#or is that just called being butch

[songstep4002]

Does anyone else look back and realize that one of your childhood invisible friends had some really weird gender stuff going on that you never thought to examine at the time?

Like I had a whole superhero universe and the main villain, T-who, was... I don't even know. I used he/him to refer to him, but thinking of him as a man feels so weird to me now, and the way I pictured him, his gender was similar to Princess Lily, the main hero, who was Very Definitely A Girl. (His real name, Tom Jack, was like the first two random guy names I could come up with- and the whole thing was a Voldemort ripoff because 'if you say his real name he will send his wolves after you'- not even getting into the fact that my younger brother proceeded to rip off my ripoff by creating an entire supervillain society of alphabet people named A-who, B-who, etc. It was a whole thing.)

But anyways yeah I don't know what was going on with the gender stuff.

[bunnyboy-juice]

NO MORE ASSOCIATING THINGS WITH FEMMES ONLY BECAUSE THEY ARE PINK!HYPERFEM FEMMES ARE GREAT AND I LOVE YOU CAMPY FEMMES WHO EMBODY PINK BUT ALSO JESUS CHRIST CAN YOU GUYS NOT GO MORE THAN ONE DAY W/O TRYING TO SHOEHORN FEMMES INTO BEING ONLY PINK UWU BABIES. I AM FEMME AS IN GRASS AS IN DIRT AS IN TREE BARK AS IN WEEDS SPROUTING THROUGH THE SIDEWALK CEMENT. FEMME AS IN GENDER NONCONFORMITY AS IN FUCK YOU MY FEMININITY IS WHAT *I* SAY IT IS. FEMME AS IN DEPTH AND DARKNESS AND WARMTH AND TERROR. FEMME AS IN CAVES. FEMME AS IN LIGHTNING. FEMME AS IN AN AMALGAMATION OF TRAITS THAT I HAVE DECIDED ARE FEMININE REGARDLESS OF WHAT SOCIETY SAYS. FUCK IS IT THAT HARD TO UNDERSTAND?!???

[thuesdaynightdykelife]

Don't call me a soft butch. Call me a rock solid, hard-as-fuck butch.

[dykesevika]

arcane give her to the lesbians pls .

[harbingersglory]

hii could i req an soft dom arlecchino x sub/fem reader?? something w a really needy whiny reader n maybe like a mommy kink or thigh riding IDK tysm for ur time !

{☆} characters arlecchino {☆} notes drabble, fem reader, sub reader {☆} warnings 18+ content

"Slowly, doll. We're not in a rush." Arlecchino reprimands lightly, squeezing your hips with just enough force to keep you unmoving on her thigh– she was still being gentle, but the subtle warning in her tone spoke to how easily she could push you against the desk and turn you into such a mess that you couldn't even remember your own name..just that you were hers.

But the barest hint of stimulation from her slacks pressed against your throbbing cunt had you twitching, barely able to form words. All you could think about was the scorching, twisting need building in your stomach, desperation for relief slowly climbing until you'd think she was doing this on purpose to drive you mad.

"Please– 'm a good girl, right? I've been good.." You choked out, only to be met with the rough, husky laugh echoing in your ear that made you feel dizzy with a rush of need, her nails gliding along the skin of your hips as she pressed you down even more firmly– you couldn't see her face but it was easy to imagine the crooked smile twisting her lips at the way you inhaled sharply and tried to buck against her thigh.

"Shh. I know, doll. I've got you, just relax." She murmured in that sickly sweet tone that always had your knees buckling, the raspiness of her voice sending shivers down your spine. It was almost impossible to relax with her so close, the notes of metal lingering on her skin despite how well she presents herself– but you trusted her, despite how you know you shouldn't.

"There we go. Good girl." Arlecchino's grip on your hips loosened just enough for you to move if you so wished, and oh did it take every ounce of restraint to not do just that..she hadn't said you were allowed to, and you weren't about to spoil her good mood by being a brat. Not tonight, anyway. "Do you want to cum, doll?"

The fervent nod you offer in place of words draws a laugh from her lips, one that is almost mocking, making your face flush in embarrassment– but the sudden tap against your hip makes your mind go blank to the point you forget it all together, focused only on the feeling of her thigh rubbing against your cunt as you bucked against her thigh, the fabric slick and wet against your inner thighs. You'd have half the heart to be embarrassed about that, too, if not for the sudden brush of her thumb against your aching, neglected clit. Just that small touch has you speeding up your movements, practically drooling as you whimpered like a dog in heat.

