#to undo trans rights

[clematishearts]

lesbianifies your artlex as you go by

[r0semultiverse]

In case you didn’t know or needed to hear it, things do get better after you turn 18. Your life isn’t over even when you hit 21. 💜

This is me at vaguely around my mid-twenties. I’m trans & I’m here & while I don’t have everything figured out, I certainly have figured myself out way more than when I was younger. 💜 Yes it gets better. Yes you can grow older & be trans. There are people out there willing to love & accept you for you. There are partners, friends, family to be found. Don’t give up! 💪 Be proud, be loud, & let your rage out! Down with cis! Let’s rock this joint & keep on living!! 🖤 Things will be less noisy eventually, just please live! ⭐️

💖 You are worth it & it gets better! 💜

[lifeanditsquirks]

I remember my mum was friends with a "gender counselor". And that said gender counselor talked me out of being nonbinary and into being a trans man. I assumed that since they were a professional they had to be right. So I started wearing my binder more often. Almost every day in fact. Sometimes for more than 8 hours because I felt so dysphoric (don't do this. I ended up with chronic costochondritis). I dressed masc. I got an endocrinologist so I could start T. I tried changing my voice through vocal training videos. I got a top surgery referral. I was doing everything I thought was right.

I was miserable.

It took years to undo the brainwashing she put me through. Making me something I was not. Making me second-guess everything about my identity. It was horrific. She would constantly use he/him pronouns for me. She would constantly refer to me as a man. And she would correct others if they used they/them pronouns for me.

After she was arrested I spent some time really thinking. Why was I so dysphoric all the time? I stared unraveling the rope she used to tie me up. And I found that she was wrong about me. I wasn't a trans man at all. I was nonbinary! The identity I started with. I started using they them pronouns again. I let people know that I wanted to be referred to with gender-neutral terms.

I feel so much more confident in myself.

So I guess the moral of the story is don't let anyone tell you who you are. You know yourself best. Your identity is your journey. Don't let others move you in directions you feel uncomfortable with. You'll be alright. You've got this.

[writing-mlm]

Just found this account, and I absolutely love it!! You've probably gotten tons of asks now from the post about requests closed while needing ideas. I'd love to see a Bruce wayne x reader who's trans and is getting ready for a gala with him?? Feel free to ignore it for now if needed! Love your work <3

Summary: Bruce gets distracted by his husband while getting ready for a gala Pairing: Bruce Wayne x Ftm!Reader Word Count: 0.8k Tags/Warning: married Bruce Wayne, reader is mentioned to have top surgery scars but no physical description past that, Whipped Bruce Wayne, suggestive, a lot of touching A/n: to get out of this writers rut i’m probably gonna churn out about five 0.5-2k fics within a week and hiiii anon thank you :3 this was gonna be more of a get ready but i didn’t do that obviously lol

Bruce watches you from the bed, his eyes tracing along your exposed skin as if he was some pubescent high schooler. Perhaps they were right about the no shoulders showing rule because he swears he’s drawn to it. You don’t even notice his staring; perhaps you do, but you’re so used to it that you don’t make it known. Bruce remembers when he first started doing that, watching you get dressed, how bashful you’d been back then and he’s glad you’re a lot more comfortable with it. With him. 

He stands from the lush bed and stalks over to you, his steps purposefully soft and nearly silent so you don’t notice him until you feel the warmth from behind you. He makes slow work of wrapping his hands across your stomach, his fingers gliding across your skin like he was skimming a page and kisses your left shoulder before looking at you through the mirror. 

You’re busy rubbing lotion onto your arms, but you welcome his presence by leaning into his touch and a small smile graces your face. He figures he should make himself useful rather than just standing there so he takes some lotion and starts to put it on your chest. Bruce watches as his fingers trace over your scars and then inhale your scent again while you scratch the side of his head as a thank you. His hands wander lower, running over your happy trail and you swear if you let him he would’ve worked on undoing your belt, too. 

“You’re a dog,” You muse, looking at him through the mirror. He just smiles and leans more into your neck. The feeling of his nose dragging along your neck makes you smile and you mess with his still unkempt hair. His hands raise from your stomach and instead circle around to your hips, keeping you from moving away from him. 

Not that you were going to. 

“You look magnificent,” He justifies his actions into your skin. The vibrations tickle you as they travel across your neck and you roll your head back onto his shoulder. “Are you sure we can’t miss the gala? It wouldn’t be the first one we did,” You’re unsure if he means for less than good reasons or if he means for when you go out in your suits and save the city. It’s probably both, all things considered. 

“Bruce,” You laugh, picking your head up. “It’s in the manor, how can you possibly skip that?” He shrugs but he definitely has a plan already made. You can tell because he has that twinkle in his eye and you doubt he goes anywhere without having an excuse to leave quickly. Plus he’s Batman, you don’t think he’s been unprepared since his time with those damn Tibetan Monks. 

Rather than responding, Bruce instead looks at you in the mirror, his eyes on your face while your eyes travel from his face down to his hands as he grips your hips before spinning you around. Your hands find their natural spot on his biceps while his hands travel to hold your ass, dipping you down to persuade you. When it doesn’t, he starts leaving small kitten kisses across your chest, all the while maintaining eye contact with you. 

“No, Bruce,” You urged through a laugh. “It’s a charity gala and you invited the League.”

“The League,” He huffs. “They’ll be fine without me— I’m a part-timer and I’ve already written the check for the charity. But,” He stands tall and puts his fist on his hips dramatically. “I think that there’ll be a domestic matter we’ll need to attend to halfway through. My dear, amazing, wonderful husband simply couldn’t bear to be around the annoying Oliver Queen.” He gives you a look and you mess with the scars on his arm. 

“Maybe,” You hum. “Or we can deal with it now, get it out of your system.”

“I do see the value in your option, but I think for maximum efficiency we should go with both options,” He nods, picking you up in one motion. Laughing, you hold onto his neck while he walks over to the bed, already kissing your neck.

Bruce places you softly on the bed before he lowers himself to his knees while you’re threading your fingers through his hair.  Unfortunately, the door opens as he places your legs over his shoulders and you rise to your elbows, seeing a tired-looking Alfred. He rolls his eyes, clearly having expected this to be the reason the hosts of the gala had yet to make their appearance. 

“Sorry, Alfred,” You wince while Bruce looks up from his spot between your legs. 

“You haven’t forgotten to knock, have you?” Bruce muses and Alfred rolls his eyes. 

“Nothing I haven’t seen before with the two of you. But do hurry, Master Bruce, Master (Y/n). Your guests are waiting,"

[dolphin-diaries]

Who Gets To Talk Detransition?

Originally published on Dolphin Diaries

The story is supposed to go like this: a trans cult, or maybe the medical establishment, steals a young girl under its ghastly wing. A wounded girl, a scared one, desperate for reprieve from a violent world that has whipped her into self-hatred. The kidnapping cultists promise an escape. A cure to the horror of her body. Then, mutilation follows, which a brave few will eventually try to undo—only they never quite can.

No, wait.

The story is supposed to go like this: some people are trans men. They are assigned female at birth, but they are men, and so some want to make their body male. But sometimes, a select few regret their transition. They aren’t trans men. They’re actually cis—in agreement with their sex—but they’ve made a mistake for whatever reason. They are very scarce. A statistically inconsequential minority to which we ought not cede ground. After all, why should a society be concerned with a statistically minuscule people?

Regardless of which way you tell it, two constants remain. One: the trans and the detrans are antagonistic; the detrans have been hurt by transition care and now threaten its existence. Two: those that detransition are seeking to correct a prior mistake. Be it from the right or left, the story is always that of failure and regret.

Part I: When Your Worst Fears Come True

September 2023 marked the eighth anniversary of me starting testosterone. Getting HRT was something I’d fought for with great difficulty and determination: I’d burned bridges with an abusive family; I’d come out a year prior to the entirety of my university class and had already lived as a man; I then dropped out of university so I could work a full-time job to afford HRT. I did all this with full knowledge that I could not access the legal transition system in my country. I’d be unable to change my gender marker and would have to deal with that fact in a place where most people barely know what ‘transgender’ is, let alone accept it. But I was willing to weather all of that, and to my luck, I had no trouble passing for a man, and the vast majority of friends and acquaintances accepted me.

Needless to say, I was ecstatic to start testosterone. In adolescence my masculinity had been denied to me, the feminine traits of myself and my body forcibly exaggerated to put me in my (woman’s) place. Now, it felt like having all the features I’d come to despise overtaken by new growth. Like a ruin reclaimed by fresh ivy. I wasn’t entirely content—I wanted to be indistinguishable from a cis man, untouched by any insidious womanhood whatsoever. Only I found most cis men either uninspired-looking or repugnant, so… a pretty cis man? Androgynous, but not too androgynous, so I don’t get gay-bashed?

The real end goal I wished of my body was nebulous. There was no man I could cite as the Ur-Man for me, trans or cis, neither in character nor appearance. It wasn’t for lack of the much maligned Good Male Role Models in my life; I simply resonated with none of them. But there was life to be lived anyway. So I put one foot in front of the other, and sometimes, I knew my steps were dictated as much by fear of transphobia as they were by my own desires.

There are many things to fear while living as trans. One of my most personal anxieties was detransition. A forced one would be most horrid; to be put in a position where my bodily autonomy, so hard-won, could be stripped away as if it never existed.

But my strangest fear was that I would want to detransition. Not from some cruel necessity or right-wing brainwashing or what have you; genuinely, rationally, actively want it.

I knew why I feared that. Whenever I met another trans man or heard of their stories, some jigsaw puzzles would simply not fit. I never once desired to be a man until I learned of trans men’s existence. Never sought to play the role of a man and only half-enjoyed them now, if at all. Never, not even now, dreamt of myself as a man. At times another trans man would have the same ‘odd’ pieces, but then something else would find itself amiss again. On and on that list went.

