, but you knew you couldn’t stay cooped up forever.

Sarah finally convinced you to go out the next day.  She and the rest of the Pogues were making the rounds delivering groceries, and you figured spending time with them would help get your mind off of Rafe.  

“Enjoying yourself?” JJ asked as he settled beside you.  You were laying atop the deck of the HMS Pogue, head tilted to the sun so you could soak up the rays.  JJ handed you a beer, which you happily accepted and clinked against his own bottle.

“You guys have the greatest lives, I swear,” you told him, swigging some of the beer.  You didn’t mind the taste and knew it would take more than one bottle to get you even remotely tipsy.

JJ chuckled.  “Great is one word to describe it.  Reckless, dangerous, chaotic; those work too.”

Grinning, you leaned back on your elbows and watched Sarah nuzzle into John B’s neck as he steered the boat.  They were beyond cute, and for a brief instant you remembered the way someone else had kissed your neck.

Shuddering, you took another big sip.  JJ noticed your odd reaction.  “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” you answered quickly.  “Just jealous of Sarah, that’s all.”  You hoped your deflection method worked, and judging by JJ’s eye roll you succeeded.

“Tell me about it.  Those two really know how to make a guy feel lonely.”

Your smile faltered slightly.  JJ was such a nice, charming guy.  Why couldn’t you like him instead of intense, unpredictable Rafe?  Not that you liked Rafe, but JJ wasn’t exactly the one occupying your thoughts.  You wished the blonde boy was the one you were daydreaming about, but sadly he barely crossed your mind.

The next few days were spent exactly like that one; adventuring with the Pogues, avoiding Figure 8 and all thoughts of Rafe.  One advantage of staying away from that side of the island was that you didn’t have to see your dad.  Occasionally your mother would try to press you into visiting, but she could tell your last visit had gone horribly and you didn’t feel like trying again so soon.

The Pogues didn’t just take your mind off of Rafe; they actively turned you against him.  The way they talked about the Kooks shined a light on Topper and Kelce and all the other people Rafe hung around.  They sounded like total snobs, and over time you found yourself embarrassed that you wasted time thinking about Rafe.  Instead, you embraced the Pogue life and journeyed all around The Cut until you rarely ever thought about your little slip-up.

One morning though, after jolting awake from a particularly hot and heavy dream, all of your hard work went right out the window.  Even in slumber you still thought of Rafe, more specifically Rafe’s hands.  They were all over you, drifting across your body and igniting sparks on your skin.  The dream left you tingling and frustrated when you finally woke up, and the only thing you wanted was the release he had given you that night on the beach.

Later that day you met up with the Pogues at the dock.  JJ saw your irritated scowl and quirked up an eyebrow.

“Wake up on the wrong side of the bed?” he asked, and you huffed.

“You could say that,” you grumbled, arms crossed in annoyance.  “I can’t wait to get on that boat and sail away from here.”  Really, you wanted to sail away from your thoughts.

JJ nodded.  “I get what you mean.  Unfortunately though, we can’t exactly leave for good.”

Kiara and Pope were busy preparing packed lunches at The Wreck, and John B. and Sarah joined you moments later.  As you waited, three frustratingly familiar figures were striding across the docks in your direction.

“Topper,” John B. called out in a clipped tone.  Topper’s smirk was twisted, and Kelce scowled beside him.  You forced yourself not to look at Rafe.  Even out of your peripheral vision you knew he looked good.  His button down shirt was open and billowing in the breeze, his board shorts low on his hips and accentuating his abdomen.  The sunglasses perched on his nose prevented you from figuring out if he was watching you.  You couldn’t decide if you wanted him to or not.

“Come to get another ass-kicking?” JJ demanded, squaring up so you were blocked by his shoulder.  He was doing this to protect you, and you noticed the tightness in Rafe’s jaw as he regarded JJ with a frown.

“Relax, scrappy,” Topper retaliated.  “We’re picking up food before we hit the water.  I’ve got myself a fancy new boat that would ride circles around your crappy tin can.”

John B. took a step towards him.  “I bet a long scratch would look real nice on the side, don’t you think?”  As Topper was about to reply, Sarah stepped forward and sighed loudly.

“Cool it with the testosterone,” she said, rolling her eyes and pushing John B. back gently.  “These sleaze-bags aren’t worth it, let’s just get our food and go.”

John B. and JJ listened to her as she led them towards The Wreck, and Topper and Kelce quickly followed behind, muttering in their wake.  You were about to go join your friends when a hand closed around your elbow.

“Y/N,” Rafe hissed, keeping his voice low and glancing around.  You wrenched your elbow away, huffing in annoyance and scowling his way.  Rafe took off his sunglasses and tucked them into his pocket, revealing his blazing blue eyes that immediately caught you off guard.

“What do you want?”  You tried to sound authoritative, folding your arms defensively.  But Rafe’s intense gaze was making your stomach flutter, and it was hard to stay angry at him.

“Since when do you hang out with them?” he asked pointedly, spitting the word them like it was sour.  You scowled.

“You mean my friends?” you fired back.  “Why wouldn’t I hang out with them?”

“Do you know the kind of shit they get themselves into?”  He ran a hand through his gelled hair, messing it up and leaving it ruffled in a way that made your knees weak.  “They’re dangerous, Y/N.  You’re gonna get in trouble if you keep hanging around them.”

“Oh, and you’re so innocent?  Your friends throw under-aged keggers and go around beating people up.  Why should I want to be with you?”  You winced; you hadn’t meant to phrase it that way.  You shouldn’t have implied Rafe wanted you to be with him, and his surprised reaction told you it caught him off guard as well.

He recovered quickly though, the intensity never waning in his eyes.  “I thought we were getting close,” he admitted, his voice soft.  The sudden vulnerability threw you off, but you kept your composure and cleared your throat.

“We talked once on the beach, Rafe.  You tricked me into going to a stupid party where I was miserable the whole time.”  You purposely left off the part of that night that had been haunting you for days.

Rafe wasn’t going to let this slide, though.  “What about after the party?” he challenged, stepping closer to you.  You were grateful the others weren’t around to see how flustered you were getting just by Rafe’s presence.

“W-what about it?” you stuttered dumbly, falling right into his trap.

“When we were on the chair together.  You can’t honestly say you didn’t enjoy yourself.”  Your throat had gone dry, words failing you as Rafe slowly dragged his hand up your arm.  Goosebumps rose on your skin and you inhaled sharply as his fingers danced across your collarbone.

Gritting your teeth, you shook your head.  “It meant nothing to me.  I want nothing to do with you, Rafe.”

His hand stilled where it rested on your waist, only a thin tank top between you and his sinful touch.  “Oh, really?  Because as I recall, you were more than happy to suck my dick.”

The sudden dirty words made you gasp, stepping away from Rafe’s intoxicating aura.  He followed close behind though, keeping your chests close and faces inches away.

“No I wasn’t,” you argued.  “You’re delusional.”

Rafe scoffed.  “I’m delusional?  Because I have a crystal clear image of you reaching into my pants--”

“It’s done, Rafe.  Get over yourself.  What happened was a one time lapse in judgment, and I can assure you it won’t be happening again.”  You felt your voice waver ever so slightly, cursing yourself silently as Rafe picked up on this and smirked wider.

“Admit it, Y/N.  It’s all you’ve been thinking about.”  

Exhaling softly, you felt his hands burn up your side as they drifted across your body.  His tantalizing voice continued whispering in your ear.  “It’s all I’ve been thinking about, too.  Your fingers, your lips, your tongue.”  A shiver raced its way down your spine, his mouth dangerously close to touching your skin.  “I can’t stop thinking about how good you feel.”

Finally snapping back into your senses, you forcibly stepped back and put some much-needed distance between him.  “Well, you’re just gonna have to keep thinking about it, because it’s never going to happen.”

With that, you turned on your heel and rushed into The Wreck, desperate to find your friends and make the blush in your cheeks fade away.

You joined the others as they finished packing up lunch, grateful to be away from Rafe’s scrutiny.  You all climbed onto the HMS Pogue, JJ giving you a steady to hand to hold as you found your footing.  Pope pulled out of the dock, beginning to head towards a secluded part of the marsh.

Unfortunately, it wasn’t very secluded today.  You spotted Topper at the helm of a brand-spanking new boat, his glare visible even from a distance.  He steered right towards you until you were side by side, bobbing a few meters apart in the calm waters.

“Do you need something?” John B. asked, feigning pleasantries.

“Nope, nothing at all.  Just thought this was a good spot.”  Topper motioned for Rafe to hand him a beer, and you bit your lip as you watched him toss a can.  Rafe cracked one open himself, taking a long swig with his gaze clearly locked on you.

Turning deliberately away, you accepted the beer bottle JJ handed you and sighed.  

“What’s his problem?” JJ wondered, clearly seeing the way Rafe stared at you across the water.  

You sipped the beer, almost challenging Rafe to say something.  “I have no idea,” you answered JJ absently.  

From then on it was a clear competition between which boat was having more fun.  The Pogues all laughed louder than usual, but this was only met with the other boat’s booming laughter as well.  JJ dealt out a game of cards and you all gathered on the deck, eating lunch as you played.  For a split-second you forgot about Rafe on the other boat, until the sound of his voice drifted into your ears and made your skin crawl.

Topper’s engine roared to life, and you all turned to watch him speed down the water.  JJ cursed them out as they departed, clearly agitated by their arrogant display.

“They think they’re so cool because they have a newer boat,” he grumbled.  “We ought to show them what this little puppy can do.”  He slapped the side of the HMS Pogue, shooting Pope a pointed look.

“We can definitely keep up with them,” Pope responded.  “This baby hasn’t failed us yet.”

You watched helplessly as the guys fired up the engine, determined to speed after Topper.  You were just fine putting as much distance between you and Rafe as possible, but with the competitive natures kicked into overdrive you knew you would be seeing him again shortly.

The HMS Pogue sped down the waters, spraying you with droplets as you pulled off your shirt and shorts to avoid getting them wet.  You lounged with Kiara and Sarah on the deck as the boys whooped and hollered, and soon you had caught up to the Kooks.

“Fancy seeing you here,” JJ called out.  Topper’s glare was deadly, and Rafe just took another long sip of beer.  You sat up on your elbows a little, hoping your bikini-clad body was visible enough to throw him off.  Behind Rafe’s sunglasses, you had no idea what affect this had on him.

“You guys really don’t want to try and race me,” Topper warned.  “This thing is the fastest model yet, and I’d hate to leave in you a mountain of dust.”

JJ gripped the wheel.  “Bring it on, Kook.”

Both engines roared to life, the noise deafening as it boomed through the marsh.  You clutched the side of the boat for dear life as JJ pushed the throttle all the way, sending the boat whizzing across the water.  Topper was neck and neck with you though, concentrating hard as he steered dangerously close to you.

Every now and then the two boats would thunk against one another, jostling you where you sat.  Kiara gripped the side rail, sending JJ a glare.

“I thought boat racing was a non-contact sport,” she commented sharply.

“Yeah, there’s no point in wrecking the boat just to win a race,” Pope advised, but JJ merely waved them off and continued his aggressive antics.

Standing up shakily, you attempted to move across the deck but were quickly thrown off balance by another collision with Topper.  Stumbling backwards, you nearly fell off the side before Sarah lunged out to grab you.

“Jesus, JJ!” she hollered, pulling you back to your feet.  The breath had been knocked out of you from your near-fall, and when you glanced over at Rafe you couldn’t decipher whether he had a look of concern or triumph on his face.

“I officially no longer care who wins this stupid race,” Kiara declared, attempting to wrestle the wheel away from the blonde boy.  But JJ, stubborn as ever, resisted her and stayed firmly planted where he stood.

“I can feel her really revving up now,” he insisted, giving the wheel a loving pat.  “A few more seconds and we’ll smoke them.”

