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horseshoes daughter

Chapter Text

...oh, baby boy... Tom can feel that slow, wonderful scrape inside him...getting faster... the soft slap of skin on skin ...oh, baby boy...Edd's breath on his neck ... faster ... Edd's fingers gripping into his thighs... another set of hands on his hips ... pushing him down as Edd rushes to meet him....


You look so beautiful, Thomas... Tom opens his eyes to Matt's freckled face smeared with purple...cheeks flushed with it... lips streaked with it like...a smear of someone else's lipstick ... Tom leans forward...catches Matt's lower lip out of teeth with his own... he feels the green of Edd's breath alive on his skin...his shoulder blades ... hot breath and sloppy kisses and soft noise... drinks in Matt's purple...the aftertaste of rich wine on Matt's tongue...


A third movement ... a third body pressing against his side... as though he were in the way... a fist closing loosely around his cock... letting the motion do the work ... Tom hears Tord's voice...low and foreign... the upward lift whenever he leans in for a kiss...


Matt shoves Tom down harder on Edd's cock and Tom sees stars bursting inside his hollow eyes.

Chapter Text

Spin the wheel: begging
Spin the wheel: soft-dom/coaching
Spin the wheel: painplay


I've been thinking a lot about Edd and Matt. About the sound Edd's hand makes when it connects with Matt's skin, louder than it has any right to be, about how it's loud enough to make Edd cringe the first time, barely hearing the little pleased whimper Matt makes for him.

Well, Matt didn't throw him off or burst into tears, so Edd hits spanks him again.

(you can't be afraid of words that speak the truth)

Edd is not going to think about George Carlin during sex. He loves Carlin, but not like that.

(even if it's an uncomfortable truth)

Matt pushes his hips back into Edd's hand, asks him, "A little lower." The tips of his fingers spreading out from between his legs, "Like, right here."

Edd winds his hand back, feeling himself lose power through the strike. Edd can see it spread through his ass, his thighs -- not as ripply as his own would be, but enough to perk up something inside him. Matt sighs. They're sitting on Edd's bed, Matt laid across his lap, wearing nothing but some of Tom's leather bracelets. Edd wanting to sink into the pillows and vanish, wearing a stained T-shirt and green boxers.

Edd wants to laugh; he isn't sure why. The matter-of-fact manner in which Matt had directed him, or the way he'd bound into Edd's room, said, "Lets have sex;" (I'm watching TV) "We can do both;" (But I'm watching torture porn) "I've been fingerblasted to worse, now move over" -- yes, that must have been it. Something about the way Matt handles himself when it comes to sex, a bluntness that somehow seems theatrical.

Edd smooths his hand over Matt's soft skin, looks at the TV just as it goes to a commercial. It wasn't really torture porn, anyway - CGI is too glossy and fake to bother him.


Edd's hand stops. "Yeah?"

Matt has cocked his head to look at him. "You're getting that thousand-yard stare again."

"Oh, sorry."

He winds his hand back.

At least it's always nice to hear Matt ask for it harder.


Spin the wheel: and Matt says, "Don't go easy on me."

Spin the wheel: and Edd doesn't say what he's thinking, that he doesn't want to make Matt cry again.

Spin the wheel: and when Matt's skin turns red Edd stops, but Matt simply pushes his hips up again, enough for Edd to feel something hot drip onto his thigh.

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And through Tori's mouth I say, "Remember how Evangelion got us to second base?"

Ell can remember that now with a laugh -- back in those largely-repressed days of secondary school, back when Ell was still playing free-spirited feminine boy, back when she didn't yet understand how the closeness only reminded her of how much farther she had to go.

But when you've snuck into your childhood best friend's room through the window, sheet-rope in sweaty hands as you wait for her to double-check and make sure her moms are asleep, sure your own feet are about to slip at any moment -- well, you forget about certain things that otherwise keep you from looking too long in your mirror.

Then you're in, under her bed with her, her laptop on, and then, so suddenly, her bra off...

"And then you groped me in your sleep?" Tori flicks Ell's nose with a wet hand. "Still grope me in your sleep!"