One might call this a foregone conclusion in retrospect. Shouldn’t I have known? Shouldn’t a doctor have known? But this rather ignores that the psychology and study of transsexuality are hopelessly warped with attempts to eradicate it. My country’s procedures were dated. The questionnaires I took to have my doctor conclude I’m transsexual? Those were lousy with decades-dated misogyny (do you like housework? do you get aroused by housework? or maybe by cars?) and with voyeuristic, invasive questions (how do you have sex? how do you masturbate?) There were correct answers; there was no variation, which is only allowed for the cisgender. That procedure has since improved, especially in the West, but the traces remain. How does one introspect on one’s gender when that was the model for it? How does one even attempt to unravel the relationship between misogyny and desire to abandon womanhood when to do so threatens access to medical care? What sign ought I have looked for to distinguish myself from trans men when it was demanded no distinctions exist?

One does not exit a hostile care system with a healthier, more stable identity. That is nothing short of a miracle.

September 2023 marked the eighth anniversary of me exiting hostile care with a coveted prize in my grasp. It also marked the moment I looked in the mirror and saw exactly what I’d sought to win in that hellscape: an indisputable man. Not a cis man, of course, but one bereft of all the features that had haunted me to the point of self-harm. I was free, I had won; no one would ever look at me and think me a woman—no one ever did, those days.

I had won. And in my victory, I felt nothing at all.

Part II: Failure and Regret

The Right invests much bombast into transition regret. Loud ring the warning bells: this could happen to you! Your child! A girl with so much to live for, rendered barren, flat-chested, a misshapen man-thing! You, too, will live to regret it!

It amuses me. Queerness and butchness had marked me long ago; I was never particularly buxom or fecund. Never, in the heterosexist sense, something worthy of desire. I was a misshapen man-thing far before I asked people to call me ‘he.’ The people who made sure I knew I was a monster man-woman were precisely the kinds of people that now warned me away from turning myself into what—according to them—I already was. The sheer parental panic with which I’d been forced into makeup and dresses, you’d think I transitioned already.

Even more amusingly, sometimes the Right claims to care about butch lesbians. Tomboys are being mutilated, they say. It’s an imposition of gender stereotypes; women can be masculine!

But if the Right believes women can be lesbian and masculine, what’s with the whole fixation on ruined femininity and birthing wombs?

Indeed, the Right’s acceptance of detransitioned women is full of little caveats. They are to be paraded as damaged goods at conservative rallies. Their lost breasts and ovaries will be ever-ogled, figuratively if not literally, and the ‘irreversible damage’ left by testosterone examined with morbid fascination. They are the Right’s Magdalenes. They’re proof there’s good in the transgressive—that is, that the enemy can be pitied, assimilated. As an underclass, of course. They’re never to truly cease being damaged, for they must be proof that sex can only be ruined, never changed.

For a detransitioner, there is temptation in the Right’s conditional acceptance. It offers an easy answer to their current pain. The past choice they may regret or suffer under—why, it should’ve been prevented! If only you listened to the right authorities, all would’ve been well. Not altogether different than regretting a marriage or college major. Many an adult decries stupid choices of youth—and those certainly happen—but what’s scariest of all is the notion you weren’t making rash or ill-informed decisions. I know I wasn’t. And if that is so, then it means the current self—the mature one, the one with 20/20 hindsight—could make a mistake, too.

Right-wing detransitioners take for granted there exists a guardian angel that could’ve healed them of the gendered distress they once felt and showed them a path to contentment. That is a very tall order, considering how misogynistic and hostile psychiatry and psychology are, historically speaking. And that’s to say nothing of religion. But at least they would’ve been prevented from transitioning; misery averted—right?

My guardian angel, you could say, was lack of funds. I wanted top surgery—double mastectomy—but there was no way I could afford it, not in many years’ time. Now I realise I would’ve come to regret it and would’ve likely sought to reverse its effects. So I’m all good, right? I benefitted from how flawed trans healthcare is, didn’t I?

Perhaps. But there was a reason I wanted a mastectomy, and not a frivolous one. Every time I needed to see a doctor for a respiratory infection, I did so in fear of transphobic malpractice. I would minimise the time I spent in places where my chest could be exposed—gyms, pools, beaches, goddamned corporate retreats. And then there was the way my body, breasts included, had been used to prove to me I was not just a woman but Woman, a biodestined vessel for coy giggles, cookware, and pregnancy. And how that made me feel.

Indeed, I would later find out there are women and nonbinary people that do not identify with manhood yet seek the exact same top surgery I once wanted, for similar reasons. With no regrets. They wish to take control of their body and do so. And I know that, had I been able to get top surgery in the past, it would’ve made me happy for a good while.

So what’s more important: years of constant anxiety, or lack of hypothetical regret?

The right-wing detransitioner assumes one’s current self to be the ultimate judge of one’s choices—but take that principle to its logical conclusion, and it will seem like no decision should ever be made. There is always a prospective Future You which possesses more knowledge. Always the possibility of regret. Of course, decisions in life are sort of inevitable, but don’t worry about that—the powers that be will handle that. Ancestral tradition, or a caring authority figure. That’s also all humans with exactly the same issues, but don’t worry about that either. Maybe God is speaking through them. You never know.

In the end, the prescripts of the Right march to the same grim conclusion. That the only decision you can ever make with total certainty is death.

Part III: Death, the Tarot Kind

Queer culture delights in tales of transformation. We were all once larval—in the closet, often abused and scared. Trapped in a world of rigid roles and brutal dominion. But one day, we hope to metamorphose into our true shape and to take flight above a blissful, lawless, ever-shifting sea of change.

Most queer people are cisgender, and more still do not seek to transition, but the nature of all our transgressions is intimately entwined with gender anyway. We’re all doing it ‘wrong,’ by the wider society’s definition, even the most masculine of cis gay men or the most feminine of cis lesbian women. Unsurprising, then, are the queer community’s various attempts to embrace gender variance and to lay bare the plasticity of sex.

There is nothing per se about detransition that does not fit this mould. If gender is to be fucked with, why not take it for a swing? Indeed, in my experience most queer people would agree it’s entirely possible to detransition without weaponising transphobia or lapsing rightward.

But that’s usually a hypothetical thought exercise that ends exactly there. Maybe that queer person knows a detransitioner, maybe they don’t; regardless, the lives of the detransitioned do not interact with queer ideas of sex/gender, or indeed queer ideas about anything. The only time the detransitioned are really remarked on is only to state our statistical insignificance—or rather, the statistical insignificance of transition regret. I don’t personally regret my transition for the most part, so I wouldn’t even count there.

Whereas the Right sings lyrical about all the motivations and trials and tribulations of the detransitioned (and deftly twists the verses to fit the chorus), the Left does not usually consider the lives of the detransitioned at all. Mistakes happen, they suppose. Kind of funny we ‘failed at gender’ twice. Too bad we’re so miserable, they guess. What, ‘the patriarchy made you do it’? BuzzFeed feminism is so-o-o 2010s, bro.

It would be accurate to surmise the queer community has ceded the concept of detransition to the Right. The queer stance is, in effect, ‘it doesn’t matter anyway’—a defensive and reactive one.

That is not to say the Left as a whole is to blame for grifting detransitioners or the Right itself—the blame is always, first and foremost, on the ones that actually do the harm. And the negligence of the Left doesn’t really harm those that happily push others under the bus—sadly, some people are just assholes. No, the consequences are felt instead by detrans people that have no desire to participate in the transphobia circus, and after that, trans people themselves. The Right’s deathgrip on the detransition narrative means detransition itself is conceptually tied to the Right. Because there is no alternative trans-positive narrative, there is no way to exist as detrans and not affirm someone else’s transphobia, no matter how many times you say you don’t hate trans people. After all there is only one thing people think of when they hear ‘detransitioner.’ And now you are it, whether you like it or not.

I feared I would detransition because, on some level, I knew I might. But why fear it? It’s hard to be trans. There are clear privileges to socially presenting as your birth sex. Doctors will readily help you undo transition. I didn’t want to grift—well, fucking fantastic. Easy enough to not do something. What’s the problem?

I feared it because it’s soul-crushing to know your existence hurts the people you love most. Your friends, partners, mentors. So many cis people in my past knew me as The Trans Person—and now what? How much of the good I had done would be ruined? And by what possible example could I imagine my life as a detransitioner? What is there to even aspire to? And what about everything I’d sacrificed to transition in the first place? All the strife and ridicule I endured, only to have it whispered to me from leering faces: “See? We were right all along.”

All that, to face alone.

At a certain point my resistance to the idea of detransition was motivated only by this. Only by what others would make of me against my will. Not my personal desires. Nothing else at all. To be turned into such a spectacle, a public property of a person, felt like nothing short of death.

Part IV: Afterlife

I decided to start this substack after listening to every podcast appearance by Lucy Kartikasari I could find. She is a detrans woman with a similar yet different story; she transitioned much younger, but went through a similarly arcane approval system and years of waiting; she is not a lesbian; she has detransitioned, and she speaks in favour of trans healthcare and trans rights. The name Dolphin Diaries also originates with her—or rather, with a different, anonymous user, whose idea she broadcast on her TikTok. A dolphin as a symbol of detransition; a mammal that evolved from the ocean to walk on land and then returned to an aquatic life. I find it an appealing and pithy comparison, one free of unnecessary gendering or judgement.

There are precious few voices that speak of detransition in a positive, non-right-wing light. It’s a perspective fraught with thorny, uncomfortable questions. A perspective which is easier to ignore—unless you can’t. If for no one else, I write this for people that felt the same way I did. Trapped, not by ‘mistakes’ or by ‘gender ideology’, but by the image others have painted of them before they could even protest.

I do not write this for the Right. There is nothing I can say that would sway you, and there is nothing you can say that would sway me—and believe me, I have listened more carefully and with far more good faith than you ever have. Feel free to comment how much you pity my womb, or something. I promise to leave its fertility a mystery. I’m a tease that way.