You braced yourself for another crash, eyes connecting with Rafe’s across the water.  He’d removed his sunglasses, and was leaning behind Topper’s shoulder and directing him as he drove the boat.  You scowled his way, refusing to back down from his stone-hard stare.

Soon enough, just as JJ had said, the HMS Pogue began to edge out the Kooks.  Topper frantically tried to speed up, shouting in irritation.  Rafe and Kelce tried to tell him what to do, but it was to no avail.  The HMS Pogue was now three feet ahead of them, then five feet, then ten feet, and eventually the country club boys were left in the dust.

With whoops and shouts of glee, the Pogues all burst into celebration.  You, Sarah, and Kiara hugged excitedly, grins stretching across your lips.  JJ pulled the boat to a gentle stop so Topper could catch up, and when he did Sarah flipped him off.

“You said that was a ‘fancy new boat’, right?” John B. mocked, arm slung protectively around Sarah’s waist.  “It’s a shame you wasted your money on such a piece of crap.”

Topper looked about ready to blow a gasket, and Kelce was kicking the beer cooler angrily.  Rafe was cool as ice, however, never once betraying his frustration.  He had you locked in his gaze, and your lips parted as the intensity made chills roll down your spine.

You were sick and tired of how small and helpless he made you feel.  Rafe didn’t deserve to have that much power over your emotions.  In two long strides you made your way over to JJ, grinning up at the blonde boy who was basking in his victory.

“Nice sailing,” you complimented, before looping your arms around his neck and pulling his face down to yours.  Your lips connected in a kiss, tongue swiping out to deepen it.  Startled at first, JJ quickly recovered and smoothed his hands up your bare back, landing just where your bikini was tied.  You leaned into him, hand pressed to his chest as he returned the kiss with equal fervor.

After a minute you tore yourself away, eyes alight with adrenaline as you smiled up at him.  Turning your smirk to the other boat, you tilted your head at Rafe with a confident how’s that? expression.  

His blue eyes were dark, brows low on his forehead.  His frown made your heart clench, and when he finally looked away you felt yourself missing the heat of his stare.  

But he didn’t look at you again; he didn’t even acknowledge your existence once you all returned to the docks.  You made a point to walk beside him up the path, hoping he’d say something, anything.

Rafe was silent, eyes glued to the ground in front of him.  You watched as he left with Topper and Kelce, not even throwing a glance back your way.  His figure disappeared into the distance, until you weren’t sure if you’d ever see it again.  

Guilt and disappointment raged inside of you, battling with your feelings of victory at making Rafe angry.  You should've been thrilled you pushed all his buttons, because after all he’d been doing the same to you.  But what should’ve felt amazing felt like a rock in your stomach, and you almost wished you’d fallen into Rafe’s trap instead of setting up one yourself.

~ ~ ~

taglist

@prejudic3​ @afterglows7b-tch13​ @beeeee06​ @dysaneworld​ @we-are-all-lovely​ @luckypurpleunicorn @poguequeen​ @solko​ @freebiscuitdragonbear @sunflowerkxsses​ @tembo-ndoto​ @justcallmesams​ @theworldofimagines​ @rafescameron​ @jjs-housekeeping​ 

[pushsyrup7]

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Topical creams and ointments containing peptides may cause skin symptoms, such as skin sensitivity, rash, and itching. Individuals should always buy from a reputable company and discontinue use if adverse reactions occur.

One more earlier stage prospect to lately begin the radar is Amgen's AMG 745; although no trials seem ongoing at present the company provides it as a phase I candidate. The medication prevents myostatin, a growth hormonal agent that itself inhibits muscular tissue development. Vicus' VT-122 is an oral mix of propranolol, a non-selective beta adrenergic receptor blocker, and etodolac, a COX2 careful enzyme inhibitor. The firm believes by synergistically targeting multiple paths, cancer-induced systemic swelling can be attentuated and, with any luck, cachexia turned around. A stage II research was begun last December in advanced liver cancer cells patients being treated with Nexavar. The 80-patient research will certainly determine pain, efficiency status as well as lean body mass.

Can Consuming Collagen Quit Skin Ageing?

The body, for that reason, functions as if it is in hunger setting and with this, there is a drastic reduction in the body fat. While lots of steroids in the marketplace might cause bone wastefulness or loss, SARMs will certainly not. They are very selective in their action consequently not most likely to hurt your other tissues.You most likely would not wish to damage your body cells just because you desire others to increase in dimension. That's the reason many individuals that want to boost their performance choose making use of SARMs since they will only alter the tissues that bring about growth in the dimension of bones and muscular tissues. Ostarine or MK-2866 (CAS #) is a research chemical established initially by Merck Inc. and now owned by GTx Inc

LGD-4033is a careful androgen receptor modulator, as well as an unique non-steroidal dental SARM that binds to Androgen Receptors with high affinity and also selectivity. It's in a course ofandrogen receptor ligands that is cells discerning, established to treat muscle wasting connected with cancer, severe as well as persistent illness as well as age-related muscular tissue loss. It is clear to you that all of the above-described activities need significant funds, yet additionally a lot of time as well as job. Low marketing rates are insufficient for producers to return the financial investment.

If the peptide lingers as noticeable fragments, sonication might prove of help as it enhances the price of dissolution.

Most importantly it also offers the possibility to discover formerly unattainable biosuperiors.

As a whole, attempt to dissolve peptides in clean and sterile pure water or sterilized thin down acetic acid (0.1%) solution to offer a stock solution at a higher focus than that required for succeeding usage.

Never ever be without your much-loved Boots items with our international distribution choices.

Super Lotion which is anti-bacterial, making it truly great for oily, spot-prone skin types, along with any kind of slightly extra fungal-type conditions.

If, after sonication, the 'option' has gelled, has a consistent haziness, or has a scum floating externally, the peptide has probably not dissolved yet is simply carefully suspended.

The worldwide peptide therapeutics market is expected to be worth $24 billion by 2020.

In both methods, the main objective is to maintain as much muscular tissue mass as possible. MK-2866 will certainly assist shield your gains since it is a mild SARM and functions well when there is a calorie deficit.

Best Marketing Sarms In Uk 2020sale!!!

Simply picture what could occur if you went full-bore as well as were a perfectionist? The only thing I can not do is compare this to roids - they possibly better yet fuck understands that from and also what their variation will do! , however I have a regular order with JW Supps due to the fact that, me being human as well as prone to life, these men aid me with some initiative in the health club, get where I require to be.

It isan outstanding medicine for reducing fat and also stay in shape as a professional athlete. Its daily usage is typically around 10mg for simple healing from severe ailments or pains. This kind of pure SARMs inhibits testosterone that has extra anabolic characteristics than testosterone itself. Individuals utilizing this pure SARMs tends to dose two times a day, but it is not suggested for the initial individuals due to the fact that excess usage might create negative effects. In no question, pure SARMs are splendidly made, and also the item has been verified by physician to reduce muscle or bone pain, mind troubles, hostility, as well as also cancers cells. Don't be amazed that various systems can state a range of functions that this technique supplies. This is due to the fact that; the importance and also benefits to the body system can not be overemphasized.

As the name recommends, SARMs have the capability to pick the certain receptors they are mosting likely to bind to. This is a significant impact when it comes to remaining healthy and balanced and also feeling your ideal while taking such items. You do not need to accept mayhem as well as negativeness within the mind and body to get the advantages you seek. access peptides-uk Ireland bpc157 how does it work here! is they don't featured a long list of harmful negative effects. It is motivating when you can obtain advantages for your body as well as your mind with SARMs, and not need to be overly worried regarding the unfavorable aspects. Peptides function by making adjustments to the human endocrine system, which includes the pancreas, ovaries, testes, thyroid as well as various other hormonal agent producing glands. Changes to this system can have really significant effects in regards to human development, development as well as reproductive systems.

click here to learn more is made use of off-label in cancer cells clients, as well as functions by boosting appetite. Steroids are additionally utilized, to develop muscle mass, however neither of these treatments promotes effective development of well working muscle-- a large challenge for any type of treatment. The loss of muscle and also fat can weaken a patient to such a degree that the cachexia is the cause of death in several cancer cells patients-- approximately 20% according to some estimates. It likewise leaves individuals less able to combat the underlying condition as well as endure radiation treatment, or other cancer cells eliminating agents, along with increasingly hindering everyday tasks. With PMag the beginning of insane pumps is relatively quick but no such thing was experienced with LGD. I obtained approx 5kg mass (fat+ muscular tissue) on Pmag and also have actually not observed any such body make-up distinction with LGD.

I started taking these as well as I might see gains being made after the very first week. I have tried afew sarms currently as well as saw the best gains on these without a doubt. I do not typically create reviews and also this website does not seem to reward when you do, not an issue, yet I have discovered these evaluations helpful to for my very own ends so wished to share the love. Gents, drop the associates, up the weight and keep the pause traditional but truthful.

. MK-2688 belongs to a class of chemicals known as SARMs or discerning androgen receptor modulators. Contrasted to testosterone, the sex hormonal agent, the benefit of SARMs such as MK-2688 is that they do not have androgenic activity in non-skeletal-muscle cells. MK-2866 is undergoing scientific trials for and might eventually be clinically indicated as well as accepted for prevention of cachexia, atrophy, and also sarcopenia primarily in the elderly as well as unwell populace.

Do humans have antimicrobial peptides?

A wide variety of human proteins and peptides also have antimicrobial activity and play important roles in innate immunity. In this review we discuss three important groups of human antimicrobial peptides. In humans, two classes of defensins can be found: α-defensins and β-defensins.

On issues adverse effects, it is excellent to keep in mind that SARMs come with side effects similar to various other drugs. The SARMs side effects are mild and also will hardly ever affect your day to day activities. To avoid on your own from suffering from extreme side effects ensure that you take the suggested dose with the correct time frame. Among the very best natural supplements that can be made use of together with any kind of SARM to boost gains and recovery is Creatine.

It was uncovered by Yuichito Kanno, and it is one of the most effective SARMs considering that it is very useful in weight loss and obtaining muscles without struggling with severe negative effects like liver damage or high blood pressure. Decrease body fat-If you target at losing body fat, after that SARMs will certainly aid you to burn it in numerous ways. These items stimulate the body to break down the fat cells with the objective of producing energy.

[housebudget81]

Sarms Uk

The Many Advantages Of Peptides.

Content

Sr9009 Stenabolic Sarms Sr.

Get In Touch With Diabetes Co.uk.

Short To Ultrashort Peptide Hydrogels For Biomedical Uses.

Can Eating Collagen Stop Skin Ageing?

I would recommend that anabolics aren't detectable for months though, several will certainly have a very comparable time program to ostarine, relying on the dose and also approach of administration. This does highlight the requirement for many years round out of competition screening. Evaluating techniques have actually been developed and reported for these medications, with several professional athletes having actually examined favorable for Andarine. S.A.R.Ms, or selective androgen receptor modulators, are an unique class of molecules that are being established to deal with conditions that are presently being treated with AAS (anabolic-androgenic steroids). Make certain you are completely knowledgeable about what any kind of SARM you prepare to utilize can fully supply. Pay attention to the recommended dosage as well as the timeframe to use it. Begin with the lowest possible dosage, and afterwards slowly raise it if needed.

Hcgenerate is also really efficient in boosting the production of testosterone as well as can be stacked together with S4 and LGD. You will certainly be stunned at just how much body fat you are going to drop as soon as you use it in mix with eating in a shortage. There are different methods which body builders can embark on a reducing procedure. They can either do it within an extra extensive duration or within a much shorter one.

Sr9009 Stenabolic Sarms Sr.

If you are knowledgeable regarding these preparations, you will certainly understand that the affordable price of supplements is a red alarm. Discretion is the primary advantage of getting sports supplements on the net. However you should not fail to remember the rate, convenience, as well as access to a range of items. When it comes to SARMs, you can order them from both Canadian and also international web sites. several UK lgd 4033 ligandrol Sarms authorized physical suppliers for SARMS are supplement shops throughout Canada. These places have an excellent track record as well as have actually gotten on the market for years.