"That's more like it, doll. Such a pretty girl." Arlecchino hummed, her other hand trailing up your stomach, between the valley of your breasts and ghosting across your throat before settling on grabbing your jaw in a firm, yet almost tender touch as she tilted your head to the side just enough for her to pull you into a burning kiss. It left you lightheaded, grinding down against her thigh as she claimed your mouth as her own, her thumb still ghosting over your clit sporadically.

She'd spent so long teasing you, constantly touching you but never where you needed her, that you already felt like you were going to snap like a wire. She must've been in a really good mood, then, when she pulled away from the kiss with an almost predatory lick of her lips, yet she settled on pressing kisses to your skin rather then the usual sharp bite of her teeth as they sunk into the curve of your shoulder.

"Are you close? Go on. I want to see your face when you cum– you look the prettiest when you finally break apart, doll." Arlecchino mused idly– as if she wasn't talking to you while you continued to rub your aching cunt against her thigh, chasing your own release through shaky, strained breaths. Her thumb swiped over your lips, brushing strands of hair stuck to your skin from your face– at the same time as she swiped her thumb more firmly against your clit, creating a vicious contrast that had you both melting at the barest hint of almost softness from her and the touch of her hand between your legs, dragging you into an orgasm that leaves you trembling and, had she not shoved her fingers into your mouth, screaming, tears pooling in the corners of your eyes.

"All done, little doll. Take it easy." She murmured, voice so quiet you almost didn't hear it, thumb swiping across your cheek to wipe away the stray tear, her hands pulling away to settle on your sides. "You did well– good girl. Let me take it from here."

[that-butch-archivist]

I'm not sure if this will take off but I'd love to be indulged. I just read through an old reddit thread where butches talked about what colognes they wore and liked, and got to thinking that it'd be fun to do the same.

[cator99]

out of curiosity, would you consider yourself butch?

used to be a blonde underweight twink and now I'm a based jock still got the chanel bag and the sick albeit matured mind of a suckpig to prove it so I'm gonna let you decide whether you wanna call me that word just cuz I got a pussy and short hair. I promise you that there have been enough advancements made in the art of lesbian sexual dynamics in the past 50 years to broaden the vocabulary used to describe the plethora of types of masculine females.

[lovesickeros]

☆ i dream of embers

{☆} characters arlecchino {☆} notes no au, drabble, gender neutral reader {☆} warnings none {☆} word count 1.1k

The House of the Hearth is quiet — or, if you really wanted to be precise, the rats scuttling through the walls are working around the bubble you exist in. The children dare not tempt fates hand unless you asked for them by name, a contradiction. An order to the rules — they mustn't approach you with trivialities, but they must listen if you speak. Your words carry more weight than gold in this house, whether you know it or not.

A tenuous position.

You haven't done anything to earn their reverence, their almost acrid fear — but Arlecchino has. She wields her silver tongue with as much ease as her polearm, ensuring your care in her absence. Her devotion, her service, is felt in the warmth of her chambers, the silks she adorns you with, the bed so soft you feel as though you melt into it. A gift, a promise — a gilded cage need not be something undesirable.

You've grown used to the encumbrance of her presence, these days. The deep timbre of her voice, honeyed yet melting into something rougher, quieting into haunting silence as if she seeks not to disturb you. Dim candlelight is all that illuminates her broad frame as she slowly presses the door open and closed behind her, pallid skin streaked with darkening red, her bottom lip smeared with it like lipstick. There is a tension to her shoulders even when she sets aside her polearm, out of sight and out of mind, harsh lines on her face visible in the deep furrow of her thin brows.

Here, she let's the weariness settle deep into her bones — it's just the two of you, even if she hasn't acknowledged you at all. Still, it's a vulnerability she shows no other, even if that vulnerability is hidden behind layers of barbed wire and teeth.

You watch rather idly from the bed as she wets a cloth in a basin of water, the bed creaking beneath you as your feet sink into the plush rug beneath. You know from experience that trying to help her is like trying to soothe a wild dog, but your knuckles brush over the sharp line of her cheek anyway, free hand stealing the soaking cloth from her hands when her jaw flexes and tenses beneath the pads of your fingers.