As for other potential readers of this blog: while I do believe it a failure of queer rhetoric to adequately synthesise detransition into the overall gender politic, I don’t believe it’s everyone else’s job to create that synthesis. Who better than a detransitioner, after all? I ask not that you solve my problems for me.

I ask only that you listen.

[genderqueerdykes]

all of this petty fighting and squabbling between queers is never going to solve anything, no matter how much you think you're helping. and yes, it's petty. accept it already. it's not substantial. it's not real conversation, connection, or understanding. it's not helping people break down barriers- it's erecting them where they're not necessary. it is simply petty fucking squabbling and everyone needs to sit the hell down and think about this instead hurting other people so you can run away from your thoughts and emotions. this is never going to solve anything, help trans women, lesbians, gays, or any other queer people- holding other queers down does not, and i repeat, does NOT help anyone.

all of the queer elders and important figures in queer history that people on here love to say they "look up to" on here would be disgusted and sick of this behavior. you're slapping all of them in the face by undoing all of the hard work they did to try to unite us as a community. you say you love Marsha P. Johnson, Miss Major, Silvia Rivera, and Leslie Feinberg, but you actively tear queer people apart on purpose? you would make them sick to their stomachs. you are trampling all over their decades of hard work. this is NOT what they fought for.

how is being angry at your siblings for just existing helping? that's literally exactly what queerphobes do; they hate queer people simply because they exist. hating transmascs, trans men, aros, aces, bisexuals, bigender people, genderfluid people, male lesbians, female gays, and other queers you don't like because they exist isn't helping anyone. if you hate it when that is done to you, why are you doing it to someone else? being bullied or oppressed isn't an acceptable reason to hurt someone else. that's perpetuating the cycle of abuse. it doesn't matter how much you've suffered, you never gain the right to pass that suffering on to someone else. never.

you can say that fighting and holding other queer people down is for the "good" of other queer people all you want. you can say that hating he/him and male lesbians somehow helps other lesbians, and that hating she/her and female gays somehow helps other gays. you can say that hating bigender and genderfluid people somehow helps other trans people. you can say that hating aros, aces, bisexuals, pansexuals, and other mspec people helps other queers. you can say all night and day that holding trans men down somehow lifts trans women up- but it doesn't make it correct. those things are not factually correct- you're lying to yourself and everyone around you to excuse bigoted behavior. you're refusing to get past your own internalized bigotry and painting it as progressive. you want to continue to excuse abusive, bigoted behavior instead of growing past it. stop it. you're not cool or funny or cute. you're not gaining anyone's approval except that of other bullies and abusers. you're being an bigot, plain and simple.

stop fighting with your siblings and learn to grow and understand each other. move past your differences and embrace them- that's the entire point of being a community, is accepting how varied and unique its members are. getting upset at other people because they're not trans "like you" or queer "like you" is controlling and manipulative. being petty and getting upset at someone because you don't like how they identify is not a reason to abuse people. if someone is genuinely, for real hurting you, it's okay to tell them. but acting like other queer people hurt you simply by virtue is exactly what bigots do, and it's never progressive to do, no matter which queer people you have your hatred turned toward.

[carnallysm]

Summary: You're having a hard time adjusting to your new position as the team's Antler Queen, having your partner ease you a bit.

Warning: Smut, trans fem character (Shauna, Natalie, Misty), mentions of cannibalism, mushroom usage (Lottie, Misty), rough sex, spitting, biting, etc.

Pairing: Jackie Taylor, Shauna Shipman, Natalie Scatorccio, Lottie Matthews, Misty Quigley x sub! fem! reader.

Jackie has a hard time adjusting herself to this new place, this new life. She inevitably cries when things often get too much to bear. She never ever thought she'd end up eating another person to survive, how could she? But she did, and guilt eats her from inside, as if the people she's eaten are coming back for her.

It's usually you who end up cheering up your girlfriend instead of the other way around, but she needs it, and you want to be there for her, after all.

It isn't until one night, Jackie wakes up in your shared hut to your soft sobs that Jackie realizes just how much weight there's on your shoulders. And she immediately does what she does best, cheering you back up in return.

It all starts with tender, quiet whispers of praising words she murmurs while kissing your tears away, Jackie's lips coming from your eyes to your neck as she wipes away your tears gently.

"That's it, baby," She would murmur still as quietly, moving her hands to your hips as she pushed you down on the blanket with care. "Let it all go."

It takes a while before Jackie has her fingers pressed deep inside your wet pussy, as she takes your time easing you into it, and easing you in general, until your cries become a desperate need for her instead of due to the unmeasurable weight you carried.

Jackie moves her fingers inside you gently, her thumb slowly circling your puffy clit as you moaned into her shoulder. Jackie didn't care if the others could hear, she knew you needed this and the team spending one night sleepless was worth it.

Soon enough, Jackie had you cumming all over her fingers, her touch still as gentle as she helped you come down from your high.

"You did so well," She would say with pure adoration in her voice. "That's my queen."

Shauna immediately notices when the job as an antler queen starts taking a toll on you, and she immediately tries to do something about it, in her own way.

Shauna, at first, tries to get you to relax in your position, helping you assigning tasks, helping you command around. But it's to no use, for the weight of being the antler queen still made its way to you in a way or another.

That's exactly when, on an especially hot night of summer, Shauna entered your shared hut with an idea in mind.

"Hey, Shauna—" but before you can fully greet her properly, her lips are on yours, claiming you through and through. Your thoughts instantly come to Shauna alone, leaving you free from the pain of it all.

"Be a good girl," Shauna starts, her hands coming down to undo her belt and pull down her pants and underwear, her cock already standing proudly erect. "And take me like the great queen you are."

Shauna tears down your shorts and panties right after, settling herself in between your thighs. Collecting a bit of your arousal in her dick, she starts pushing inside with a small sigh of pleasure.

Once fully inside you, she starts thrusting her cock in and out of your wet cunt, having you whimpering underneath her with your mouth falling open. Shauna takes the opportunity to spit right in your mouth, her warm saliva dropping down your jaw.

After a while of thrusting her cock deep inside your cunt, as well as biting down your neck harshly enough to get some blood from it, Shauna feels herself reaching her peak alongside you, cumming in the depths of your womb.

Natalie wasn't one to easily admit she was overwhelmed by it all—but she was. What made it all worth it was you, her solace. The one and only who eased her guarded nature.

That's exactly why she immediately wanted to help you when you admitted to her just how much your newfound position was overwhelming you. And so she did.

Natalie, one morning she woke up sooner than everyone else, and woke you up alongside her to take a little break. She took you to the lake, far away enough to be sure no one would bother you two for at least a few hours more.

She eased you onto the sand, a towel beneath both of you, before she started peppering kisses all over your face.

"You're doing great, baby," Nat said, referring both at the task at hand and at your job as an antler queen. "No one could do it like you, ever."

Her kisses went down to your neck and collarbone, causing you to giggle slightly against her.

It didn't take long for her to become hard underneath her shorts, but she wouldn't do anything until being sure you wanted it too. She kept pressing soft kisses alongside your neck, a gentle smile on her features. "I want to make you feel good," Nat spoke with a tender touch on your waist. "Is that okay?"

When you nodded your head yes, Natalie straight away started undoing your clothes and her own shorts and underwear.

Her cock stood up between her thighs, as Natalie began to slide her cock through your slick folds, pressing against your clit for a few seconds before going ahead and sliding her dick inside your wet pussy.

"Come on, baby," She said with a labored breathing, pushing her cock further inside you. "Give it to me."

Her thrusts were gentle, giving you a slowly building up pleasure. With time, you reached your climax under Natalie, feeling her load spilling inside you.

"That's it, good girl."

Lottie quickly noticed how hard it was being for you to adjust to being the antler queen, that's why she was quick to take the matter into her own two hands.

Lottie prepared you an infusion with mushrooms one late night, when everyone else was already sleeping. Hoping it would ease you at least a bit, she stayed by your side the whole time, even when you suddenly started getting more and more clingy.

Lottie soon enough had you in her lap, her hands roaming all over your body as she planted kisses during the back of your neck, gently biting down your skin and creating a few dark bruises there.

Lottie had you grinding against her knee in a moment, your hands holding tightly onto her shoulders for support, as you moved back and forth to her knee—moans escaping from your pretty lips, that Lottie instantly leaned to muffle with her own lips on yours, her hands moving to hold your waist.

With her grip tight on your waist, Lottie began to move you against her knee, your clothes becoming a mess due to your wet juices smearing all over your panties. But that never stopped Lottie, not when she sneaked a hand into your underwear and found your swollen clit, all the while she kept moving your needy cunt against her knee.

It didn't take long for you to let go with a scream that would surely awake all the others, but your mind was too focused on the pleasure you were receiving from Lottie to care at this point.

Lottie always knew how to make you feel better, and she always took advantage of that to properly do it.

Misty is the first one to ever notice something was going on with you—not surprising given her obsession when it came to you—and the first one to act when she realized it was because of your position as the antler queen.

Misty would first prepare you all sorts of things for you to be more comfortable, from taking advantage and finishing your tasks sooner, to giving you an extra portion of her food so you could maintain a healthy diet.

But none of that seemed to properly cheer you up, so given the circumstances, Misty decided to try and make you relax for a bit.

How? Easy, a barely full cup of mushroom tea she reserved for occasions exactly like this one. Misty was somewhat awkward at first, giving it to you with a wide smile and a full explanation of what the mushrooms used were for.

With the passage of time, you indeed felt yourself more relaxed, as if nothing could overwhelm you now.

You went to Misty, thanking her over and over again, before you began to press tender kisses along Misty's face, finally coming to her lips. You wanted to help Misty back, wanted to feel her touch on you after what felt like an eternity.

In any case, it wasn't too long after that that you were riding Misty's hard cock, your body feeling like floating as you bounced up and down her throbbing shaft.