Defining principles that influence antimicrobial peptide activity against capsulated Klebsiella pneumoniae - pnas.org

Defining principles that influence antimicrobial peptide activity against capsulated Klebsiella pneumoniae.

Posted: Wed, 21 Oct 2020 07:00:00 GMT [source]

A complete pct, instead of a small pct with other SARMS, is recommended after a cycle of LGD. While it might not be fairly as suppressive as anabolics, the reductions is a lot greater than other SARMS, therefore, needing a complete PCT. The Lingadrol pure bodybuilding SARMs are similar to the Ostarine in terms of activity but quite different.

Call Diabetes Mellitus Co.uk.

To highgrade labs Shop Uk sarms test base supplement Sarms image that's just how I educate, add this treasure with some MK667 (little endurance - more assisting the additional appetite not go to pure fat). It is not a wonder treatment, but it will enable you with inadequate to reduced incongruity, make gains, as constantly decrease all outside variables and this thing is tremendous.

Fluoroalkylation promotes cytosolic peptide delivery - Science Advances

Fluoroalkylation promotes cytosolic peptide delivery.

Posted: Wed, 12 Aug 2020 07:00:00 GMT [source]

At Phcoker.com we sell several types of SARMs online, and also all of them are pure, reliable and premium quality. This way, you have the assurance that our items will certainly supply beyond your assumptions. All you got to do is order from us, as well as we will certainly deliver the items to your area within the quickest time possible. This is because they might be combined with poisonous chemicals as a result of a poor manufacturing procedure or quality control. Underhanded suppliers might additionally include weak products to the medications to raise the quantity and also earnings. Mislabelling is one more vice usually done, and also many bodybuilders succumb to it.

Overall survival is expected to be consisted of as a second endpoint, but will likely not be powered or called for to show analytical relevance. " It's not really just putting on weight that you desire, the objective is to include lean muscle mass, and also you additionally need improvements in muscle mass feature. That's the quandary," claims Julian Gilbert, president of Acacia Pharma, which has a product in phase II testing. Presently, only the progesterone treatment Megestrol is removed by regulators to deal with cachexia, when related to HIV.

Short To Ultrashort Peptide Hydrogels For Biomedical Uses.

Stacking is the procedure where you take numerous kinds of SARMs at the same time to quicken the procedure of bulking, cutting and recovery. SARMs are extremely versatile since you can either choose to utilize them on their own or as part of a stack. along with exercise caused a 50% mitochondrial growth in the muscular tissues, and consequently, the tissues had the ability to produce even more power therefore decreasing exhaustion.

Another earlier stage prospect to just recently come on the radar is Amgen's AMG 745; although no tests appear to be recurring today the company lists it as a phase I candidate. The medicine inhibits myostatin, a development hormonal agent that itself prevents muscle development. Vicus' VT-122 is a dental mix of propranolol, a non-selective beta adrenergic receptor blocker, as well as etodolac, a COX2 selective enzyme prevention. The company believes by synergistically targeting several pathways, cancer-induced systemic swelling can be attentuated and also, ideally, cachexia turned around. A phase II research was started last December in sophisticated liver cancer cells people being treated with Nexavar. The 80-patient study will measure pain, performance status and also lean body mass.

Can Consuming Collagen Quit Skin Ageing?

The body, for that reason, features as if it is in malnourishment setting as well as via this, there is a radical decrease in the body fat. While many steroids in the marketplace may bring about bone wastefulness or loss, SARMs will certainly not. They are really discerning in their action therefore not most likely to hurt your various other tissues.You possibly would not wish to damage your body tissues even if you want others to enhance in dimension. That's the reason many individuals that intend to enhance their performance prefer utilizing SARMs since they will only alter the tissues that result in growth in the size of bones and muscles. Ostarine or MK-2866 (CAS #) is a study chemical developed originally by Merck Inc. and also currently possessed by GTx Inc

LGD-4033is a careful androgen receptor modulator, and also a novel non-steroidal oral SARM that binds to Androgen Receptors with high fondness and also selectivity. It remains in a course ofandrogen receptor ligands that is cells careful, created to treat muscular tissue squandering connected with cancer, severe as well as persistent illness and also age-related muscle loss. It is clear to you that every one of the above-described actions require considerable funds, yet also a lot of time and also job. Reduced selling prices are insufficient for suppliers to return the financial investment.

If Shop Uk alcohol swab continues as visible particles, sonication might prove of help as it boosts the price of dissolution.

Crucially it likewise offers the chance to uncover previously hard to reach biosuperiors.

As a whole, attempt to dissolve peptides in sterile pure water or sterilized water down acetic acid (0.1%) remedy to offer a stock service at a greater concentration than that needed for subsequent usage.

Never ever be without your preferred Boots products with our international delivery options.

If, after sonication, the 'solution' has actually gelled, has a persistent haziness, or has a scum drifting externally, the peptide has most likely not dissolved however is merely finely suspended.

The worldwide peptide therapeutics market is expected to be worth $24 billion by 2020.

In both techniques, the main goal is to protect as much muscle mass as feasible. MK-2866 will certainly aid shield your gains because it is a moderate SARM and also functions well when there is a calorie shortage.

Best Selling Sarms In Uk 2020sale!!!

Just picture what could take place if you went full-bore and were a perfectionist? The only thing I can not do is contrast this to roids - they perhaps better but fuck understands that from as well as what their variation will certainly do! , however I have a regular order with JW Supps due to the fact that, me being human as well as vulnerable to life, these guys aid me with some initiative in the gym, get where I need to be.

It isan excellent medicine for reducing fat and also stay healthy as an athlete. Its everyday use is normally around 10mg for simple recovery from serious ailments or pains. This kind of pure SARMs prevents testosterone that has a lot more anabolic attributes than testosterone itself. People using this pure SARMs has a tendency to dose twice a day, however it is not suggested for the initial users due to the fact that excess usage might establish side effect. In no question, pure SARMs are splendidly made, and the item has been validated by medical professionals to reduce muscle mass or bone pain, mind problems, aggressiveness, and also even cancers. Do not be surprised that various systems can point out a range of functions that this approach provides. This is because; the significance and also benefits to the body system can not be overemphasized.

As the name suggests, SARMs have the capability to pick the particular receptors they are going to bind to. This is a substantial impact when it pertains to remaining healthy and balanced and feeling your ideal while taking such products. You do not have to accept turmoil and negative thoughts within the mind and body so as to get the advantages you desire. The 2nd significant benefit is they do not featured a long listing of dangerous negative effects. It is motivating when you can obtain benefits for your body as well as your mind with SARMs, as well as not have to be excessively worried regarding the damaging components. Peptides function by making changes to the human endocrine system, which includes the pancreas, ovaries, testes, thyroid as well as various other hormone producing glands. Modifications to this system can have extremely serious results in relation to human development, growth as well as reproductive systems.

This is utilized off-label in cancer individuals, as well as works by enhancing cravings. Steroids are likewise utilized, to develop muscular tissue, yet neither of these therapies promotes reliable development of well operating muscle-- a large obstacle for any treatment. The loss of muscle mass as well as fat can damage an individual to such an extent that the cachexia is the cause of death in several cancer individuals-- up to 20% according to some quotes. It likewise leaves patients less able to eliminate the underlying disease and endure chemotherapy, or various other cancer killing representatives, along with increasingly obstructing day-to-day activities. With PMag the beginning of crazy pumps is fairly fast but no such thing was experienced with LGD. I got approx 5kg mass (fat+ muscle mass) on Pmag as well as have actually not discovered any kind of such body make-up distinction with LGD.

I started taking these and also I might see gains being made after the initial week. I have actually attempted afew sarms currently and also saw the best gains on these for certain. I do not typically create evaluations and this website does not seem to reward when you do, not an issue, however I have found these reviews helpful to for my very own ends so wished to share the love. Gents, go down the representatives, up the weight and keep the rest periods traditional yet sincere.

. MK-2688 belongs to a class of chemicals called SARMs or selective androgen receptor modulators. Compared to testosterone, the sex hormone, the advantage of SARMs such as MK-2688 is that they do not have androgenic task in non-skeletal-muscle cells. MK-2866 is going through medical tests for and might become medically shown and also accepted for avoidance of cachexia, degeneration, and also sarcopenia primarily in the elderly and also ill populace.

Do humans have antimicrobial peptides?

A wide variety of human proteins and peptides also have antimicrobial activity and play important roles in innate immunity. In this review we discuss three important groups of human antimicrobial peptides. In humans, two classes of defensins can be found: α-defensins and β-defensins.

On issues negative effects, it is good to note that SARMs featured side effects much like various other medications. The SARMs negative effects are light and will hardly ever influence your daily activities. To stop on your own from dealing with serious side effects ensure that you take the advised dosage with the correct time frame. Among the most effective all-natural supplements that can be used along with any kind of SARM to increase gains and recovery is Creatine.

It was discovered by Yuichito Kanno, as well as it is one of the very best SARMs since it is very helpful in weight loss and also obtaining muscle mass without dealing with severe negative effects like liver damages or high blood pressure. Minimize body fat-If you aim at shedding body fat, then SARMs will certainly assist you to burn it in various means. These products boost the body to break down the fat cells with the aim of producing energy.

[black-is-no-colour]

John Galliano Speaks to Alexander Fury on Gender and Fashion

October 3, 2018   I     Text Alexander Fury

At the helm of Maison Margiela, John Galliano is conjuring a spectacular new vision of genderless glamour. In an exclusive interview, fashion’s great virtuoso muses on his enduring love affair with modernity, romanticism and reinvention

For the past 18 years, John Galliano has spent most of July and August in a modest house on the coast of Saint-Tropez. The house is owned by a man who made a fortune from marketing duty-free alcohol miniatures; the only other home in the vicinity is occupied by Alix, Princess Napoléon, ‘Empress of the French’ in pretence, in her twilight years. It’s fairly inaccessible by land, especially at the peak of summer, when traffic snakes along the coastal slaloms – instead, a boat buffets travellers from Nice across the Côte d’Azur to a rock jetty, past the kind of pleasure cruisers colloquially referred to as ‘Gin Palaces’, lazily floating, filled with billionaires and bullion and Bollinger and collagen. It is the French Riviera after all. It sounds romantic, but in actual fact the boat that ferries you to John Galliano is somewhat industrial, a high-powered inflatable number called a Zodiac that smashes through the surf at near-literal breakneck speed. It’s hard work.

That’s a fitting metaphor for the work of Galliano, particularly his latest incarnation helming Maison Margiela, where his intrinsic sense of romance has melded with something harder and tougher, something rougher, to create a new vocabulary of design for both himself and the house. In January, he debuted his first menswear ideas for Margiela – he had previously been involved, he asserts, but in a looser, more abstract way, guiding an appropriately anonymous group of designers. Since the founder’s official departure in 2008, the results hadn’t gelled, for either Margiela nor its audience. The Autumn/Winter 2018 collection was Galliano’s first attempt at elucidating that frequently-elusive Margiela man – and rather than try to segregate him from the identity of the womenswear, Galliano cleverly melded the two together. The obsessions of Galliano’s collections for women merged with silhouettes of masculinity – abstract notions of glamour, like slithery bias-cut satin spliced into a two-piece tuxedo instead of an evening dress; thumped-up, bricolage sneakers below sloppy wide-shoulder coating; the idea of the décortiqué, literally translating to peeled or shelled (as in, shelling a crab) and denoting garments dissected to their bare bones, rendering the functional decorative and lending an ornament to the utilitarian.

There was, throughout, a synergy to the offering – which is what Galliano declared the giant, Bird’s Custard-yellow symbol painted across the catwalk stood for, too. Although the synergy was left vague – between men and women, between Margiela and Galliano, between these clothes and the outside world. Or potentially, all of the above. “That collection in concept was similar to the first collection – Artisanal – I did in London,” says Galliano, slowly. It’s six months later – he’s shown three collections for women and another menswear since then, so is scrolling through images of the clothes on an iPad as digital age aide memoire. “So it was a collection of intent. We were trying to try a little bit of this – some tailoring, some more casual, one bias-cut suit. I was building blocks, to get some feedback, some reaction.”