It is only then that she looks down at you, eyes as sharp as blades yet so indescribably warm — like a flame licking at your skin, burning so deep you feel it linger for weeks after. Arlecchino is not soft, far from it — but she blunts her jagged edges for you anyway, brushes her lips against your knuckles and allows you a moment of adoration. Carves her worship bone deep in the ghost of her touch against your lower back as she leans down, let's you wash away the blood certainly not her own, never blinking as if you'd simply up and leave if she stopped looking at you for even the smallest moment.

You are well aware she is caging you in. You let her.

Though she is still stiff as a board up to the moment you set the washcloth over the side of the basin, her jaw flexing again, a moment of consideration given. She is not used to soft and brittle things, though — not used to touch that does not lead to steel at her throat, in her gut, carving out softness like a butcher carves up meat, section by section.

But this affliction of affection is stronger than the discomfort, at times.

You almost half consider letting her take the room and have a night of proper rest, but she is faster than you — a calloused hand tilts your head back, half lidded eyes glinting beneath the weight of exhaustion, her thumb firm against your bottom lip. She could kill you without even blinking, you are aware, but she is nothing but careful with her touch — not soft, not Arlecchino, but there is adoration in her touch. Like thumbing a locket portrait, trying to imprint their features into memory by touch alone.

Her touch is fleeting, but the warmth lingers long after — you don't need to be touching to feel the weight of her attention. She stokes the flames of the dying fire, has one of the children bring a fresh pot of tea, lingers even when she doesn't have to. You're sure her desk in her office is far more comfortable to work at, but she'd crammed a small desk into the room anyway, stayed even long after you fell asleep most nights. You never did get to stay up long enough to notice her slip in beside you, nor wake up early enough to find her there with you, but the heat lingers — she leaves breakfast at your bedside table, a small note of affection if she's feeling particularly sappy. Even when you don't see her, she makes sure you feel her presence however she can.

Neither of you need to speak to express it. The silence is..oddly comfortable, filled by the shift of paper or scratch of a pen, the clink of a cup or crackle of fire. It's a little too easy to get lost in watching her work, masking a smile whenever she glanced back at you with a question on the tip of her tongue that goes unsaid.

It's better that way, you both think. The silence was best left undisturbed — as if trying to break it would be like breaking the mirror to each others lives. You don't busy yourself in the affairs of the House of the Hearth, and she doesn't make you. It's better that way, too. Maybe that makes you naive, blind even, to the bodies at her feet piled so high she could drown, but you don't want to give up this fragile tranquility.

So you let the dull scratch of a pen lull you to sleep, try not to smile too much when a hand reaches out in uncertainty to cup your cheek, thumb brushing over your cheek with so much affection it makes it hard to breathe.

It's a tenuous balance, but come the next night you will wipe the blood from her cheek again and she will care for you the only way she knows how — distant service.

And when you wake up to an empty bed, warm despite the fires long burned out, you'll still feel her presence in the allure of a warm drink and pastries at your bedside, a note tucked beneath the plate.

Just like the day before, and just as you expect tomorrow to be. But one day you'll gently pull apart the barbed wire and be let in — not today, no, but someday. It's a slow process, but you're patient enough to wait — and when she let's you in, you'll tend to the scars that it left like you've always done.

One step at a time, one day.

[meganechan05]

The Toei (Enby) Lesbian Pose

This is just a redraw of something from Sept 2023 to test my change in artstyle.

Comparison below:

[to-be-a-dreamer]

Okay but what if Rosie is just a baby butch and we get to see her get more and more butch over the course of the show? What if she becomes the biggest, butchest, most powerful lesbian in the world by the series finale? What then?

[butchdykecxck]

The weirdest part about being butch to me is that embracing my masculinity has made me 1000x more comfortable with my femininity. Like I've been strictly he/him since I was 16 and yet nowadays I almost wanna throw she/her back in there for funsies. Makeup used to make me super dysphoric and now I just miss a good smoky eye like I did when I was overperforming womanhood. Hell even my tits aren't as distressing as they used to be because like.....I'm butch. These are butch tits and that's different ok! I don't know how to explain it but like!! Does anyone hear me!