Your body, still like floating, felt overwhelmed with sensations once again, but this time for good. It was too much and not enough at the same time, with Misty whimpering pathetically underneath you.

"Feels good? Am I making you feel good?" She would ask in between ragged breathings, wanting nothing more than to please you the best she possibly could.

Misty then started moving her own hips, pushing herself further into you with each passing second.

"Just want you to feel good." Misty said, her breath hitching more and more the more she impaled herself inside you.

"Feels so good, Misty." It was the moment you say that, that Misty's self-restraint failed and she came inside you with a low moan, taking you to the edge alongside her.

[scarytransandrophobiatruther]

if you exhibit terf or transmisogynistic rhetoric, or platform those who do, i do not like you either. as far as im concerned genderqueerdykes needs to either leave the internet and undo all of the radfem conditioning its done to itself or it needs to die in a pit. saying "oh im sorry" is no excuse for openly racefaking and pretending to be black for hundreds of dollars or going on a 1k+ word rant about trans women being male socialized.

that is years worth of internalized transphobia and it actively appropriated racism for its own gain. that will not be undone with a "sorry." that is "leave the internet and come back in 6 months" level bad. i dont know why the transandrophobia community isnt making more of a fuss about this considering it allegedly raped someone as well. im a transandro "bro" but i am just as furious about the treatment of trans women on this site, and if you continue to platform a racefaker and a potential rapist i do not like nor trust you on my page.

the paradox of tolerance states that if we continue to tolerate the intolerant they will ransack our community into a bigoted mess. get transmisogynistic transandrophobia theorists out of this space and never put that fucker on my dash again. quit sending it asks, quit sending it donations, quit listening to its whining. im sick of this community trying to ignore this or going "oh now people are going to hate transandrobros even more!!!" seriously??? you care about your image right now?????? it raped someone (allegedly). what the fuck is wrong with you. there are bigger issues, here!!! and if it didnt commit rape it is still currently a horrible person. its donation posts are still up, and it has still not addressed the rape allegations. quit shoving this under the rug.

[applepiiex]

THE GODFATHER(S) ! ! ! ⏦ﾟ♡︎

Nanami Kento x Male!Reader

Adjusting to fatherhood is difficult. The sleepless nights, the constant crying, and the overbearing messages from family just wanting to stop by and see!'. So, placing their baby boy in an eight week quarantine, just you and Kento, its finally broken by his two godfathers. A/N: Prequel to First Words

𓂃 ོ☼𓂃𓂃 ོ☼𓂃𓂃 ོ☼𓂃𓂃 ོ☼𓂃𓂃 ོ☼𓂃𓂃 ོ☼𓂃𓂃

The apartment was quiet in the way only new parents could appreciate; delicate, golden, sacred. The kind of silence that came with the miracle of a baby finally asleep, a dishwasher humming low in the background, and the sound of tiny, steady breaths echoing from the nursery. The soft light of the nightlight cast a glow onto the hardwood floor. It smelled faintly of baby shampoo and the faint citrus detergent Y/N liked.

He should have been in bed. He meant to be. But his body had settled here instead, just a few feet from their son’s crib, heart still too full to let the moment pass.

He hadn’t imagined this life five years ago.

Back then, he had buried himself in policy models and economic theory, had paced the halls of the department building in stiff button-downs and too-tight tension in his jaw. Love had felt inconvenient. A distraction. And children? Too tender a thing for someone like him to believe he deserved.

And now, months into fatherhood, he found himself undoing all the old armor. Softening in ways he never thought possible. He knew how to grade papers by heart. But learning how to fold onesies? How to hold a baby against his chest when the cries wouldn’t stop? How to watch Y/N, exhausted and radiant, bottle-feeding their son at 3 a.m. with a gentleness that cracked Nanami wide open?

Those were the lessons he never expected to cherish.

It had been a blur. The hospital. The forms. The car ride back with a tiny life wrapped in a blanket you’d both argued about at Target (“Why are you against ducks?” “They’re… garish.” “You’re garish.” “You married me.”)

Now he was here. Asleep in your living room. Your son. Nanami walked out of the nursery barefoot, hair a mess, glasses slightly crooked. In his arms: a freshly swaddled baby burrito.

“I think,” he said quietly, “he hates me.”

You blinked slowly. “He’s four days old.”

“He stared at me. With judgment.”

“He was pooping.”

Nanami sat beside you with a sigh, gently lowering the baby into the bassinet like he was handling fine porcelain. You scooted closer, curling up against his side, your head resting on his shoulder.

“Do you regret it?” you asked, your voice hushed, vulnerable. “All of it. Being with me. Doing this.”

Nanami didn’t speak right away. Instead, he pulled you a little closer. Pressed a kiss to the crown of your head. “I spent most of my life chasing structure,” he said softly. “Deadlines. Rules. Order. And then you walked into my TA hours, smiling like trouble, asking me questions about economic policy and trans healthcare in the same breath.”

You huffed a tired laugh. “A balanced combo.”

“I fell in love with you before I even knew it was possible,” he whispered. “You gave me chaos. And you gave me him. And somehow… I’ve never felt more grounded.”

You tilted your face up. His eyes were so soft now, edges worn down by sleepless nights and overwhelming love.

“He’s gonna have your frown,” you murmured. “I can feel it.”

“I’m going to teach him not to use it as a weapon.”

You smiled, brushing your fingers over Nanami’s wrist. “You already do.”

-

It was eight weeks and three days after your son — Tashi—  was born that Gojo Satoru and Geto Suguru were finally allowed within ten feet of him. 

You had warned them. Nanami had warned them. The house had been under strict “no outside bacteria until all his shots are done” lockdown. Nanami enforced it like a military operation.

Gojo had tried everything, “Okay but what if I wear a hazmat suit and you throw the baby at me across the lawn like a football?”

Suguru had been more measured, “We can wave from the window like ghosts.”

Nanami had shut it all down. “No.”

But the day finally came. You had barely opened the door when Gojo and Suguru exploded into the entryway, Gojo with an obnoxiously large balloon that said “WELCOME EARTHSIDE, TASHI” and Suguru with a soft baby blanket embroidered with his name in neat kanji.

Nanami, standing behind you with Tashi nestled in his chest carrier, gave them both the look.

“Shoes off. Hands washed. No cologne. If you so much as breathe wrong near him, you’re out.”

Gojo saluted. “Sir yes sir, Papa Nanami.”

“I’m not kidding.”

Tashi squirmed gently in his little sling, one hand peeking out from the fabric like a sleepy dumpling. You rubbed his back and whispered, “Okay, baby, don’t be alarmed. The tall loud one is harmless.”

Gojo gasped. “How dare. I am a delight.”

“You’re a CDC warning.”

Suguru chuckled as he slipped off his shoes. “Let us meet our godson before Kento has a coronary.”

You slowly unbuckled Tashi from the carrier and shifted him carefully into your arms. His cheeks were round and warm, eyelids heavy with his latest nap, but when he saw the new faces, his brows lifted in curious surprise.

Gojo leaned in, hands clasped like he was about to meet royalty. “Is that the real Tashi Nanami-L/N? The myth? The legend? The reason your husband has ignored my texts for eight weeks straight?”

Nanami, from behind you, said flatly, “I will ignore them for eight more if you breathe on him.”

Gojo laughed and held out one pinky. “Hi, little man. I’m Uncle Gojo. You can call me ‘the fun one.’”

Tashi stared. Blinking.

Then, slowly, he reached out and grabbed Gojo’s pinky. “Oh my God. He chose me,” Gojo whispered dramatically.

Suguru crouched beside him, voice soft. “Hey, sweetheart. I’m Uncle Suguru. You’ve got really great taste in parents, you know that?”

Nanami softened only slightly. Tashi yawned. A long, squeaky, utterly nonplussed baby yawn and nestled deeper into your shoulder.

Gojo immediately pulled his phone. “Sorry. I must document this moment for my future memoir. Chapter One: The Chosen Godfather.”

Nanami’s hand appeared in frame. “No phones.”

“But he’s smiling!”

“He’s asleep.”

“…but cutely.”

You sighed, letting Tashi settle fully in your arms again. “He’ll wake up in a bit. You can hold him when he does. Under supervision.”

“Sir yes sir,” Gojo muttered again.

Suguru tilted his head, eyes soft as he watched Nanami standing behind you, one hand gently resting on your waist as you cradled your son.

“You’re doing good, Kento,” he said, voice quiet. Nanami blinked.

Suguru smiled. “You’re a good father.”

There was a pause, the words hanging with a weight that struck something deep. Composing himself, Nanami blinked and softly said, “Thank you.”

Tashi squirmed again and let out a tiny sigh against your collar. You looked down, kissed the top of his head, and whispered, “You’ve got a whole fan club already.”

Nanami reached around you, resting his hand lightly over yours. “He’s not joining any group chats.”

“Oh he will,” Gojo grinned. “And I’ll make the icon his little foot.”

“Get out of my house.”

[boxturret]

Mata Nui, The Great Spirit

Hello, how do you feel about painting legoes? I think its fun.

Read on to see the terrible, unethical building process.

Many crimes were committed and I will likely be put to death soon.

Recently I completed quite a large project, painting this huge model kit of the Great Spirit Mata Nui. The kit in question is GiiKei's really impressive build, the instructions of which you can purchase here:

I was quite happy to see they cited my 3d model as reference, along with the original ideas submission. Fun fact: I really liked that ideas submission and made an account just to support it, but something about the proportions never sat right with me, and it was one of the things that motivated me to make that 3d model! So its fun to see it get used in the creation of another model :) And now here I am building it. Full circle.

Now, full disclosure, this is made from third party parts, I did test it on bricklink and it would have easily doubled the price, even before shipping from about half a dozen international stores. I kinda just bought this on impulse, it was pretty cheap and on sale and it was a gamble it would come at all really. But a week ago a nondescript bag came and inside it were sixteen hundred parts of honestly pretty good quality.