The reaction was strong – in a period of menswear upheavals, of departures and rehires and the inevitable anticipation such turmoil brings, Galliano’s Margiela debut leapt to the head of the pack as a leading statement, something bold and brave and fresh added to the conversation. “I think it needed to be established at that season,” Galliano reasons. “Also with the changing landscape of menswear – with all the exciting things that were happening – it was like, ‘Oh my god John, what are you going to do?’” he laughs riotously, his head cracking back from the jaw. The intonation in Galliano’s sentences swirl, from considered and patrician, swelled out by the crisp rounded vowels of received pronunciation, to a cockney drawl that sketches out Galliano’s childhood in Streatham, South London. He was born Juan Carlos Antonio Galliano-Guillén in Gibraltar but moved to London with his two sisters when he was six. His dad was a plumber, his mother danced flamenco on the kitchen table-tops. The sentence ends on that London drawl, a plaintive wail tinged with mirth. What was Galliano going to do for this, his Margiela menswear debut?

It feels strange to call any Galliano collection a debut – Galliano has been at Margiela since October 2014. He’s also 57, a Commander of the British Empire, a reference-point for generations of talent from the late 80s onwards. Something of an institution in and of himself. He’s John Galliano! But in Saint-Tropez, he’s JG – his own nomenclature, perhaps adopted during the wake of his dismissal from his eponymous label and the house of Christian Dior in 2011 following a racist outburst in a Parisian bar. That episode was a very visible result of a then-clandestine but now well-documented addiction to drugs and alcohol that had spanned the majority of Galliano’s career: the immediate aftermath of it was a difficult period of rehabilitation, public penitence and a tabloid lashing, when the name Galliano closed doors rather than opened them. Maybe it was then that anonymity (very Margiela) began to seem enticing. Seven years later, in Saint-Tropez, Galliano looks well, fresh and relaxed – despite that baggage, almost unremarkably so, in a way that a designer would to journalists accustomed to seeing them wound tight between fittings in the days leading up to their show. Unlike others, Galliano, famously, doesn’t see press backstage at his Margiela shows and refuses to bow at the end – a trait he shares with Martin himself. He does, however, give interviews. Which is how we wind up on the Riviera, curled up in Galliano’s adopted living room, talking about the meaninglessness of menswear.

“More than just which way to go, it was to help me define who is the Margiela man,” Galliano says, of that first collection. Then he stops. “I say that and I take a breath as well,” he states – smiling – like a stage direction. “Because I don’t feel comfortable saying that. Today… Just calling it menswear and women’s made me kind of blanche a bit.” His sophomore offering for Margiela menswear (sorry) was staged in June in the Margiela atelier as a tiny Artisanal show, the name given to the line’s offerings for haute couture which are made-to-measure, one-off and traditionally only for women. The latest of those he dubbed ‘Nomadic Glamour’: rather than an elegiac Galliano voyage through space and time, there were ideas of clothes travelling around the body – “So a skirt became a cape and then, within it, I cut the memory of jacket,” is how Galliano describes it. The actual garment in question was the opening look of the show, a coral foam skirt migrated to the shoulders, head poking through the waistband, with the shape of a single-breasted jacket spliced out and peeled away, like a Vesalius drawing – or a frog in a high school biology class. There was, actually, no reason this couldn’t be worn by a man too. “Quickly just think of a very testosterone-driven image of Clint Eastwood in a poncho. Just to aquarelle the look,” Galliano says, expressively. “It just made sense. That hey, this could be really fun, and I don’t know if we’re going to be successful or not. But the idea is quite unique. The idea that a cape, certain items, could easily work on either-or.”

Galliano has frequently called haute couture the ‘parfum’ that infuses through the rest of the house’s creations, the way an essence is literally watered-down, to create a variation slightly less intense but still powerful and intoxicating. Another debut, this was the first time an entire Artisanal collection had been offered for men – at Margiela, by Galliano, or indeed in the realms of haute couture at all (although several houses, most notably Gaultier Paris and Dior when helmed by Galliano, have offered couture clothing for men, but only accompanying designs for women). “At the most extreme, I wanted to establish how Artisanal men could inspire, so we put the spotlight on that this season,” reasons Galliano.

Made-to-measure haute couture may be inspiring, but it doesn’t pay the bills – or fill the stores. “We still did the ready-to-wear,” allows Galliano. “It’s still there, and we sold it. Some of the silhouettes were echoed in the Artisanal man, but it had its own inspiration, etcetera, etcetera. And that I will show with the women’s in September, which was my aversion to – ” Galliano shrieks, theatrically, to the cheap seats in the back “ – menswear! Which is un peu démodé. So it’ll be a mix of the two. Un-binary, genderless. And that’s the challenge.” Just don’t call it co-ed, or mixed. “It would just be too easy to have the boys wearing girls and the girls wearing boys,” says Galliano thoughtfully. “That’s not what it is today. Find your own masculinity. Find your own femme. Define it yourself. And that’s what they’re doing today, and I’m so there.” He smiles wide. “Because I grew up with all that but it was not easy. You got a good beating back then.”

John Galliano has played games with gender before. Indeed, as difficult as it is for the short-term memory of fashion to reconcile the somewhat precious, couture-driven output of the prior stage of his career with the identity he is forging for Margiela, it has always been there, bubbling under the surface. In the 1980s, when Galliano exploded onto the scene following his 1984 Bachelor of Arts graduation collection, titled Les Incroyables and dedicated to the provocative, politicised aristocratic rebels of the Terror of the 1790s, his billowing, histrionic clothes – ruffled organdie blouses, puckered brocade waistcoats, sweeping frock-coats – were worn by models of both sexes, pouting and preening, reflections of the crucible of a hedonistic London club scene latterly dubbed ‘New Romantics’.

Galliano still finds the idea – and that period – inspiring today. Not to replicate the clothes, but to mirror the energy, the emotion and the experimentation. “Shirts were worn as skirts. Do you remember?” Galliano declares. “You button in front and tie the sleeves. I remember doing the Malcolm McLaren cover with Amanda” – now Harlech, then Grieve, Galliano’s first stylist and creative collaborator for 12 years. They met after Galliano’s graduation and worked together to style the artwork for McLaren’s 1984 album Fans. “And Malcolm threw an old v-neck Shetland sweater at me and said ‘Do something with that – they say you’re a genius.’” Galliano’s voice notches up an octave; the Streatham comes out. “And I’m like: alright bitch, I’ll do something with it! And I asked the model to step into it, so the v was like to here,” Galliano scissors his own crotch, smirking. “And we tied the thing around. Amanda was like, ‘Oh, it’s fab! It’s a bustle!’ Do you know what I mean? That v-neck became a skirt!” A final octave. “This territory that was fun and you can probably tell from my voice I’m still quite excited by it. Naïve? More naïve isn’t it. Which is quite fab.”

Those were the sort of clothes that provoked those beatings in the street, just as their 18th-century antecedents did. Galliano himself didn’t just design them: an ardent clubber, he wore them, too, living the fantasy – and they were bought by men and women alike, something oddly geared to a current mood of malleable, kinetic gender identity. Galliano has designed traditionally-defined menswear before – between 2004 and 2011, there was a Galliano Hommes collection presented biannually in Paris. The final own-label show he took a bow at was his winter 2011 menswear outing dedicated to Rudolf Nureyev: Galliano was dressed in tapestry sarouel trousers, a twine-bound fur coat, a kubanka and several tassels that seemed tugged down from the curtains of the Winter Palace. It was, as they say, a look.

Those ‘looks’ were seen as a key reflection of whatever creative inspiration had taken root – if Galliano was transforming his models into nomadic warriors, or cabaret floozies, or sweat-soaked flamenco dancers – male or female – a bit would inevitably rub off on him too, like make-up on the dance floor, rubbing off someone else’s face onto yours. So much so, indeed, that when the Galliano Hommes line was first presented, it was very much seen as an extension of the multiplicitous, multifaceted identities Galliano had been proffering for years. Today, Galliano is lower-key – in shorts, Chuck Taylors, an enviously holey Nirvana ‘Corporate Rock Whores’ t-shirt. He’s off-duty. The Margiela man – or rather, Margiela person – Galliano is creating isn’t himself. And the expansion into menswear certainly isn’t about dressing himself. “It is true that I would express myself because I was living the part of the creator,” says Galliano, when this is mentioned. “But I had to consciously stop that. Because of the work I had done on the inside. If it wasn’t reflected on the outside people… maybe thought that I hadn’t done the work. I noticed that. So I started to wear suits when I went out or had lunch with people. Almost that anonymity I quite liked. I quite liked not being judged like that. I mean the suits were faultless! Savile Row! But I quite liked that anonymity. I’m a bit more cautious of what I look like when I’m out there now.”

Galliano punctuates that with fragments of laughter, a wicked whiplash of that Streatham accent on the word ‘faultless’. But he’s alluding to his public breakdown in 2011, which resulted in his departure from the Dior and Galliano houses and a period coming clean in the Meadows rehabilitation facility in Arizona. His conversation is still keyed to the language of psychotherapy and recovery – that inside/outside work, which is never entirely complete. He describes social media as “addictive – the likes, loves”. He once told me it had taught him the subtle difference between being famous and infamous.

Galliano’s fame made the idea of him helming the famously faceless Maison Margiela difficult for many to swallow, in the first instance. For many, his hyper-visibility masked the similarities between their respective aesthetics. Galliano’s 80s flamboyance, for instance, was tempered with an urge to rip fashion apart. “Judy Blame, Christopher Nemeth, John Flett, John Moore, all that posse. That’s what we were into,” he states. “A lot of the experimental was what one did as a young designer anyways in the 80s: the inside-out, the upside-down. We were all doing it in London anyway.” Galliano turned out tricks like deliberately-misbuttoned waistcoats puckering and twisting torsos, trousers worn as jackets, corks and coins as unconventional fastenings and white paint – a Margiela signature – liberally plastering hair and splattered over garments. And Margiela himself, long whitewashed as an edgy Belgian deconstructionist, obviously had a romantic side – his long slip dresses like linings ripped from grand ball gowns, his spring 1993 collection festooned with gold braid embroideries over billowing white voile dresses, his first jacket with those narrow puffed Victorian shoulders. There’s romance in the bones of Margiela.

“It’s wrong how people sometimes describe his work,” says John Galliano, today. “Everyone has to look at his earlier work to really get what Martin was about. It was full of emotion and it was romantic. That early stuff. Flea-bitten, put-together. Fierce. Fierce. And romantic.” Galliano inhales from a cigarette – today, smoking is his only vice, alongside the Tarte Tropézienne, a citrus-infused brioche filled with crème pâtissière made by Galliano’s cook, a white witch who wards off mosquito bites by pressing the sign of the cross into the skin with the end of a fingernail, Galliano tells me, an eyebrow raised. Add to that list of vices romance: Galliano is an incurable romantic, as that aforementioned near Grand-Guignol story testifies. Galliano also tells me that his aforementioned neighbour, the nonagenarian Princess Napoléon, dances through the forests of their adjoining properties dressed in white in the dead of night. The ravishing Miss Havisham imagery is pure Galliano fantasia – one part couture, one part Capote, it has the ring of truth. But not too loud a peal. That princess could have inspired one of Galliano’s previous collections, which came imbued with complex storylines, individual characters inspiring fabric treatments, creative approaches, drama sewn into every seam – and although his work has evolved and matured, that sensibility is constant. “It’s less literal. There’s not really a narrative anymore like there used to be. Other things that are different: influences and a younger energy,” Galliano reasons. “But I am a romantic. You can’t deny yourself. I wouldn’t be JG if I did.” He pauses. “Martin was too. When we had our famous tea together, it was then I discovered his love for 17th-century French literature and 18th-century costumes. He loved it. But he wouldn’t go there because you-know-who was cornering that market…” Again, that wicked laugh.