[bunnyboy-juice]

[deep inhale] BUTCH TITS ARE THE MOST PERFECT THINGS IN THE UNIVERSE. I LOVE BUTCH TITS - BIG OR SMALL, PIERCED OR NOT, PERKY OR DROOPY - DOESN'T MATTER! EVERY TIME I HAVE THE PRIVILEGE OF SEEING BUTCH TITS I SWEAR THE WORLD GETS A LITTLE BRIGHTER. EVERY TIME I GET TO HOLD BUTCH TITS I SWEAR SOMETHING HEALS INSIDE ME. BUTCH TITS ARE THE GIVERS OF MY LIFE, FUCK THEY ARE EVERYTHING. BUTCH TITS ALMOST MAKE ME BELIEVE IN GOD.

[princessefemmelesbian]

My friend said that Harry Shitter would be a transandrophobia truther and I am literally SCREAMING CRYING THROWING UP AT HOW ACCURATE THAT IS 😭 HE WOULD THO

[lunarharp]

juuust working out how i wanna draw them hehe

[gorespawn]

also while we're here i would like to share the two iterations of tumblr user gorespawn that have existed since i abandoned this blog back in like early 2021. Who wants me

[stardustedknuckles]

There was a woman sat on the curb with a typewriter when I left taco bell, with a sign taped to her folding table advertising personal poems written for you on the spot. And you know... Sometimes you have to let people surprise you. I stopped, in my Dyke shirt with my caduceus clay book in one hand, and I told her I've never seen a poem about asexuality that wasn't sad.

We chatted for a good fifteen minutes, in which she - self describing as hypersexual - asked me more about my experience. She had friends who were on the ace spectrum, which was a relief on my part to not start from zero, and I just told her what I could. About growing up with friends who would stop talking to me once they got partners and tell me I would understand one day, about how it feels a little like being in a musical but never having heard the words everyone else knows or learned the steps to the dance they're all doing in unison. We laughed together at the way I'm mystified by story plots that revolve around bad decisions made due to being just that horny, a situation she was intimately familiar with and having a 43-year life full of those stories.

At the end she asked if I happened to have a title in mind and at first there was nothing. I hate titles. I tend to default to song lyrics for ao3. But as soon as she asked, I remembered standing in the cafeteria in eighth grade and being annoyed that all the Greek gods of love were of that kind of love. I remember wondering if there was a god/dess of friendship, and I remember the closest I found was Philotes: goddess of friendship, affection, and sex. In eighth grade I took the last one with a kind of "that's close enough I guess" attitude, but at 30 I think it's perfect actually. Lack of attraction has nothing to do with what feels good. There's nothing out of place about it to me these days.

I hadn't thought about that in years, no idea why it came to mind except I was also thinking of eighth grade me when I talked about my friends fucking off one by one to be with their partners. She wrote down the spelling, thanked me warmly for the talk, and returned to her typewriter.

I spent the next half an hour with a delightful Dyke who gave me a business card, on which her title was printed - no joke - "Lesbian Mayor of (neighborhood)." She was my parents' age and when she remarked with the utmost sincerity and approval that "you're kind of a weird big bang theory" I choked down the feeling of being directly assaulted and said hey, my dad watches that.

At some point Lisa finished her work on her typewriter. When I arrived it was fully light out, but by then it was getting dark. She stood in front of the bench where I was, fumbled on the phone light, and read to me what she had typed. And damn if the first two sentences didn't take me right the fuck out immediately. "I thought in middle school that if I was ever going to write a poem it would be an ode to Philotes," I had told her, a memory that comes with the affectionate sort of cringe reserved for your twelve year old self, earnest as they still were. And the same feeling came over me as she read the poem out to me - but it wasn't cringe I felt. It was the feeling that I had started something in 2005 that was only taking real shape nearly 20 years later.

I don't know if it's a "good" poem. That was never my strength. But it was written for me and for me, and the opening line "build me an effigy that transcends flesh" knocked the breath out of me immediately. I have the paper here beside me on the couch, and it feels like the kind of thing that goes in a treasure box, or maybe a frame.

I also had to remind her to give me her zelle so I could pay her - clearly also affected, she had turned to start on the next poem (a raunchy sex limerick as requested by a guy in a backward ball cap and boat shoes) and had forgotten entirely.

It's gonna overdraw my account when an auto payment hits next Wednesday, but honestly... Worth it. I just wish the fee would've gone to her instead of the bank.

Let people surprise you.