I think a couple parts used weren't in their parts catalogue so they had to be 3d printed, but even these were pretty acceptable. Actually in a way some parts were better, because this flame piece was pure red, instead of a mix of red and yellow as all branded parts are.

Some bits had a bit of a tight fit, and I drilled out the middle of the pistons, but I would have done that anyway to accommodate the painting. All in all, really good, was only missing one non essential part.

You can debate the ethics of stuff like this, but either I bought the instructions and paid a company in china X for the parts or I bought the instructions and paid a bunch of unrelated people X*2 for the parts, either way the creator gets the same amount. And I can say I wasn't going to build this off bricklinking parts. For various reasons I'm kinda done with bricklink*.

So after quite a few hour's work I had this lovely fellow. I must say, the design is quite good, its well articulated and has a lot of good build techniques. The head is both the strongest and the weakest part really.

I love the eye assembly, its built to allow for lighting, but it also cleverly includes natural light piping, and the kit comes with 4 sets of eyes, trans red and green for lighting and solid green and pink for display. Even has a little wrench to help swap out the parts.

On top of all of this the mouth is even articulated! So much shoved in such a small package. Unfortunately it does come at a cost, as its incredibly unstable. its a lot of 1 stud wide assemblies held together at odd distances with bars. I think the end result looks good, but its so easy for it to fall apart or get misaligned

Which is why, the instant I finished building this I decided to take it apart again and go at it with a tube of glue.

I glued large parts of this model together. I would happily do it again.

I'm not even going to hide behind any sort of "oh it wasn't real legoes so its fine" excuse, I would have 100% done this with "real" parts. Same with the painting really, I'm sick and tired of hiding behind the excuse that its acrylic so it can wash off, yes, technically, but it would take so much effort and the paints would probably stain some of the parts anyway. If something can benefit from paint or glue I'm not going to hold off just because the parts have a certain company's name on them. They're not sacred.

I can just use mineral spirits to undo everything anyway.

From the moment I saw the original ideas submission I knew: I wanted to paint it.

The GSR is a massive robot that's lain on the bottom of the ocean for millennia, and it reflects that with how dirty and rusty it is, its such an important aspect for me. And personally I quite like painting rust. It seems to be something I end up doing quite a lot.

So basically over the next couple of days I glued everything I felt needed glue, separated the model out in to several chunks, and then began painting.

First I primed it.

Then I did a black wash.

Then I started painting on the rust!

And then I realised I'd made a terrible mistake and redid everything.... Basically I kinda overestimated how much the black wash would fill in the nooks and crannies of the parts, so starting with a light primer base coat meant I was spending an inordinate amount of time trying to fill in all those little gaps and it was taking forever. So I made the correct decision of giving everything a coat of black paint first, and THEN moving on to the rust.

And after that everything went super smooth. Its really important to be open to admitting you made a mistake, and even if it will take more time its for the best to just start over.

For the bits of silver I used a similar technique to how I applied extra streaks of rust to my infected masks. It was a very enjoyable process.

After a quick coat of varnish and a day left to sit everything could go back together!

This guy is massive, around 50cm tall.

The back of the legs is by far the most interesting part of the model.

I especially like these movable pistons.

I did attempt to protect the light piping, and was somewhat successful.

The model is really poseable while at the same time feeling quite stable. Every joint in the legs is doubled. One thing I think is lacking is the ability for it to splay the arms completely out. But I can forgive it since, as I learned when rigging the 3d model, the arm pistons...don't really allow it. And the fact that this model actually has working arm pistons is much more of a positive in my mind.

In any case, you can just remove the pin holding the arms in and do it manually.

You may have noticed my old Mata Nui Island 3d print along with all the parts earlier. Well by some weird coincidence, they kinda match up proportion wise, ie the mouth and eye are roughly at the right places to be under the volcano and bay, respectively.

So that was a happy accident, and now I have a good way of showing how big the GSR is compared to the island.

Its big. And this is the logical size, not the insane 40000000000000 foot number thrown about by some. I have a series of posts about the various sizes of things because I find it interesting.

So in summation, I really couldn't be happier with this. The model design was great, I had a fun time painting it, and now I have a GSR model the size of a small child to display somewhere in my room. I've long been thinking of 3d printing my model, but this has really reduced my need for that. Also with recent duck related developments I've been made aware of how woefully inaccurate my model really is, and have to redo it at some point.

I have reached the maximum number of images per post. I might make a gallery post later. Good night. Have a nice weekend.

*come to bricklink and pay hundreds of dollars for the privilege of getting a smashed mask in the mail. And don't you dare expect a full refund. Not a single part in this kit was damaged and it came in a bag! You can see this guy lying in the background of some shots.

[emma-cowboylikeme]

one piece fic recs

all of these will be sfw! aside from gen fics, these fics will include: zosan, zolaw, cross guild, zolu, sanami, sanuso, and saboala

gen/found family

thicker than water by nevermordor - law character study & law's relationship with the heart pirates. this is a must-read

build you up by nevermordor - usopp & franky!!! their dynamic means so much to me

requiem for lab rats by @missingn000 - what if sanji fought king instead of queen? what if they realized they were traumatized by the same man? WHAT THEN? this is an incredible fight scene and character study

is there anything so undoing as a daughter by @missingn000 - doflamingo & baby 5 from crocodile's pov. this fic made me insane, i can't recommend it enough

it's only blood by @missingn000 - goth family (mihawk & zoro & perona), this fic is absolutely beautiful

greatest gift of all by SoccerSarah01 - ASL brothers with younger luffy, SO CUTE

zosan

Letters on a Blackboard by Hazel_Athena - single dad zoro and teacher sanji. this was everything i needed, it was amazing

Veracity by Hazel_Athena - zoro gets hit by a truth spell...

Make A Fuss, Why Don't You? by Hazel_Athena - sanji wants to dote on zoro, and zoro wants to be doted on, but neither of them know how to communicate that (they figure it our eventually though)

don't look too long, or you'll forget to fall by Resacon1990 - zosan 5 + 1, i loved this so much

cross guild

(all of these are genderbent wlw - i love cross guild in all forms but all of my sfw recs happened to be yuri)

Caramel popcorn, belladonna-sweet by inpolariis - I'll just copy the summary because it really captures the essence of the fic: "Alternative title: Buggy and the two bad bitches she pulled by being silly goofy"

Pink and Purple by AcesCorazon - this one is buggy/mihawk, featuring doting girlfriend mihawk. it's absolutely adorable

Coexisting (but just barely) by AcesCorazon (WIP) - this one is also buggy/mihawk and so cute!

zolu

mithridatism by swordsmans (series) - there are two fics in this series, one from sanji's pov and the other from zoro's, and both are outstanding character studies

But Patience Boasts by Augment - sanji pov, dealing with zoro and sanji's conflicting feelings on love

zolaw

Cut My Feelings Off Clean by Augment - one of my favorite one piece fics. a brilliant law pov and character exploration of both law and zoro

things not seen by nevermordor - this fic is really special to me because it introduced me to this ship and i loved the exploration of law's experiences and views on religion

sanami

Righting Wrongs by Cherry_Sundae - this is sanami yuri with transfemme sanji and it's so important to me. i love the idea of sanji realizing she's trans during the timeskip period and this fic was everything i wanted it to be

sanuso

Home, Where You Are by kiite - short and sweet sanuso, i love this ship and the exploration of their similarities

acesan

Sing In Me, O Muse by LorettaFryingPan - acesan yuri! this fic explores both their insecurities and it's so so sweet

saboala

Sins of the Father by kiite - short and sweet saboala <3 i adore this ship

[girlballs]

tumblr changelog if staff wasn't idiots and actually understood how to get its current userbase to pay for ad-free browsing

posts marked as Mature no longer show up at all on the iOS version of the app, content policies relaxed, distinction between "Nudity" and "Sexual Content" added in community labels

literal fully-clothed images and drawings of trans people are no longer marked as "Sexual Content" what the fuck is wrong with you people

blocking someone gives you the option to also block them from selected sideblogs

option when filtering tags/etc. to fully hide filtered posts instead of displaying the "show anyway" thing

"Mutuals-Only" reblog permission

and obviously undoing the search suppression on some common lgbt tags and doing the inverse for popular terf/nazi tags would be a step in the right direction if you want to claim your website is the "queerest place on the internet"

[plaidos]

Was Adrienne Rich kind and supportive of trans people? If so, then obviously following her doesn’t make you a terf; but if not, then Alison Bechdel’s entire concept of feminism actually doesn’t come from her, because Alison Bechdel is not a terf. Again, listen to yourself. She went to a music festival? Who gives a shit? There’s no secret dog whistle that somehow undoes someone’s clear and unambiguous beliefs, you are no different from that woman who thought David Letterman was sending her secret messages through the tv

calling michfest “a music festival” is like calling the Unite the Right rally a cookout. there were trans people protesting outside it every day. it’s the event that the word “terf” was coined after

and Adrienne Rich was a full, mask-off terf — and you can find Bechdel’s OWN WORDS saying that she is her foundation of feminism.

you are the person with the david letterman secret letters!! you are parasocially hallucinating an alternate reality version of Bechdel who you imagine is a trans ally because you think it would be nice if that were true even though she has literally decades of writing detailing how uncomfortable trans people make her. it’s like, constantly referenced in her comics. she calls her dad a fucking “sissy”. Dykes To Watch Out For has recurring jokes about a “lesbian in a male body”. not only is Alison Bechdel a terf, you also are transphobic for not being able to recognise those things or, at the very least, limply defending any criticism of any cis white woman that cis white lesbians talk about on the principle of “that hysterical tranny must be making things up there’s no way somebody i liked could be a bigot” you literally sound like the Neil Gaiman people

[all-things-are-nothing-to-me]

Left to right. First row.