Galliano and Margiela met during his early months at the house, before his first show: it was important for Galliano to feel that Margiela felt the house was in safe hands (he seemingly did). For a designer obsessed with anonymity, Martin Margiela is one of the most present presences on the international fashion scene. His clothes, his shows, his overall conceptual conceits are all often (and arguably all too often) referenced. Monsieur Margiela himself – now apparently teaching painting in Paris – has come out of his grand seclusion to co-curate two exhibitions of his work, one at the Palais Galliera devoted to Margiela, another of the clothes created during his tenure at the French luxury leather house Hermès between 1997 and 2003, shown at the ModeMuseum Provincie Antwerpen (this year transferred to the Musée des Arts Décoratifs in Paris). He still isn’t doing interviews, but in an unprecedented step seems to be taking ownership of the ideas the Maison originated and which have fallen into popular fashion vernacular.

Galliano himself was an ardent Margiela fan – and a client of the designer’s menswear. “I remember the best pieces I bought. The trench that was made out of old printed shopping bags. A fab knuckleduster that they tried to take away from me on the Eurostar. I know the pieces,” says Galliano, ticking them off on his fingers. “The jumper with the net tulle over it. I was a great fan. And loyal fan. When Martin was there, I bought and wore the stuff. Oh I have the white painted jeans, the white painted boots. I have the iconic pieces.”

Yet there is no urge for rehash – at least, no urge from Galliano, who at Margiela is ironically one of the few untouched by the surge in interest in the original creations of the label’s founder. Possibly the establishment re-emergence of Margiela – both man, and maison – in museums have influenced Galliano’s radical reimagining of what the label could mean in the 21st century. But it is also an oddly prescient approach he has taken from his first collection for the house – never relying on the past of Margiela to inspire the present, or the future. After all, the Margiela label is symbolically white; Galliano has taken it as a literal blank canvas. “We’re not there to curate Martin’s work. That’s why I keep saying let go of the corpse. Let go of the corpse. You can only do that for so long. And then you can put yourself into a corner and that’s all you’re doing. Let’s be brave and let’s possibly shine a light on a new way to go maybe,” states Galliano. “I didn’t want to go there to curate. That would be too much of a day job, for me. I made it very clear at the beginning, with the guys that be and the teams. At the beginning, of course, everyone went through the archives. How could you not? They’re amazing. We actually put them into shape, put what was missing back. There’s proper archives now. But it would just be too easy. Just curating. It’s like treading water. How long can you tread water for?”

That’s not to say Galliano has jettisoned Margiela’s influence entirely. It would be not only sacrilege, but near-impossible. Alongside very few other designers – Azzedine Alaïa, Rei Kawakubo, Miuccia Prada, Vivienne Westwood, Yohji Yamamoto and Galliano himself – Margiela’s work defined the lines of the last quarter of the 20th century, and laid the foundations for the 21st. You can see subtle echoes of Margiela’s working techniques, his lines and approaches to fabrics and cuts – a use of slick, plasticised surfaces, the sloped shoulders, a love of the dishevelled and unfinished as a form of unconventional decoration. A frayed hem, instead of a fringe.

Yet Galliano’s iterations are utterly idiosyncratic – not Margiela, nor entirely Galliano (at least, how we used to know him). “I’d like to take it, be inspired by it and make it go somewhere. Or just the idea of exploring the idea of a new glamour – that was part three you just saw [at the haute couture]. I feel like I’m working like Martin. I can really put my hand on the heart and say that. I didn’t find that in the archives – but just the thinking of it. The nomadic idea – it’s territory that he explored... Upside-down stuff. Arriving at it through a psychology is much more interesting, fresh, and inspiring for me and the team. Because otherwise we are just curating. How creative can you get when you just curate? You need the surprises. You need the failures. You need the things that work, that don’t work. There has to be the element of surprise.”

There are few more surprising stories than the spectacular fall and rise of John Galliano, his rebirth at Maison Margiela, the rediscovery of a talent championed as one of our era’s finest. More surprising still, today fashion’s arch romanticist is making clothes inspired not by historical nostalgia, but the digitised landscape of contemporary culture, with its challenges to traditional, established notions – of luxury, of gender identity, of the reasons for dressing. “It is an inspiring time. It really is I think for a designer. For sure,” says Galliano. “I don’t just want to connect with the world. I need to connect. I need to be stimulated. I need to get excited. I need to give that energy to my team. I need to feel like it’s new, to get me out of bed.”

Taken from Another Man Magazine

[marij-94791199]

Breathless Without You 

Photography: Ethan James Green, 

Styling: Ellie Grace Cumming

Taken from the A/W18 ‘Romance and Ritual’ issue of Another Man:

JOHN GALLIANO SPEAKS TO ALEXANDER FURY ON GENDER AND FASHION

At the helm of Maison Margiela, John Galliano is conjuring a spectacular new vision of genderless glamour. In an exclusive interview, fashion’s great virtuoso muses on his enduring love affair with modernity, romanticism and reinvention

For the past 18 years, John Galliano has spent most of July and August in a modest house on the coast of Saint-Tropez. The house is owned by a man who made a fortune from marketing duty-free alcohol miniatures; the only other home in the vicinity is occupied by Alix, Princess Napoléon, ‘Empress of the French’ in pretence, in her twilight years. It’s fairly inaccessible by land, especially at the peak of summer, when traffic snakes along the coastal slaloms – instead, a boat buffets travellers from Nice across the Côte d’Azur to a rock jetty, past the kind of pleasure cruisers colloquially referred to as ‘Gin Palaces’, lazily floating, filled with billionaires and bullion and Bollinger and collagen. It is the French Riviera after all. It sounds romantic, but in actual fact the boat that ferries you to John Galliano is somewhat industrial, a high-powered inflatable number called a Zodiac that smashes through the surf at near-literal breakneck speed. It’s hard work.

That’s a fitting metaphor for the work of Galliano, particularly his latest incarnation helming Maison Margiela, where his intrinsic sense of romance has melded with something harder and tougher, something rougher, to create a new vocabulary of design for both himself and the house. In January, he debuted his first menswear ideas for Margiela – he had previously been involved, he asserts, but in a looser, more abstract way, guiding an appropriately anonymous group of designers. Since the founder’s official departure in 2008, the results hadn’t gelled, for either Margiela nor its audience. The Autumn/Winter 2018 collection was Galliano’s first attempt at elucidating that frequently-elusive Margiela man – and rather than try to segregate him from the identity of the womenswear, Galliano cleverly melded the two together. The obsessions of Galliano’s collections for women merged with silhouettes of masculinity – abstract notions of glamour, like slithery bias-cut satin spliced into a two-piece tuxedo instead of an evening dress; thumped-up, bricolage sneakers below sloppy wide-shoulder coating; the idea of the décortiqué, literally translating to peeled or shelled (as in, shelling a crab) and denoting garments dissected to their bare bones, rendering the functional decorative and lending an ornament to the utilitarian.

There was, throughout, a synergy to the offering – which is what Galliano declared the giant, Bird’s Custard-yellow symbol painted across the catwalk stood for, too. Although the synergy was left vague – between men and women, between Margiela and Galliano, between these clothes and the outside world. Or potentially, all of the above. “That collection in concept was similar to the first collection – Artisanal – I did in London,” says Galliano, slowly. It’s six months later – he’s shown three collections for women and another menswear since then, so is scrolling through images of the clothes on an iPad as digital age aide memoire. “So it was a collection of intent. We were trying to try a little bit of this – some tailoring, some more casual, one bias-cut suit. I was building blocks, to get some feedback, some reaction.”

The reaction was strong – in a period of menswear upheavals, of departures and rehires and the inevitable anticipation such turmoil brings, Galliano’s Margiela debut leapt to the head of the pack as a leading statement, something bold and brave and fresh added to the conversation. “I think it needed to be established at that season,” Galliano reasons. “Also with the changing landscape of menswear – with all the exciting things that were happening – it was like, ‘Oh my god John, what are you going to do?’” he laughs riotously, his head cracking back from the jaw. The intonation in Galliano’s sentences swirl, from considered and patrician, swelled out by the crisp rounded vowels of received pronunciation, to a cockney drawl that sketches out Galliano’s childhood in Streatham, South London. He was born Juan Carlos Antonio Galliano-Guillén in Gibraltar but moved to London with his two sisters when he was six. His dad was a plumber, his mother danced flamenco on the kitchen table-tops. The sentence ends on that London drawl, a plaintive wail tinged with mirth. What was Galliano going to do for this, his Margiela menswear debut?

It feels strange to call any Galliano collection a debut – Galliano has been at Margiela since October 2014. He’s also 57, a Commander of the British Empire, a reference-point for generations of talent from the late 80s onwards. Something of an institution in and of himself. He’s John Galliano! But in Saint-Tropez, he’s JG – his own nomenclature, perhaps adopted during the wake of his dismissal from his eponymous label and the house of Christian Dior in 2011 following a racist outburst in a Parisian bar. That episode was a very visible result of a then-clandestine but now well-documented addiction to drugs and alcohol that had spanned the majority of Galliano’s career: the immediate aftermath of it was a difficult period of rehabilitation, public penitence and a tabloid lashing, when the name Galliano closed doors rather than opened them. Maybe it was then that anonymity (very Margiela) began to seem enticing. Seven years later, in Saint-Tropez, Galliano looks well, fresh and relaxed – despite that baggage, almost unremarkably so, in a way that a designer would to journalists accustomed to seeing them wound tight between fittings in the days leading up to their show. Unlike others, Galliano, famously, doesn’t see press backstage at his Margiela shows and refuses to bow at the end – a trait he shares with Martin himself. He does, however, give interviews. Which is how we wind up on the Riviera, curled up in Galliano’s adopted living room, talking about the meaninglessness of menswear.

“More than just which way to go, it was to help me define who is the Margiela man,” Galliano says, of that first collection. Then he stops. “I say that and I take a breath as well,” he states – smiling – like a stage direction. “Because I don’t feel comfortable saying that. Today… Just calling it menswear and women’s made me kind of blanche a bit.” His sophomore offering for Margiela menswear (sorry) was staged in June in the Margiela atelier as a tiny Artisanal show, the name given to the line’s offerings for haute couture which are made-to-measure, one-off and traditionally only for women. The latest of those he dubbed ‘Nomadic Glamour’: rather than an elegiac Galliano voyage through space and time, there were ideas of clothes travelling around the body – “So a skirt became a cape and then, within it, I cut the memory of jacket,” is how Galliano describes it. The actual garment in question was the opening look of the show, a coral foam skirt migrated to the shoulders, head poking through the waistband, with the shape of a single-breasted jacket spliced out and peeled away, like a Vesalius drawing – or a frog in a high school biology class. There was, actually, no reason this couldn’t be worn by a man too. “Quickly just think of a very testosterone-driven image of Clint Eastwood in a poncho. Just to aquarelle the look,” Galliano says, expressively. “It just made sense. That hey, this could be really fun, and I don’t know if we’re going to be successful or not. But the idea is quite unique. The idea that a cape, certain items, could easily work on either-or.”

Galliano has frequently called haute couture the ‘parfum’ that infuses through the rest of the house’s creations, the way an essence is literally watered-down, to create a variation slightly less intense but still powerful and intoxicating. Another debut, this was the first time an entire Artisanal collection had been offered for men – at Margiela, by Galliano, or indeed in the realms of haute couture at all (although several houses, most notably Gaultier Paris and Dior when helmed by Galliano, have offered couture clothing for men, but only accompanying designs for women). “At the most extreme, I wanted to establish how Artisanal men could inspire, so we put the spotlight on that this season,” reasons Galliano.