Ell laughs again as Tori raises herself up from her place half-floating, half-lying in Ell's lap. Skin glistening, hair in a messy bun, cherry red bikini showing off her uneven tan and plump, perky breasts. Apparently that night, after they'd fallen there underneath the high bed, a warm tangled mess, Ell had rolled over and grabbed onto the closest breast with a gentle squeeze. Apparently she still does. Ell loosely twines her arms around Tori's waist as Tori straddles her, pulling Tori close against her own chest. Wet red to dryer emerald green. Tori's face close enough to brush noses, to catch a glossy bottom lip on her thumb as Tori smiles. "You have great tits, what can I say?"

Tori's hand, suddenly sliding along Ell's soft stomach, suddenly under her breast, suddenly sliding underneath the cloth."You do too."

"Thanks." Ell wants to tell her to stop so they can go inside, that the rough stone of the pool's step is starting to dig into her shoulder blades, that feeling the lapping of the fountain so close to her leg reminds her too much of a certain Palahniuk story, but Tori's other hand grabs her wrist and guides it up to her own breast, the one that lets Ell feel her heartbeat (the one she probably grabs in her sleep, the way she used to clutch her stuffed animals and pretend her own heartbeat was actually theirs) -- well, you try telling a gorgeous woman 'no.' "It's all the bacon and cola."

Water splashes as Tori giggles and shifts closer, pressing Ell's hand into her flesh, her hand into Ell's, her lips over ones that always taste like aspartame.

Who needs to spend all that on balloons?

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You know, someone once believed my boyfriend had broken up with me for calling out Paul's name during sex.

Paul: such a nice name, sweet and soft on the tongue. I -- I mean Tord, Tord loves the sound of it, loves sighing it out, loves the way Paul always flushes whenever he hears it, like it was the first time.

Tord says it now as he

As he....

He uh

Hold on, what I was supposed to be writing? All I have in my notes is "Paul oral knots Tord and breaks his jaw." But let's not.

Instead, let's think of Tord grinding his hips slowly on Paul's cock, feeling Paul's knot start to swell just underneath him, almost breaching his body but not -- not quite. Not yet. Paul is tied to the bedposts, arms bound with rope, a thick leather collar around his neck. Flushed crimson and sweating, trying to keep his breathing under control. His orgasm is a hot pound of lead in his stomach, every muscle in his pelvis taut. He can't, he shouldn't, he wants to just buck his hips up and drive that knot into Tord's pliant little body but --

Tord pulls him forward again, wrapping more of the leash around his knuckles to draw Paul in for a kiss. "What do you want?" Tord asks, his lips still brushing against Paul's.

Such a loaded question. Paul looks away, his ears somehow burning brighter.

Tord rolls his hips again, tortuously slow. Paul's knot has swelled to its full width, catching on the rim of Tord's body, but Tord isn't sitting with enough weight to shove it in. Of course, he can afford to do that, he's already cum like, what, twice already?

Sometimes Tord simply won't get Paul off at all, because he thinks it's funny.

Paul's heart is hammering in his ears. "What do you want, Paulie?" Tord asks again. Tord hooks a finger under Paul's collar, yanks him closer. "Answer me."

"Please..." Paul's voice sounds so shaky he clears his throat and tries again. "Please let me cum."

An amused sound.

"Sir," Paul adds.

Tord pulls him closer, grinds just a little harder, the knot almost starting to slip in - Tord can feel himself start to stretch around it, just that millimeter in. "And how would I do that?"

Paul gives him such a look of pain and incredulity that Tord sinks further onto him just through sheer force of laughter.

When the knot is in, Tord kisses Paul through his orgasm and ruffles his hair, telling him how good he's been. Once Paul is untied, they pass the rest of the time sprawled in bed, Paul tracing circles on Tord's shoulders as Tord does the same on his sides, idly watching TV.

Chapter Text

It's hard to watch TV with people fucking right next to you. Tom thinks Netflix should have a section in their movies for cool guys like him to play in the background while they get lazy but affectionate blowjobs.

Or, in this case, recover from post-nut syndrome while one of their other boyfriends takes over the train. If Tom is lucky, he'll be able to stand soon. Matt is a wonderful fuck, don't get him wrong, but sometimes Tom wonders if he isn't secretly an incubus or something, trying to siphon the other boys' souls out through their dicks. Tom had had Matt's knees pushed back to his chest, Matt's favorite vibrating cock ring on to pleasure them both, and when Tom had cum he'd seen white and felt his knees nearly buckle, one foot dragging along the floor as his body had unloaded into Matt's, one long rope after another.