1. The Faggots and Their Friends Between Revolutions by Larry Mitchell.

In a joyous and perverse intermingling of fable, myth, heterotopian vision, and pocket wisdom, The Faggots & Their Friends tell us stories of the 70s gay countercultures and offer us strategies and wisdom for our own time living Between Revolutions. These pages sketch a different shape to time and offer instructions for living within it. This story, like our own, plays out in liminal time. Not the time of revolution, and not after-the-revolution, the story occurs between revolutions. Being between revolutions: being enmeshed in slow entropy, in abandoned spaces, in lives forged without recourse to “winning” or “after.” The faggots feel this disintegration, and live best when empires are falling.

2. Be Gay, Do Crime by The Mary Nardini Gang.

Among the discordant chorus of anons who penned the defining texts of the queer anarchist network Bash Back!, none was more fervent in its glorification of criminal desire, decadent hedonism, and social undoing than the Milwaulkee-based Mary Nardini Gang. Their fiery “Towards the Queerest Insurrection” still circulates as an integral manifesto of riotous queerness, while the “Criminal Intimacy” and “Whore Theory” have made their more subterranean way into innumerable conversations and correspondences.

Ten years later, the secretive group supplements these collected writings with a subtle retrospective. Carefully unlocking the hidden layers of their theses on insurrection, they face up to what they got wrong, concede that the world ended somewhere between the Greek insurrection of 2008 and now, and insist upon the vital task of ushering new worlds into being as we live amid the decomposition and cataclysmic death throes of the old one. To their theses on insurrection, they prepend a new arcana tooled for opening onto the queerest of outsides.

Dedicated to their friends among the dead, this pocket edition is a necromantic mirror, an encrypted message to old loves, and an invitation to those finding these words for the first time.

3. The Criminal Child by Jean Genet.

“As for me, I have chosen: I will be on the side of crime. And I will help the children, not to win back access to your houses, your factories, your schools, your laws, and sacraments, but to destroy them.”

So reads this new clandestine translation of a previously censored and unavailable text by Jean Genet. “The Criminal Child” is a critical engagement with the French youth prisons, a reflection on Genet’s formative years within them, a document of hostility towards society and its benevolent reformers, and – as argued by the anonymous afterword – an initiatory magical system.

5. Witchcraft and the Gay Counterculture by Arthur Evans.

This radical faerie classic, first published in 1978 by Fag Rag Press, uncovers the hidden mythic link between homosexuality and paganism in an elegy for the world of sex and magic vanquished by Christian civilization. From Joan of Arc to the Cathars and the underground worshippers of Diana, the author shows how every upwelling of gender transgression and sexual freedom was targeted by the authorities for total and often violent repression or appropriation. The concluding manifesto calls for pagan reconnection with the living world, the creation of armed anarchist cells, and the destruction of industrial civilization.

Left to right. Row 2.

1. What is Gender Nihilism? A Reader.

A collection gathering readings for discussions on an end to gender: not the proliferation or liberation of gender, but its catastrophic cancellation. The reader brings together writings as old as 1883 and as recent as 2015, juxtaposing nihilist, radical feminist, queer, trans, anticolonial, communizing and insurrectionary approaches with other unclassifiable textual/existential disruptions. Many of the readings are out of print or have only appeared online or in zine form, and include: Adrienne Rich, Monique Wittig, Michel Foucault, Judith Butler, A.R. Stone, Paul B. Preciado, the entities known as Radicalesbians, Gender Mutiny, Baedan, Ehn Nothing, Laboria Cuboniks and, as always, Anonymous. Also includes “My Preferred Gender Pronoun is Negation,” “Gender Nihilism” by Aidan Rowe, and the gender nihilism anti-manifesto that inspired the collection.

2. Baedan 1 – journal of queer nihilism.

3. Baedan 2 – a queer journal of heresy.

If the first issue of Baedan was a knife thrust wildly in the dark, the second is an effort to examine our enemies in a new light; enemies who bear scars yet endure. In a sense, this issue follows through our initial attack and pushes beyond our own horrors at the consequences of words. We write at a time when everything which seemed slightly possible two years ago has borne its rotten fruit; when queer recuperation has become more powerful and accepted than ever, while the fetish for technology has reached an unprecedented frenzy; when so many efforts at subversion languish under the tyranny of cybernetic identity and aesthetics (even our own etymologies have become identities!); when friends turn away out of fear of the unknown, turn toward all the comforts and certainties of the past (identity politics, traditionalism, religious morality, activism, et al). The old enemies rear their heads and the terrain is as bleak as ever. And yet we take seriously that adage: “There’s no need to fear or hope, but only to look for new weapons.”

4. Baedan 3 – journal of queer time travel.

Bædan: journal of queer time travel marks a further attempt to pose and to flesh out a queer critique of civilization. Queer not only in the sense of coming from those outside and disruptive of the Family, but also in the sense of a critique weirder than its more orthodox cousins. We imagine the Bædan project as an effort to pose the critique of civilization otherwise, to begin from another place. In this issue (and beyond…) we have conjured a strange bestiary of thinking, trying to unearth and trace the tradition of anti-civilization thought in the literature of queerness and in queerness as immanent critique.

*I couldn't find this one online*

[separatetheyolk]

could you do a poly!landoscar x male!reader of aftercare with doms!oscar and lando? i read the lewis one and it was so good

This Side Of Paradise Poly!Landoscar X M!Reader

featuring: Lando norris & Oscar Piastri

Landoscar aftercare

warnings: 18+, mentions of smut but nothing too explicit mainly just in passing

note: Just a small one to get me back into writing. Sorry this took a while, I had cold after cold then spontaneous moved house lol. Still working on Charles and Carlos aftercares but this ask came through and I just had to finish this one. I haven't proof read this very well past the point of making sure it all makes sense so there will probably be quite a few spelling mistakes that I've missed. As with all my M!Reader posts this can be read as a trans!reader too, trans masc too but there is he/him pronouns and shit like 'boyfriend' used to refer to reader.

word count: 1077

requests are open!

Your head was pulled back from a cock before you had a chance to realise your breathing was growing increasingly difficult. “Okay, okay baby hey-” You heard, sounding somewhat distant. Far off despite feeling the breath run behind your ear and down your neck. It was quite disorientating in all honestly. “Okay.. baby, I need you to breathe.” You whimpered quietly as you were flipped round from your front to your back. Rearranged so you were set onto the middle of the bed and your head resting in someone's lap as they worked to undo the blindfold. “Come on.. That's it deep breaths.”

It took a moment for your eyes to adjust but once they had, you were met with an extremely concerned Lando. “Hey gorgeous..” You heard as Lando brushed hair from your eyes, but his lips weren't moving. Leading you to believe it was Oscar that was doing the talking. “Bit too much or you, hmm?” He spoke, watching you lift your head to look to him. His gaze meeting your own.

“I can take it..” You insisted. Wincing from just how harsh your voice sounded, moving to sit up but a tanned hand on your chest prevented you from moving any further. You couldn't help but let a frustrated whine slip past your lips.

“Baby, you don't have to.. This isn't some game where you have to prove yourself.. You've done more than enough for us. Just lie back and relax. We’ll take care of the rest.” Lando insisted, giving you a stern look that held no room for retaliation. You decided it didn't suit him at all. 

“Just relax, hmm?” This time Oscar spoke, hand resting on your shoulder and directing you to a free spot on the bed beside the driver. You couldn't argue.. The bed did look pretty inviting. So, albeit reluctantly, you moved to the spot and allowed Oscar to pull the blankets over your body. Closing your eyes, you felt the weight on the mattress shift as both men stood. Followed by the sound of a dresser drawer opening, then the rustling of clothes. A few minutes later and the weight of one of them was back beside you. “C’mere, gorgeous..”

You opened your eyes to find Oscar back beside you. Now dressed in some clean boxers. You moved over to him, allowing him to guide you so you were set between his legs, arms wrapping around one of his thighs like it was a pillow or large teddy bear and set your head in the crook where said thigh joined his hip. “There we go.. comfy?” He asked. And all you could manage was a nod as eyes closed again.

You didn't notice Lando watching the two of you from the other side of the room until you heard the others footsteps as he made his way over. You heard the two men share a gentle kiss, hand running through your hair to show you some affection too. “I take it you're too tired for a bath, hmm?” Lando asked you, looking down to you as you nodded your head. Your eyes remaining closed. “Alright.. You just stay here. I'll be right back.”

And, like before, the other left your side. A sinking feeling began to set in with guilt accompiening it. “M’ sorry..” You whispered after a beat of silence.

“What for, baby?” Oscar asked, accent thick and a strong difference compared to Lando’s. “You’ve done nothing wrong..”

“Ending the session early.. I wanted to do more for you..” You whispered, feeling like you'd left the two neglected. All this moving from track to track, it made it hard for the three of you to find time in Oscar and Lando’s busy schedules. When Winter break came around it often felt like a whole new paradise. And you wanted to make up for lost time.

Oscar chuckled slightly, moving so you were no longer in between his legs and shuffled to join you lying down. “You were perfect.. In every way. It's a lot to take two at once. Not to mention you haven’t done it in a while. But you still took us both perfectly. Besides, we were at it for hours baby.”

“But I-”

“But nothing, pretty boy.. You were perfect. Done so good for us..”

You couldn’t help but turn your face into the palm that was running through your hair. You didn’t nod in agreement but you also didn’t shake your head. So Oscar took that as a very small win. A few moments later, you felt Lando’s presence enter the room again, confirmed as a hand ran up and down your arm, small kisses soon being pressed to the back of your neck. “Can you sit up for a minute, baby?” Lando mumbled, feeling you nod slowly.