Made-to-measure haute couture may be inspiring, but it doesn’t pay the bills – or fill the stores. “We still did the ready-to-wear,” allows Galliano. “It’s still there, and we sold it. Some of the silhouettes were echoed in the Artisanal man, but it had its own inspiration, etcetera, etcetera. And that I will show with the women’s in September, which was my aversion to – ” Galliano shrieks, theatrically, to the cheap seats in the back “ – menswear! Which is un peu démodé. So it’ll be a mix of the two. Un-binary, genderless. And that’s the challenge.” Just don’t call it co-ed, or mixed. “It would just be too easy to have the boys wearing girls and the girls wearing boys,” says Galliano thoughtfully. “That’s not what it is today. Find your own masculinity. Find your own femme. Define it yourself. And that’s what they’re doing today, and I’m so there.” He smiles wide. “Because I grew up with all that but it was not easy. You got a good beating back then.”

John Galliano has played games with gender before. Indeed, as difficult as it is for the short-term memory of fashion to reconcile the somewhat precious, couture-driven output of the prior stage of his career with the identity he is forging for Margiela, it has always been there, bubbling under the surface. In the 1980s, when Galliano exploded onto the scene following his 1984 Bachelor of Arts graduation collection, titled Les Incroyablesand dedicated to the provocative, politicised aristocratic rebels of the Terror of the 1790s, his billowing, histrionic clothes – ruffled organdie blouses, puckered brocade waistcoats, sweeping frock-coats – were worn by models of both sexes, pouting and preening, reflections of the crucible of a hedonistic London club scene latterly dubbed ‘New Romantics’.

TEXT : Alexander Fury

PHOTOGRAPHY : Ethan James Green

STYLING : Ellie Grace Cumming

[bebe-benzenheimer]

egalitarian = a clever way to try and silence feminists while still pretending to be a good person, most societies classed as “egalitarian” in history books were still grossly unequal to women. list them things that egalitarians done for human rights in less than 10 years. come on! list me all things yall change for humans rights. show me that your shit works. feminist done more good for this world than you.

oh yes, feminists have done SO much good, like:

Feminists threaten to kill woman for saying men need abuse shelters.

Feminists prevent a meeting about male suicide.

Feminists stage mock murders to scare men.

Feminist attacks male cartoonist and is hailed a hero of feminism.

Feminists shut down forum for battered husbands.

Propaganda campaign against male fathers wanting custody.

Feminists wish to slander accused names before convicted.

Try to shut down female prisons.

Create rape laws that exclude female rapists.

Make it impossible to charge women with rape.

Feminists against equal custody.

Female felons should serve home sentences.

Told judges to be lenient on women.

Feminists cover up female domestic violence.

Feminists don’t want the gov to help unemployed men.

Feminists launch campaigns to help girls only while boys are doing worse in every facet of education.

Males who were raped as a child still have to pay child support.

Women should have the right to put a child up for adoption before the father gets custody.

Feminists against beyond reasonable doubt when it’s male rapists.

5 rights feminism ignores for men.

Feminists blame males for their abuse.

The primary aggressor clause where only men get charged with abuse.

Shame men into going to war.

Feminists dismiss female child rapists.

Feminists say men can’t talk about domestic abuse.

Feminists mock a man who has his dick cut off.

Strawmanning MRA members.

feminists attack church.

Feminists transphobia

Feminists slander the MRM

Again,

And again,

Call them terrorists.

Feminists say Men can’t be raped.

Feminists defend female raping minor.

Feminist defends why fucking an 8 year old boy isn’t rape.

Feminists primary aggressor clause discriminates against males.

Feminists cover up female domestic abuse stats.

Woman smashing bottle in mans face in public. Nobody gives a fuck.

Jezebel mocks men who are abused.

Feminists make sure the gov doesn’t spend money on male shelters or male research.

Female on male abuse in public is at best ignored, and at worst celebrated.

Public stops a man from abusing a woman in public, same crowd laughs when the roles are reversed.

No funding for male shelter.

Founder of Canadas only male shelter for abuse forced to close due to lack of funding before committing suicide.

Feminists threaten to kill woman for saying men need abuse shelters.

Feminists prevent a meeting about male suicide.

Feminists stage mock murders to scare men.

Feminist attacks male cartoonist and is hailed a hero of feminism.

Feminists skewed the Definition of Domestic Abuse, resulting in only male abusers being arrested and female abusers not.Feminists’s DV training hurts Police training

Feminist Mary Koss denies malerape victims.

Feminists violently protesting against Warren Farrell at U of Toronto

A mob of feminists at a recent protest attacking and sexually molesting a group of Rosary-praying Catholic men who were peacefully protecting the cathedral in the city of San Juan from threats of vandalism.

Feminists disrupt a forum for battered men

Feminists fought a law for equal custody to be the default if both parents want custody and neither parent is unfit. Multiple times.

Feminists started a campaign against Father’s rights groups

Feminists fought against laws granting men anonymity until charged with the crime of rape—not convicted, just charged.

Feminists fought against a law to end to the justice system favoring women simply because they are women, and giving men harsher sentences simply because they are men.

Feminist fought against men want equal treatment when victims of domestic violence, and to not be arrested for the crime of “being male” under primary aggressor policies.

Feminists in India and Israel fought against femalerapists being arrested, charged and convicted of rape.

Feminists fought against a economic stimulus for male-dominated job such as construction, etc.Feminist fought a law against Paternity Fraud.

Feminist Harriet Harman has publicly requested employers to hire women in preference to White men if both job candidates are equally

Equality Minister,feminist Patricia Hewitt, was found guilty of breaching the Sex Discrimination Act by “overlooking a strong male candidate for a job in favour of a weaker female applicant”.Elected in 2009, the lesbian feminist prime minister Johanna Sigurdardottir has vowed to “end of the Age of Testosterone

Feminists want to peeing while standing illegal

Erin Pizzey had to flee the UK because she and her family received death threats and her dog murdered all because feminists didn’t like that she discovered women were equally as violent as men.

Also Suzanne Steinmetz and her children received death threats and bomb threats she discovered that the rate at which men were victimized by domestic violence was similar to the rate for women.

Richard Gelles and Murray Straus have all received death threats from feminists, simply for publishing their findings (that female-to-male family violence was equal to the rate of male-to-female violence).Feminists say Men can’t be raped. Feminists defend female raping minor.

Feminist defends why fucking an 8 year old boy isn’t rape.

Most feminists backed studies are bullshit.

Beyond reasonable doubt doesn’t apply to rape.Feminist changes mind on rape culture when her son is falsely accused.

Feminists primary aggressor clause discriminates against males.

Feminists cover up female domestic abuse stats.

Jezebel mocks men who are abused.

Feminists make sure the gov doesn’t spend money on male shelters or male research.

Feminists prevent a meeting about male suicide.

Feminists stage mock murders to scare men.

Feminist attacks male cartoonist and is hailed a hero of feminism.

Feminists shut down forum for battered husbands.

Propaganda campaign against male fathers wanting custody.

Feminists wish to slander accused names before convicted.

Try to shut down female prisons.Create rape laws that exclude female rapists.

Make it impossible to charge women with rape.

Feminists against equal custody.Female felons should serve home sentences.

Told judges to be lenient on women.Feminists cover up female domestic violence.

Feminists don’t want the gov to help unemployed men.

Feminists launch campaigns to help girls only while boys are doing worse in every facet of education.

Males who were raped as a child still have to pay child support.

Women should have the right to put a child up for adoption before the father gets custody.Feminists against beyond reasonable doubt when it’s male rapists.

5 rights feminism ignores for men.

Feminists blame males for their abuse.

The primary aggressor clause where only men get charged with abuse.

Shame men into going to war.

Feminists dismiss female child rapists.

Feminists say men can’t talk about domestic abuse.

Feminists mock a man who has his dick cut off.

feminists attack church.

Feminists shut down a festival about gender equality for including men.

Feminists hope MRA’s die.

Feminists against fathers day.

Feminist makes up fake assault stories.

Female reporter bullied by feminists at the National Young Feminist Leadership Conference

Feminists attack government office and police who show upFeminist fire bomb 3 adult film storesFeminists assault other feminists and loot stores Feminists attack and molest men who are protecting a churchFeminist rebels wage 20 year long war in MexicoFeminist commits string of arson attacks and tries to break out of prisonLGBT Feminist assaults Swedish Politician Feminist bombs 8 buildingsFeminists mutilate dog and force women to flee countryFeminist attack female modelsFeminists plan to blow up clothing storeFeminist terrorize woman and children and send bomb threats Feminists turn Burkina Faso and into an Orwellian nightmareFeminists send bomb threats over people publishing factsFeminists break into the Egyptian Parliament and start making demandsFeminists send bomb threats to journalism conferenceFeminist attempts to assassinate famous artistFeminists call for the largest string of terrorist attacks in human historyFeminists bomb 2 buildings to celebrate National Women’s Day Feminists vandalize restaurant for having the word male in their nameFeminists assault police officers and try to take over The House of CommonsFeminists murder hundreds across Iran in terrorist attacksFeminists murder 386 people and try to take over IrelandFeminists bomb places, commit arson, attempt murder, destroy historical landmarks, and attempt to assassinate The British Prime MinisterFeminist who lead the group that did the things stated above hailed as heroFeminists bomb 45 buildings in GermanyFeminist destroys priceless work of art, commits arson and bombs train station Feminist leader participates in massacre which leaves 116 deadFeminists vandalize collage campus fraternity buildingFeminists attempt to assassinate The British Prime Minister againFeminist commits arson, attacks police, destroy monument showcase for landmark, destroys cell block, attempt to blow up the home of Scotland’s National Poet and assaults another Prime MinisterFeminist professor physically assaults teenage girl for being pro life Feminist tries to blow up postbox with homemade bombFeminists vandalize signs and sends bomb threats over advertisementFeminists attack the archbishop of BrusselsFeminists attack the archbishop of Brussels againArmed Feminists attack the Irish Capital buildingFeminists call for another bombing of Dresden to push Islamic genocideFeminists storm wax museum to destroy statue of politician  The feminist at the guardian thinks men are going to take away their babies.

LOOK AT ALL THAT GOOD STUFF!

[theblogchelor]

Week Five aka Leotards and Love Things

The One-On-One Date with Jack Stone

Jack Stone is a nice Dallas lawyer with an American action hero name and approximately eighty-four teeth in his mouth. He truly never blinks.

He seems privy to the knowledge that he is a deeply unsettling human being. He tries to make Rachel feel more comfortable by being an incredibly uncomfortable dancer and by asking questions like “have you noticed I’ve been staring at you?” When Jack Stone abruptly kisses Rachel no more than twenty minutes into their date, Rachel pulls a Dead Eric and swerves to the hug instead.

Rachel grows increasing concerned that there is no chemistry with Jack Stone. When he unblinkingly confesses that he might love her, Rachel responds with what every woman in America recognizes as the classic “I’m only nodding so you don’t murder me” nod. She picks up the ever-present one-on-one date table rose but instead of giving it to him, she tells him goodbye. Jack Stone stands and undoes the long zipper running down the length of his back, revealing that he was an alien disguised in a human body this whole time. 

Meanwhile, at the house…

Will, a veritable Clark Kent in both looks and smarts, explains what every critic and person on Twitter has been saying for a week: that Lee calling Kenny aggressive is a big, racially-charged no-no. Lee, the hapless white man, decides that he is the victim in all of this. Please remember Lee’s camo sweatpant capris, his various racist transgressions, and his aspiring country music career, and join me in involuntarily gagging at his mere existence.

Later, at the Rose Ceremony, Rachel grants roses to all the men except for whiny Iggy and Dr. Jonathan the tickle fetishist. Between Jack Stone and the tickle guy, Rachel deftly eliminates all the remaining corny white dudes in one fell swoop.  

Norway, José

Rachel takes the men to an exotic country where ninety of the population speaks English. Norway, stunning and cold, provides an excellent opportunity to see the men in a new element: Wisconsin native Peter wears a peacoat and cardigan better than any other human man ever has. Dead Eric wears an Everest-grade 900-fill goose down full-body parka suit, for his frail dead body cannot afford any exposure to the cold.  