Besides him now on the couch, Tord is pounding into Matt, one hand clasped over Matt's mouth as the other holds onto the back of the couch for dear life, face pink and pinched with concentration. Matt, for his part, is lost in space, head lolled back, legs wrapped around Tord's waist, nails dragging red tracks down Tord's spine, just the way he likes it.

Tom can't blame him—he can't remember how many times Edd had made Matt cum, but Matt had been loose and whimpering when Tom had started touching him, body jerking like a taut string at the slightest pleasure. When Tom had finally slipped into him, Matt was glassy-eyed and dripping.

Tom regrets not taking off his shirt earlier; Matt's cum is splattered all over the front now. Even a little on his checkered tie. Oh well.

I wouldn't have to do my laundry if I killed myself. Tom has to coincide that point. The most annoying part of post-nut syndrome: suicidal thoughts with all the passion and urgency of the nagging feeling he's left the house with his shoes untied or his wallet on the counter. Oh well.

Tom leans over and pokes at Edd with his foot, but Edd merely grunts in his sleep, rolls over onto his side. Tom leans back and tries to watch the movie, but of course he has no idea what the fuck is happening, the Final Girl seems to be going Rambo or something, who cares.

He can hear Matt's muffled voice reaching into its upper register, so he reaches out and grabs the closest hand, letting Matt squeeze his fingers until they're red and pulsing. When Tord is done, Matt will want to be held and kissed, and when he drops he'll whimper about he's dirty and worthless, and Tom will usually be the one easiest enough to wake up to tell him No, you're not.

They both know Matt doesn't really believe it, but it's still good to hear.

Chapter Text

Edd approached him around one in the morning, both of their eyes empurpled and baggy, both of their hands calloused where pens are held, and said, "All I'm going to preface this with is that the author is Canadian." Tord looked up from his cave of couch cushions and papers and protractors, said nothing. And then Edd read from his phone as though explaining the weather.

"Bear," she said, rubbing her foot in his fur, suddenly lonely. The fire was too hot, and the fur rug had edged towards her. Oh, she was lonely, inconsolably lonely; it was years since she had had human contact. She had always been bad at finding it. It was as if men knew that her soul was gangrenous. Ideas were all very well, and she could hide in her work, forgetting for a while the real meaning of the Institute, where the Director fucked her weekly on her desk while both of them pretended they were shocking the Government and she knew in her heart that 92 what he wanted was not her waning flesh but elegant eighteenth-century keyholes, of which there is a shortage in Ontario.

She had allowed the procedure to continue because it was her only human contact, but it horrified her to think of it.There was no care in the act, only habit and convenience. It had become something she was doing to herself.

"Oh bear," she said, rubbing his neck. She got up and took her clothes off because she was hot. She lay down on the far side of the bear, away from the fire, and a little away from him and began in her desolation to make love to herself.

The bear roused himself from his somnolence, shifted and turned. He put out his moley tongue. It was fat, and, as the Cyclopaedia says, vertically ridged. He began to lick her.

A fat, freckled, pink and black tongue. It licked. It rasped, to a degree. It probed. It felt very warm and good and strange. What the hell did Byron do with his bear? she wondered.

He licked. He probed. She might have been a flea he was searching for. He licked her nipples stiff and scoured her navel. With little nickerings she moved him south.

She swung her hips and make it easy for him.

"Bear, bear," she whispered, playing with his ears. The tongue that was muscular but also capable of lengthening itself like an eel found all her secret places. And like no human being she had ever known it persevered in her pleasure. When she came, she whimpered, and the bear licked away her tears.


Chapter Text

oh Jesus fuck what day is it. A commonality amongst unemployed people, sanatorium patients, and concentration camp prisoners, as first noted by Viktor E. Frankl, is each week flashing by while the day itself crawls by over an eternity. (I would also argue high school, to a certain degree.) The distortion of time that comes from living in an existential void -- no future beyond these four walls, no real reason not to bash your head into them today. I used to wake up and do nothing and feel tired and want to slice myself open and watch garbage tv and throw my life away writing pointless garbage of the kind you're about to read before finally convincing myself to lie down and try and sleep. Now I don't even have a TV. A day becomes weeks. Nail black and ragged and down to the quick; no more marking the wall for me. He hasn't come back for me in so long, not since I said that to him; did I really make him that mad? I dunno. Maybe he found my side tumblr with this old thing on it, buried underneath all that World of Warcraft porn. I think I may have wrote it first in May, but it's hard to say, rewriting as much as I can from memory. Not like I ever finished it anyway, not like most my smut isn't a glorified bullet outline anyway. But I suppose it doesn't matter if I rewrite it if he's mad at me. 