With help from both men, you were moved to an upright position, looking down to see baby wipes and a damp cloth set on the bed. Embarrassment washed over you as the two of them began wiping you down, baby wipes to get rid of most of the grime, cloth following closely behind. They almost seemed to sense the embarrassment. How you wanted to curl up into yourself, feeling as hands ran over your skin, massaging muscles and kisses pressed wherever the two of them could reach. Trying to get you to relax. A bath or preferably a shower if you could stand would be a must in the morning, but right now this would do.

Once you were wiped down, Lando helped to get you into one of his shirts while Oscar stripped the bed and took the sheets downstairs and to the wash room. While down there, he decided to make a quick detour to grab the trio a bottle of water each. By the time he’d came back to the bedroom, Lando had threw away used condoms, had set on some clean bedding and gotten you settled into bed.

He handed Lando two bottles of water once he’d gotten under the covers. The British man uncapping yours and carefully handing it over. Oscar slipped into bed on your right, letting you get comfy again as you lent into Lando’s side. Oscar then leaning into yours. “You get some sleep, baby..” you heard from Lando, though your eyes already half shut and the hold on the bottle loosening. You felt as the bottle was removed from your hand, the bedside lamp turned off.

[charliemwrites]

Commission: Bastard's Bishop

Hello, hello!! It's been a minute, hasn't it? Here's a commission I did a couple weeks ago for my dear fishstick! I had a blast writing this and learning more about packers!

Please note that I've included some general content tags, specific warnings for intimacy, and lastly, some notes for terminology used for the reader character, Bishop, and his genitalia. All my love <3

Content: FTM reader, obsessive/possessive behavior, mild harassment, dub-con Dub-Con intimacy: thigh-riding, intercrural, unprotected PIV, semi-public, overstim, praise kink, mild dacryphilia, mild size kink Trans Man Reader terminology: cock/clit semi-interchangeably, cunt, hole, he/him pronouns and endearments, reader has a packer

divider by user: gildui

You narrow your eyes as your back twinges for the third time today, grip tightening on your mop handle.

It’s been like this all week, a tight pinch somewhere between your spine and your right hip. A deep ache that no amount of stretching or heat packs has soothed thanks to the demands of your job. Repeatedly stooping to pick up trash, move furniture, and clean floors tends to undo most of the rest and recovery you achieve in your off hours.

Still, after being out all of last week, your PTO is running a bit thin, and you can’t afford to take more. KorTac’s employment package is good – but not that good.

You pause long enough to take a deep breath, willing the muscles to relax.

The clock on the wall reads late afternoon – not much longer now. Just this last hallway (all admin offices and conference rooms) and you’ll be done. Most of the operators have left already at least. In and out of base early, leaving you to clean up after them, when you’re not at risk of hearing any confidential information.

You’re glad for the solitude today, not quite up for polite half-smiles you sometimes get when you accidentally make eye contact. You’d much rather just put your head down and do your job – the sooner you can crack open that bottle of paracetamol in your locker.

All around, it hasn’t even been a bad day, apart from your sore back. You got in on time, your boss is out with appendicitis, and the bane of your existence hasn’t made an appearance at all this week. Lisa in accounting mentioned he’s away on a mission, so hopefully you won’t have to deal with him for—

“Daydreaming on the job, Schatz?”

You jump at the gruff voice next to your ear, headphones slipping down to your collarbones. A startled curse mangled in your throat as you brain catches up, recognizing the gravel-on-stone accent rumbling too close for comfort.

Already scowling, you turn on your heel, face-to-mask with green netting and broad shoulders.

As always, Krueger’s obscured features bring you up a bit short, mouth popping open for a sharp remark your brain lags to provide. Bastard.

“I’m not daydreaming,” you end up huffing. Try to sound clipped, despite the thumping of your heart, but it comes out sullen. Close enough.

“It is okay, I will not tell anyone,” he leers, “as long as you were daydreaming about me.”

The worst part is that you kind of were. Maybe not the way he means – this time, anyway – but close enough to the truth that you feel your face growing warm despite yourself.

“You’re delusional,” you scoff, turning away. You scrub harder than necessary at the linoleum, trying to work out the frustrating mix of irritation and intrigue that Krueger inspires in you.

As always, he fails to take the hint.

“What, you did not miss me while I was gone?” he mocks.

From the corner of your eye, you can see him shifting closer. Too close. Far past politeness and skirting rude, damn near crowding.

It makes you all too aware of the slight angle you’re bent at, pushing your ass out. Thankfully, the baggy fit of your khakis obscures any suggestive shape, providing modesty you shouldn’t need while doing janitorial work.

“You were gone?” you reply, flat. As if you didn’t feel a conflicted pang in your chest when you realized you’d have a few peaceful, uninterrupted days.

He simpers, “I missed you last week. Where did you go, hm?”

His audacity almost coaxes a disbelieving laugh from your tongue. Intimidating and oddly charismatic as he can be, you’re not about to abide him being so blatantly nosy. You’ve already learned this lesson with Krueger – give an inch and he’ll take miles and miles before you even realize what you’ve done.

That’s how you ended up with him calling you “Schatz” so casually.

“None of your business,” you reply.

“You were sick, no?” he continues as if you haven’t spoken. His voice drops to a near purr, “You should have called, I would take such good care of you, Liebling.”

You stiffen, eyes tellingly wide. How the hell does he know that? And why?

It’s the one question that nips at your mind every time he interacts with you – the why of it all. You don’t get it. He’s one of KorTac’s best soldiers, dangerous and competent and funny for all he’s an arrogant prick. You’ve seen plenty of other KorTac employees flirting and checking him out. He’s not hurting for romantic or sexual prospects.

So why the fuck does he ever spend time on you? Teasing you, baiting you? You, the grumpiest of the janitors with chipped nail polish and the baggy clothes and the giant headphones that practically scream “leave me the fuck alone.” Why does he always seek you out?

You don’t trust the answer. It prods at uncomfortable, hurtful suspicions that you refuse to entertain, so you just try not to think about it at all.

Instead, you feel genuine irritation flare in your chest and clutch onto it, pushing away any fondness-born vulnerability aside. You dunk the mophead hard into the bucket, a soapy droplet landing on his scuffed black boots.

“I don’t need taking care of,” you snip back. “Especially not from you.”

It’s the sharpest you’ve ever been with him.

There’s a single, stony beat where you realize this is not the time or man to let your temper get the better of you.

You can feel his gaze boring into you through the netting. You’ve seen him without it before, know that his eyes are dark as obsidian shards and just as sharp. Can already imagine them narrowed, his jaw tense. You peer at him from the corner of your eye, feel your breath catch when his hand starts to reach for you…

“Hey, Bishop?”

You jolt once again. Know your eyes are way too big when you whip around, looking past Krueger to the doorway. One of your coworkers is there, poking their head around the frame and blissfully oblivious to the… well, to whatever this situation is.

“Would you mind helping me move a shelf? Someone dropped their coffee behind it.”

You damn near fling the mop aside, adrenaline buzzing through your veins as you realize just how alone you’ve been with Sebastian Krueger of all people.

“No problem,” you reply, eye twitching when your voice cracks a bit.

You don’t dare glance over your shoulder as you flee like a hunted rabbit. You already know Krueger will be staring after you.

You sigh as you swallow the last of your lukewarm water, easing the paracetamol tabs down your esophagus. Your locker is open just to your right, sparse and bland, but functional. Your casual clothes are waiting, half-folded on the little shelf inside. Mostly clean, still baggy, but a lot more comfortable than your khakis and polo.

Finally, you think, kicking your work shoes off to begin changing.

A flicker of movement is your only warning.

A hand darts past your head, slamming your locker shut with a clang that echoes in the empty lavatory. You yelp and spin around, only to be pushed back against cold, unforgiving metal. Krueger looms over you, nothing but a dark shadow beyond that green netting. Big and intimidating and here.

“What—”

He shushes you, quiet and drawling. Like he’s got all the time in the world. A shiver races down your spine and pools low in your gut.

“You seem to be using your words poorly today, Schatz,” he says, barely more than a rumble in his chest. “Perhaps you should stop using them, hm? Before I find a nicer use for your mouth.”

And you hate that your voice dries up, throat parched despite the half liter you chugged just a moment ago. He plants his other hand beside your head, caging you in. You’re dismayed to realize escape didn’t even occur to you before the option was revoked.

“We are friends, Bishop, no?”

You don’t dare answer. He doesn’t wait for one.

“As your friend, I worry that you work too much. This is why you were sick, you see? It is no good to work so hard all the time. No breaks, no rest.”

He speaks so casually, treating this like a normal conversation with an actual friend. But there’s no missing the edge in his voice, something predatory lurking between consonants and vowels. You heart claws at your ribcage, prey trying to escape a trap it can’t see.

“What is that English saying? ‘All work, no play,’ something like that?” He shrugs, and in doing so, sways closer.

He feels like a furnace without even touching you, making you flushed, sweaty. The scent of gunpowder peppers the heated sliver of air between your bodies, ready to ignite. You try to raise your hands, urge some distance. Overwhelmed by his proximity.

In one swift, yet almost lazy movement, he captures both of your wrists in one big, gloved hand. Pins them firmly over your head. You gasp and try to tug free, to no avail. While not painful, his grip is vicelike, unwavering. Tucking you neatly out of his way.

“Without proper rest, we become mean to our friends.” You shudder as his free hand begins tracing leisurely down your neck, over your bobbing throat. Even with the tactical glove on, his touch is deceptively light, almost ticklish. “You were so mean today, mein Prinz, when I was only trying to be a good friend.”

His fingers trail lower, down to the center of your chest, where he can surely feel your heart pounding. Your breath catches as his attention moves sideways and you realize his goal.

“Kreuger—”

He clicks his tongue as you start to squirm, as much a warning to you as part of his speech.

“Lucky for you, I am a very good friend.”

An embarrassed noise squeaks out of you as his index finger loops around your nipple, already tight and hard against the stiff fabric of your shirt. Little sparks of electricity crackle through your body, lighting up your nerves.

“I will take care of you as I should have when you were ill.”