Bryan accompanies Rachel on the first one-on-one date in Norway. The PDA is Gosling-and-McAdams-at-the-teenage-part-of-The-Notebook level. Rachel and Bryan snuggle on a bus and then they snuggle on a motorcar and then they snuggle at an Olympic training center. It is someone’s idea to make them repel down the Olympic-sized ski jump, because nothing says romance like exercise in crotch harnesses. They have to stop midway through their repelling to make out.

At dinner, Rachel admits that she was a late bloomer and thus doesn’t know how to take a compliment or accept romantic interest. Bryan comforts her by saying he was ugly once too but now he is hunky burly man and has love feelings for her. Rachel responds, “okay,” gives him a rose, and kisses him in various locations for the next several hours.

Meanwhile, at the Norwegian house…

Dead Eric tells Bald Anthony that he thinks Rachel doesn’t like black men. Bald Anthony doesn’t have the heart to tell him Rachel just doesn’t like one dead black man in particular.  

The Group Date aka Hand Jokes and Ball Jokes

The date card comes bearing news of a group date for all but two. Kenny and Lee both prepare for battle, Kenny by seeking advice from Bryan, and Lee by lifting weights in jeans.

Meanwhile, the men on the group date are taken to play Handball, which, for those of you who don’t know, is soccer but cheating. Whereas previous dates have been excuses to get the men shirtless, this date is an excuse to get Russian Alex in a leotard. Josiah speaks boldly about his athletic abilities but assumes the position of goalkeeper in the Handball game and performs poorly. Peter spends half the game introducing Rachel to every part of his Nylon outfit, but Will steals Rachel’s admiration by pure Handball prowess – the pinnacle of manliness.  

Later, at the Nighttime Booze part of every date, many things happen. Will opens up about his broken heart. Alex reads Rachel a love note he wrote with a crayon he found. Matt gives Rachel a handmade cross-stitch. Dead Eric demands a hug. Josiah, with a disconcertingly straight face and an odd propensity for licking his teeth, tells Rachel she’s the woman of his dreams. She tells Josiah he’s full of shit, and he praises her perceptiveness. Peter and Rachel share some steaminess in the hot tub, but Will wins the group date rose.

The Two-On-One Date aka Snakes and Anticlimax

Rachel takes Kenny and Lee for a pleasant helicopter ride to the remote land of Norwegian snakes. This is a place free of distraction, according to Rachel, except of course for the blinding rage, heightened testosterone, and sexual frustration experienced by both men in her company. No one is dressed for the weather.

In their alone time, Kenny tells Rachel he is a good and Lee is a bad. Then in their alone time, Lee complains to Rachel about being called a bitch and a snake and some other things that I don’t think are true but honestly his hair is gelled so high I’m having trouble focusing on his words. Then in more alone time, Rachel tells Kenny what Lee said. It’s a stupid game of phone tag and no one is having fun. Best date ever!

Kenny knows that even if he tries to defend himself against Lee’s lies, that merely the seed of doubt in Rachel’s mind could be enough to destroy him. He is enraged to a near breaking point when… the episode ends. Yawn.

Miscellaneous

Rachel’s 187 murder comment proves why we like Rachel so much.

Picture: someday in the future Rachel and Jack Stone come face-to-face in Dallas court, and after a long and stressful legal tennis match, Madame Forewoman of the jury declares Jack Stone the winner of the case. When he turns and smirks at Rachel, she lets his smugness marinate for a minute before a smile creeps across her own face and – BOOM – she pops open the buttons on her lawyer blazer to reveal an unmistakable Bachelorette baby bump, full-on Beyoncé at the 2011 MTV Video Music Awards style, and Jack Stone remembers that he was never man enough for her. Just something to think about.

Quote of the night: “I don’t got them Donald Trump hands, I got them real hands.”

Adam needs to go so Adam Jr. has to go. Goodnight. 

[loudlytransparenttrash]

Idk where you get the idea that feminism is anything like you say it is but... maybe you should get off tumblr? I literally don't know one single feminist like the ones you describe and I'm deep in the movement. Stop basing your opinion off parodies.

This is going to be fun. If you don’t know a single feminist like the ones I describe and interact with throughout my blog, then you either live in your bedroom, completely shut off to the world or the more logical choice and that’s you’re a complete fucking liar. Let’s have a little look into some of these feminists, that you just so happen to conveniently know nothing of their existence. 

First of all let’s look at some of the horrible shit feminists have done:

The feminist group WAR has petitioned to have the government stop prosecuting women for filing false accusations.

Feminist Mary Koss denies male rape victims.

Feminists violently protesting against Warren Farrell at U of Toronto.

17,000 feminists at protest attack and sexually molesting a group of Rosary-praying Catholic men who were peacefully protecting the cathedral.

Feminists shut down a talk about male suicide and force university to stop acknowledging International Men’s Day

Feminists shut down forum for battered husbands.

Feminists started a campaign against Father’s rights groups

Feminists fought against laws granting men anonymity until charged with the crime of rape—not convicted, just charged.

Feminists fought against a law to end to the justice system favoring women simply because they are women, and giving men harsher sentences simply because they are men.

Feminist fought against men want equal treatment when victims of domestic violence, and to not be arrested for the crime of “being male” under primary aggressor policies.

Feminists force university president to resign after he claimed that we should all be entitled to free-speech

Feminists in India and Israel fought against female rapists being arrested, charged and convicted of rape.

Feminists harass and abuse teacher because his wife said that people should be allowed to wear Halloween outfits

Feminists fought against a economic stimulus for male-dominated job such as construction, etc.

Feminist fought a law against  Paternity Fraud.

Hateful Quotes by Feminsts

Feminist Harriet Harman has publicly requested employers to hire women in preference to White men if both job candidates are equally

Equality Minister,feminist Patricia Hewitt, was found guilty of breaching the Sex Discrimination Act by “overlooking a strong male candidate for a job in favour of a weaker female applicant”.

The lesbian feminist prime minister Johanna Sigurdardottir has vowed to “end of the Age of Testosterone

Feminists want to make peeing while standing illegal

Erin Pizzey had to flee the UK because she and her family received death threats and her dog murdered all because feminists didn’t like that she discovered women were equally as violent as men.

Also Suzanne Steinmetz and her children received death threats and bomb threats she discovered that  the rate at which men were victimized by domestic violence was similar to the rate for women.

Richard Gelles and Murray Straus  have all received death threats from feminists, simply for publishing their findings (that female-to-male family violence was equal to the rate of male-to-female violence).

Feminist attacks male cartoonist and is hailed a hero of feminism.

Try to shut down female prisons.

Feminists prevent a meeting about male suicide.

Jezebel mocks men who are abused.

Create rape laws that exclude female rapists.

Make it impossible to charge women with rape.

Feminists force children to swear in propaganda videos

Feminists create propaganda videos encouraging to kill men

Feminists don’t want the gov to help unemployed men.

Feminists say men can’t talk about domestic abuse.

Feminists cover up female domestic abuse stats.

Now let’s take a look at just some of the things they have had meltdowns over: 

Domino’s pizza boxes A campaign slogan written on a Domino’s pizza box, which conveyed their refusal to adhere to requested toppings changes on their artisan pizzas as a good thing, is sexist, as it perpetuates “rape culture.”

Science The University of Wisconsin - Madison (UW) offers “a post-doctorate in ‘feminist biology’ because biological science is rife with sexism and must be changed to reflect feminist thinking.” 

Voting for Donald Trump If you voted for Trump in the primary, it was clearly a sexist reactionary vote to the tsunami of Girl Power taking over America, according to Salon. Obviously, this “logic” extends to your vote in the general.

Fireworks Sexist fireworks are nothing more than a symptom of toxic masculinity: “Isn’t it sort of messed up that we celebrate our freedom by pretending to blow things up? Like a strange, collective working out of trauma,” explains NPR reporter Sarah McCammon.

Lab Rats Barbra Streisand explains: “Gender inequality even extends to mice in the labs. They’re all male! …So even female mice are discriminated against! When I asked why, the answer I got was that female mice have hormones so they’re more complex. Well, so are women!”

Calling a “pantsuit” a “pantsuit” As the New York Post points out, feminists find the word “pantsuit” sexist: Although pantsuits and traditional men’s suits are stylistically different, it’s sexist to differentiate between them with the added word “pant.”

Bras Bras are sexist because men don’t have to wear them.

Architecture As one progressive art professor explained: “architectural design has been dominated by men in order to promote a social/political order dominated by men.”

Complimenting a woman on her cooking According to Scientific American, complimenting a woman on her cooking reinforces gender stereotypes, and is a form of “benevolent sexism.”

Air conditioning Women are cold while men bask in the sexist office air conditioning. 

The word “too” In a piece titled “The 3-Letter Word That Cuts Women Down Every Day,” Huffington Post’s Cameron Schaeffer explains that use of the adverb “too” promotes the pretense that women are never good enough; they are either “too” this or “too” that.

Tickling Posting in America’s favorite feminist site we swore was satirical, Everyday Feminism, male feminist Jamie Utt explains that his incessant playful tickling of his girlfriend is actually rooted in inherent sexism, which was fostered by the patriarchy. Essentially, Jamie tickling his girlfriend is perpetuating rape culture: “Taken to its destructive ends, this can look like a million different violations of consent,” warns Utt.

Ski slopes A published academic report in The International Review for the Sociology of Sports concluded ski slopes are sexist because they are ‘masculinized spaces,’” reports the Daily Wire’s Pardes Seleh.

The alphabet The written language established “the patriarchy” and subsequently all of the world’s sexism, claim feminists.

Disliking pumpkin-spice lattes Katherine Timpf at National Review reports: “According to a Swarthmore College student’s op-ed, the real reason that people make fun of pumpkin-spice lattes is that our society thinks everything girls like is stupid because ‘girls don’t get to have valid emotions.’”

Preferring a woman shaves her legs Everyday Feminism explains that online dating sites like OKCupid help us “weed out misogynists” by asking questions like, “Do you think women have the obligation to keep their legs shaved?” If a man answers yes, he’s a sexist.

Emojis There are no menstruation-themed emojis so… sexism.

Wearing camouflageWearing camouflage is “anti-feminist:” Camouflage is representative of “the patriarchy,” so, by wearing such symbolic clothing, you are supporting female (and other “marginalized” groups’) oppression.

The phrase “hit on” This phase is apparently literal to feminists, and thus is considered “violent” sexist language that perpetuates “rape culture.”

Saying “I love women” Bustle explains that when a man says, “I love women,” he’s actually implying that he loves women “more” than men, which “implies that [women] are different, which others them and excludes those who act more ‘like men.’”

The Declaration of Independence Feminists view the Declaration of Independence as “an historical cause of sexism, as the document refers only to ‘all men’ — not ‘men and women.’”

Calling your daughter a “princess” Fathers calling their daughter “princess,” or treating them “special” is any way, is a form of “benevolent sexism.”

Asking a woman about her tattoos A man asking a woman about her tattoos, explains Everyday Feminism, is the equivalent of turning her “body into public property.” One such question given as an example: “How much did it cost?”

“Ladies’ night” UNC seniors protest “ladies’ night” at bars because it is sexist, as the promotional stunt is “demeaning to female bargoers.”

Glaciers “Academics at the University of Oregon have determined that glaciers and the science that studies them are deeply sexist.” “Merging feminist postcolonial science studies and feminist political ecology, the feminist glaciology framework generates robust analysis of gender, power, and epistemologies in dynamic social-ecological systems, thereby leading to more just and equitable science and human-ice interactions,” reads the abstract of an academic paper on the matter.

Long lines outside public women’s restrooms “Long lines for women’s restrooms are the result of a history that favors men’s bodies,” proclaims Soraya Chemaly, in a TIME piece. “Women are still forced to stand in lines at malls, schools, stadiums, concerts, fair grounds, theme parks, and other crowded public spaces,” she explains. “This is frustrating, uncomfortable, and, in some circumstances, humiliating. It’s also a form of discrimination, as it disproportionately affects women.”

Men grilling food When men grill food, they are only reaffirming “gender roles.” A self-loathing male feminist at explains he has fallen into a “societal trap.”

The animated film “Minions” The animated film was full of “gags,” adhering “to only the most rigid and nauseating gender tropes,” complains a feminist blogger. Plus, minions conveniently “only ever serve men.”

String cheese According to this feminist, string cheese is sexist.

Words with “man” in them According to the Gender, Sexuality, and Women’s Studies Program website at the University of Pittsburg, words like “mankind,” “freshman” and “chairman” are sexist. “'Terms to Use to Avoid Sexist Language’ are also included in an attempt to steer students away from using words like ‘mankind,’ ‘chairman,’ and ‘freshman.’ Instead, they ought to be replaced with gender-neutral options such as ‘humankind,’ ‘chair or chairperson,’ and ‘first year student.’”

Speech improvement apps Speech improvement apps like “Ummo,” which tracks non-filler words, such as “like” and “uh,” are sexist because they are  “policing women’s language.”

Shoe compliments Shoe compliments are apparently “sexist micro-aggressions.” UNC faculty members were advised against paying a woman a shoe compliment, since this is coded language for: “I notice how you look and dress more than I value your intellectual contributions.”

The color pink Since there is an undeniable knee-jerk association of the color pink with women and femininity (which in it of itself is sexist, according to feminists), when men refrain from wearing the color, they are actually saying that it’s “shameful to be a woman.”

Hating the feminist “Ghostbusters” reboot. According to a feminist at The Atlantic, the “outcry” over how crappy the new feminist “Ghostbusters” trailer was fueled by your sexism.

Spooning Spooning is apparently so sexist that Slate felt it necessary to write an entire “manifesto” against it. According to J. Bryan Lowder, the heart of spooning reveals a sexist power struggle, and reaffirms gender stereotypes: The “big spoon” is dominant and male, whereas the “little spoon” is submissive and female.

Telling a woman, “you look tired” “Chances are if a woman has a totally bare face, she’ll be told by both male and female colleagues that she looks exhausted, hungover or ill … people are so used to seeing made-up women at work that an au naturale face seems anything but natural,” Radhika Sanghani writes in a piece oh-so-aptly titled “It’s sexist to tell a woman she ‘looks tired’ at work.”

Mine shaft According to college feminists, the “phallic” words “mine shaft” contribute to “rape culture,” reports Heat Street.

Tampons Women should be able to “free bleed” without the use of sexist tampons, which are only used by women because men “period shame” them. Feminists have even run marathons while “free bleeding” in protest of good hygiene apparently mandated by “the patriarchy.”

Asking a woman to marry you The sexist dominant/submissive power dynamic behind a man asking a woman to marry him acts to reinforce “rape culture,” feminists argue.

Harry Potter The fictional “Happy Potter” books and films are sexist, as they “perpetuate rape culture” by using magical love potions on fictional characters without “consent.”

Indiana Jones There are “copious quantities of racism and sexism” in the “Indiana Jones” films, says Salon’s Matthew Rozsa. For instance, women in the films are often depicted as “materialistic, self-absorbed and shrill.”

Calling a woman “sweetheart” Feminist actresses Lena Dunham and Emma Stone say that calling a woman “sweetheart” (also “honey,” “baby,” or “babe”) is demeaning to women, and can be “just as damaging as any other name-calling” like “bitch.”

Telling a woman, “you look tired” “Chances are if a woman has a totally bare face, she’ll be told by both male and female colleagues that she looks exhausted, hungover or ill … people are so used to seeing made-up women at work that an au naturale face seems anything but natural,” Radhika Sanghani writes in a piece oh-so-aptly titled “It’s sexist to tell a woman she ‘looks tired’ at work — and here’s why.”

Comic books and graphic novels Female characters in comic books and graphic novels are portrayed with “a blatant sexualization that artists would not dare to submit their treasured male characters to,” complains an opinion piece in The Guardian.

Putting your arm around your girlfriend When a man puts his arm around his girlfriend, he is expressing “ownership” over her, says feminist actress Helen Mirren: “It annoys me when I see men with an arm slung around their girlfriend’s shoulders,” she said. “It’s like ownership.”

The nuclear family Leftist UT Professor Dana Cloud says that sexism is perpetuated through the traditional family structure, which is itself “oppressive” to women.

Slow motion Showing women in videos in slow motion invokes misogynistic “Baywatch” imagery and acts to objectify women. This was recently categorized as sexist after feminists freaked out over a promotional soccer video which featured female fans cheering in slow motion.

Complaining about political correctness If someone complains that something is politically incorrect, they are really just a misogynist using such language as a cover to say/do sexist things, says Everyday Feminism. Also, they are likely a racist.

“Boyfriend” jeans “Boyfriend” style jeans are sexist for a whole lot of reasons, apparently. Being created to benefit the ‘male gaze’ is the main issue.

Farting “By farting louder the man is using passive aggressive violence to position himself as dominant, this intimidates the woman to subconsciously not release as much flatulence and thus the woman fearing for her safety doesn’t fart as loud as a sign of submissiveness, this in turn contributes to rape culture and women being oppressed.”

Interrupting a woman This is apparently not just rude behavior, but sexist, since it’s really a symptom of the patriarchy teaching men that women deserve to be interrupted, as they are not your equal but your inferior.

The derogatory phrase “go f*ck yourself” To feminists, “go f*ck yourself” is not just a nasty, derogatory phrase used by both sexes, it’s sexist against women because it reinforces “rape culture.”

The word “cupcake” The word “cupcake” enforces the gender stereotypes that women and girls are weak, frail and need protection. 

Witchcraft According to internet feminists, witchcraft is sexist because it’s woman-centric.

Hollywood There are far too many white men casted as leads and working behind the camera, notes Salon. “Hollywood’s diversity crisis is even worse than we thought: Straight white men still rule, on screen and off.”

The phrase “I will force myself” Apparently, saying that you will “force” yourself to do something is coded language for it’s-okay-to-rape-women. This “violent” language perpetuates “rape culture,” feminists say.

Professionalism “Professionalism” in the workplace is “oppressive” toward women, as it reinforces “social hierarchies that value white maleness above all,” feminists say.

The word “ladies” The word “ladies” reeks of “paternalistic condescension,” according to feminists

Complimenting a woman’s handwriting Apparently, telling a woman she has “nice handwriting” is sexist. The reason why it’s “sexist” is unknown, as it was fussed over by feminists in Bristol without so much as an explanation.

Men sitting with their knees apart “Manspreading” is “an assertion of male dominance,” and “every one” of the manspreaders does it because he feels like he has to “claim his territory and his manhood in this public space, even at the discomfort of all the other passengers.”

Running against Hillary Clinton A feminist reporter from the New York Times suggested that it was sexist for Bernie Sanders to run against Hillary Clinton in the 2016 Democratic primary, as it might have blocked Hillary from becoming the first female nominee of a major party.

The word “cheer” The word “cheer” was stricken from a college fight song, as the word was thought to “devalue the accomplishments of female students.”

Clapping Citing ‘triggering’ concerns, feminist convention bans clapping, replaces with ‘Jazz Hands’. ‘Clicking fingers’ is also replacing clapping at universities as it’s safer.

Having to pay for a tampon Feminists are upset that they have to pay for their own basic hygiene—which is obviously a condition of the patriarchy oppressing women who can’t escape their period due to sexist biology.

Finding purpose in motherhood Finding purpose in motherhood is a patriarchal trap, as seen when feminists lost their minds over singer Adele proclaiming such an anti-feminist sentiment.

Not supporting Hillary Clinton for president If you don’t support the candidate with a uterus, and you have a uterus, there is a special place in hell for you.

Of course, if you’re a man and don’t support Hillary, you’re obviously pro-female-oppression and can’t stomach the thought of a uterus occupying the White House.

Man caves Man caves are a “disgusting patriarchal myth” and often “exclude” women, therefore, they are sexist.

Reports that a celebrity might be pregnant “Ban the bump-watch: Beyoncé’s belly scrutiny is sexist, invasive and bad for all women,” reads a Salon headline. I mean, why does the sexist media only notice a “baby bump” with women? Sexist biology strikes again.

A Target t-shirt A t-shirt sold in Target with the word “Trophy” on it is “demeaning to women,” feminists complain.

A prom photo A prom photo caused outrage as it shows boys in “thought” and girls “smiling,” the photo perpetuates some negative, sexist stereotypes, apparently.

School dances The expectation that boys have to ask girls to the dance acts to reinforce sexist gender stereotypes. 

Telling young boys, “you need a haircut” By telling a young boy that he “needs a haircut,” you are actually telling him that he is looking “too feminine— as if looking feminine is the worst thing a boy can do,” explains a feminist at Bustle.

The word “bossy” The negative connotation of the “gendered” word “bossy” perpetuates the sexist notion that women should not “lead.”

Opening doors for women This is a form of “benevolent sexism,” according to feminists at Everyday Feminism who insist that “chivalry must die.” By opening the door for a woman, you are not being polite, you’re signaling that women are weak and men are here to protect and take care of them. Talk about a loaded gesture.

School and workplace dress codes School and workplace dress codes often conform to what’s deemed “appropriate” to the “male gaze.” 

Amazon On Amazon, you can search for “girls’ toys” and “boys’ toys,” such a distinction is sexist.

Gender-specific bathrooms The patriarchy created gender-specific bathrooms to exclude women and treat them as man’s lesser; according to feminists, women wanted in on the men’s room.

A statue “This highly lifelike sculpture has, within just a few hours of its outdoor installation, become a source of apprehension, fear, and triggering thoughts regarding sexual assault for many members of our campus community,” reads the petition in part. “While it may appear humorous, or thought-provoking to some, it has already become a source of undue stress for many Wellesley College students, the majority of whom live, study, and work in this space.” More than 300 students at the women’s liberal-arts college have asked that it be removed. But the naked paintings and sculptures of Trump are celebrated?

Viewing Friday the thirteenth as unlucky “According to the Feminist Internet, Friday the 13th being considered ‘unlucky’ is apparently a manifestation of the patriarchy because Friday is the only day of the week named after a female goddess, and a group of 13 women was considered to be a coven of witches approximately 9 billion years ago.”

The phrase “too much information” According to feminist icon Lena Dunham, “TMI” is used to belittle women’s experiences, where as men are rewarded with for their sharing.

Calling Hillary Clinton “shrill” Calling Hillary Clinton “shrill” is a gendered attack, according to feminists.

Calling a woman “pretty” This is another form of “benevolent sexism.” Men call women pretty to emphasize that all they are worth is their appearance.

The SATs According to The New York Times, SAT testing may feature questions that are viewed as “stereotype threats.” For instance, one math question show that more boys than girls in math classes. Females will apparently lose self-worth over such a “microaggression.”

The “kiss cam” The “kiss cam” clearly acts to perpetuation “misogyny” and “can sexually disempower women” by making women feel obligated to a man.

The Olympics Some sexist announcers covering the Olympics had the audacity to mention that female athletes had children; some even credited a male coach for coaching. 

Denying the mythical gender pay gap If you don’t buy into the debunked gender pay-gap myth, you obviously hate women and want them to be paid less than men, according to feminists.

Denying the mythical “rape culture”Denying the politicized and exaggerated “rape culture” means you’re a sexist who doesn’t want to combat rape.

Being pro-life If you believe that babies should not be killed in the womb, you actually hate “empowered women.”

Being a Republican And of course: All Republicans are sexist woman-haters, just ask disgraced DNC chair Debbie Wasserman-Schultz.

Let me guess, these women aren’t feminists or they may not exist altogether? You claim you’re deep in the movement, maybe that’s why you’re denying the facts, as usual. Fuck off

[rippedmaxmuscletrial-blog]

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