This is his idea of sick care?! you think frantically, as mean fingers pinch your nipple through your shirt.

Another noise gets caught on the back of your tongue, a high-pitched whimper that you barely manage to swallow down.

“K-Krueger—” you cut yourself off with a whine as his tugs and then releases, swiping his thumb back and forth over the sensitive peak. The friction makes you tender in seconds, knees nearly buckling. “Th-this isn’t funny…”

He switches to the other nipple, giving it the same treatment until you’re throbbing in your boxers. You feel dizzy and needy, horrifically aroused and not even sure if you want to be. Your nipples are going to be sore if he doesn’t stop; they already ache just the way you like but somehow, maddeningly, he never crosses the line into rough.

“I am not laughing,” he replies, dead serious.

You want to say a million different platitudes – all those cheesy lines you usually snort at in romances. Knock it off, this isn’t a joke, you don’t scare me, you can drop the act.

Because you know he won’t, it isn’t, you are, and he’s not.

“Krue – ah!”

“What is my name, Liebling?” he nearly growls. You shudder, ducking your head. But he just follows, the hood brushing your flushed cheek. You’ve never felt more like prey. “You do not call your friends by their last names.”

“S-Sebastian…”

He practically purrs, drawing a heart around your areola with the tip of his thumb. “Good boy.”

You clench around nothing, hole aching, devastatingly empty. Arch into his touch before you realize you’re doing it, needing something, anything.

“You deserve a treat, hm?” he chuckles.

The hand on your chest disappears beneath his hood. Through the weave, you see a flash of white teeth. The rip of Velcro is loud in the otherwise empty locker room. You’re so, so lucky that you waited until the rest of your coworkers went home before changing – you don’t think Krueger would have a problem doing this in front of them…

That train of thought (that definitely doesn’t make your cock pulse) is cut off when Krueger’s hand slithers beneath your shirt. His bare hand.

You moan as his hot, rough palm smooths up your heaving ribs, right back to your sensitized nipples. He twists and pinches and plucks at them, ruthless and relentless. You didn’t think it could get any more intense, but it’s like he’s unravelling your self-control with those clever, cruel fingers. Every bitten off noise and aborted twitch of pleasure just spurs him on, a soldier on a mission.

A particularly sharp squeeze makes your hips jerk, banging back against the metal. You’ve tipped your hand again.

He bullies his thigh between yours and presses it tight against your slick, throbbing core. Your packer presses just right against your clit, sending pleasure rocketing up your spine. There’s no stopping you from rocking down against the thick muscle, chasing after more.

“There we go,” he coos, voice so deep now that it rattles in your cloudy head. “You just needed to be taken care of it, is that it?”

You bite your lip, but it doesn’t stop you from whining, horrified that you’re not more pissed off by his condescending tone. Worse, you’re getting off on it, humping his leg like a horny teenager.

“My sweet little Prinz,” he continues, “mein Shatz. Working so hard all the time.”

You whimper, trembling with the pleasure burning in your veins. Already close, that coil grows tight in your abdomen, pitching your voice up higher and higher, louder and louder. Don’t think you could pull yourself away now even if he let you, too focused on riding his thigh. Just that little bit harder, that little bit faster…

“Are you going to cum for me, Liebling?” he croons. “Do it, show me what a sweet boy you are.”

You fall over the edge with a shout, crumpling against his chest. Shuddering and twitching, panting into his shoulder. It feels like he’s everywhere, all you can see and smell and feel.

“S-stop,” you yelp when he tweaks your oversensitive nipple again. “Too much, Sebastian…”

He tuts sympathetically, giving your side a surprisingly comforting squeeze, before withdrawing his hand from beneath your shirt.

“There, are we feeling like a better friend now?” he hums, lowering your arms.

You take a deep breath, trying to assemble anything like coherent words from the scramble of your brain.

Before you can, the world spins. You blink, staring uncomprehendingly at the flaky grey paint of the locker you were just leaning against.

“Wha…?”

“Time to be a good friend in return, little one.”

You don’t even have a chance to wonder what he means. You can feel him pressing against your lower back, hot and thick and dripping. A pathetic noise eeks out from your throat as you brace your hands against the lockers.

“What are you going to…?”

You gasp again as he jerks your hips back sharply, a big hand between your shoulder blades to keep your chest pressed to the lockers. The cool sensation is heavenly on your sore nipples, but it doesn’t stop the nervous alarms ringing in your mind at the suggestive angle.

He hums, thumb caressing the dimples at the bottom of your spine.

“I have been stressed too, you know. My best friend was mean to me today.”

Your nails scrape against the metal as he tugs your pants and underwear halfway down your slick thighs. He whistles lowly, a satisfied noise in the back of his throat. You glance down and groan in mortification – the fabric of your boxers is absolutely drenched, clinging obscenely to your skin and the ridges of your packer.

“All this for me… such a good little Hase.”

You can tell he’s growing impatient now, though, because he doesn’t waste time teasing. You moan softly as his cock glides between the slick, sticky folds of your cunt. The bulbous tip skates along your own, still twitching with aftershocks and not at all prepared to be touched again so soon.

You whimper and try to jolt away but Krueger’s hands clamp down on your hips and rock you into the cradle of his own. He groans low and rough as he glides through your wetness, arching your spine to give himself a better angle to frot.

“So soft,” he mumbles, “such a good boy for me, I knew you would feel so good. Just had to show you how to behave. Shatz, my Shatz.”

You keen softly, find yourself squeezing your thighs together, giving him a tighter channel to fuck into. He’s so hot against you; you think you can feel drips of precum glossing your cock, the head of his dick catching on your hole when he pulls back too far. It’s tantalizing and thrilling, you don’t know if you want it or not anymore, and justify that he’s holding you too tight to escape anyway.

It shouldn’t be this easy, you think desperately as the flames of a new orgasm ignite from embers of the first. You’re too sensitive, too overstimulated, too—

“You’re going to cum for me again anyway,” he growls, and you realize you’ve been babbling all of that out loud.

Fuck.

It’s not a choice – it never was. He’s going to make you cum again and you’re drooling for it. You loosen your hips and spine, rock freely back into the urging of his hands. His hips pick up speed, settle into a rhythm better than any toy or vibrator you’ve ever played with (always thinking guiltily of him).

The next orgasm practically sneaks up on you. Building up until it’s spilling over all at once, ricocheting through you like a stray bullet. You damn near lock up with the shock and pleasure of it, but Krueger doesn’t let you, rubbing his cock against you until your knees buckle.

“No more games, Liebling,” he snarls.

He practically rips your pants and underwear the rest off the way off, leaving them in a puddle on the ground. A thick arm slithers around your waist, hauls you over to the locker room bench. Krueger drops onto it and drags you into his lap.

You catch yourself on his broad shoulders, staring wide-eyed at his cock jutting proudly between you two. It curves towards his stomach an angry red. Gleaming under the fluorescent lights with your slick, a pearl of it pooled right under the head, oozing down a pulsing vein.

Your mouth waters, but he doesn’t make good on his promise to use your mouth.

Instead, he scoops you up with a hand beneath your ass, the other wrapping around the wide base. Your fingers clench in the fabric of his shirt as you resist, whimpering nervously.

“It’s not going to fit, Sebastian!” you complain.

“It will, it will,” he soothes, “you are a big boy, you can take it…”

It’s not a choice, you think again, as he notches the fat head at your entrance.

You’re in no condition to hold yourself up in defiance. Not at your best, and not now when you’re already shaky and kitten weak on two orgasms, with even a fraction of Krueger’s considerable strength lowering you.

It stings.

You whimper and whine, bowing towards him, trying to relax. He coos and soothes with absent, sugary whispers until the head pops in. With his newly freed hand, he tugs the hood up to his nose and guides you into a wet, filthy kiss. You’re desperate for the distraction, licking the taste of iron and cigarette from his sharp canines.

With you distracted, you don’t notice his hand sneaking down again until his thumb is massaging your clit. You nearly jump out of your skin, only kept in place by his quick reflexes and unyielding strength.

“Hush, little one,” he murmurs against your jaw, “I am helping. Let me play with your pretty cock.”

You moan into his mouth as he works circles into that swollen bundle of nerves. It eases the discomfort of his cock sliding into you until you drop that last, mind-blowing inch and he’s bottomed out.

“Fuck, Schatz,” he groans, head tilting back, mouth parted.

You squeeze around him, so full it feels like he’s in your throat. He’s still rubbing your clit, making your walls pulse around him with every delicious swipe of his thumb.

“Come now, time to bounce, Hase.”

Despite his words, he’s the one bouncing you up and down, your legs barely able to support your weight. You could swear you feel every ridge and vein of the cock stretching you and it’s too much for your fucked out brain. All you can do is hold onto him, tears pricking your eyes. You’re not even upset when you feel his tongue licking them from your cheeks, can only shove your tongue in his mouth to get a taste.

He twitches up to meet your hips on the next thrust and you go cross-eyed at the angle – too good too goodtoogood.

You’re begging and whining, completely gone on ecstasy, grinding down on his lap every time you drop down. It’s loud and wet, something out of your dirtiest dreams. He’s fucking against your g-spot, bullying it, abusing it, and you can’t get enough, rolling your hips with each movement.

“I-I’m gonna, I’m gonna—”

“Milk my cock, scream for me, that’s it.”

And you do, shuddering and squeezing so tight around him that he makes a rough, punched out noise. He doesn’t stop as wave after wave washes over you, until you finally wail his name and go limp. Buried deep inside you, he cums without remorse in long, hot spurts against your walls.

In the aftermath, you’re panting and sweaty. Utterly ruined. Brain not quite online due to three back-to-back orgasms from a man who could probably kill you with two fingers. He’s mumbling in your ear, stroking your back. It’s almost pleasant. Maybe he isn’t so bad…

“Now, then. We will go to dinner like a proper couple.”

What happened to being friends?!