Imagine yourself in my place, feeling the memory of his fingers dancing up my back like a ghost. 


More importantly, imagine Patryck finally taking that aphrodisiac Tord’s developed and then testing it out with a tentacle robot, face down ass up in the pillows in the lab, smiling and drooling and blissed out as he’s fucked by a thick tentacle, thick as he hopes Paul is, moaning Paul’s name unabashedly as it pumps him full of synthetic cum and counts his orgasms, another wet like a tongue over his swollen, hypersensitive clit. Or perhaps it’s a vibrator the force of the robot’s thrusts rubs over his labia and clit,  Patryck is just so fucked out and deep in his own head at the thought of Paul fucking him like this, Paul filling him up with his cum that he just lies there and takes it all, squirming as he’s pushed to one orgasm after another. His hands are bound to the table with thick, cold metal bands, but he doesn’t seem to mind at all.

Paul is in the lab for whatever contrived reason, it’s literally just porn so who even cares. He hears Patryck moaning and whimpering and tries to follow the sound, about to call out when the words die in his throat.

He heard his name. 

And then again. 

And then with a “please,” at the end. A “fuck me,” a “yes, oh god, I’m close again.”

Paul feels a sword of heat slice through his chest, traveling down from his heart into his crotch as he ducks behind a row of boxes or something, face hot enough to burn a touch, trying to steady his breathing and keep quiet 

[blah blah blah who gives a fuck]

“It’s okay if you don’t want to,” Patryck says voice still a little bit breathless. “But if you don’t, I’m going to need you to leave. You’re technically interrupting one of Red Leader’s experiments.”

“This is an experiment?” Paul asks, though he’s not too sure why he’s shocked. this is just the kind of thing for that hentai freak to do.

Patryck nods and leans closer, his eyes so bright and golden and beautiful as he looks up at Paul from beath the lashes. His lips purse slightly; Paul stares, watches them slowly form the words, “To see how many times I can cum before I can’t even move anymore.” 

Paul feels himself frozen in place as Patryck’s hand runs gently up his arm, the touch sending goosebumps across his entire body. Patryck lifts up further, leans forward, whispering against the shell of Paul’s ear, “They’re not as fun when they’re not with you.” 

Paul tries to swallow but can’t. Patryck’s face is so close to his he can feel the heat off Patryck’s own cheek. 

“You’re drugged,” he finally manages to say.

“What good is sex if you’re still yourself?” Patryck fires back. 

and then Paul kisses him. It’s hard and it’s messy and it’s so perfect Paul can barely pull himself away - it feels like all the free will drops out of him when Patryck’s mouth falls open, tongue quickly sliding up to meet his. 

and then Patryck moans - or maybe Paul does, maybe they both do together, but the spell is cracked and Paul pushes away. “I can’t. I-I’m sorry, Pat, I just, I just don’t want to fuck this up before it even starts.”

Patryck sits back,  crossing his legs. “You don’t have to feel sorry for anything.” Suddenly it seems as though all that unbridled lust has flown out of him, and that cool, collected Patryck has returned, though his eyes are still drops of gold fire. He gives a small, dismissive shoo shoo. “But you have to get out of here before Red Leader gets back.”

“Wait, do…does he have sex with you?” 

Patryck waves the question off. “Not often.” A small smile - no, a small smirk. “But I’m always thinking of you.” 

Chapter Text

Chapter Text

I hear Patryck tsk-tsking me before something metal unfurls, like those old lightsaber toys rattling out of the hilt. I’m facing off into the darkness, my back to him, so I can’t see what he’s doing and the pressure on my neck too great to ask as I hear him rummaging in his pockets, sighing in exasperation, straining,  something metal clicking against the bars of my cell. A presence above me; I can hear the clothes-rope cutting. A narrative contrivance it cuts at all with no real force behind it. I fall onto my ass and pull the noose off, rubbing my neck, cracking it audibly and feeling the ripples of tension down into my core. 

“Owie,” I say. “Crunchy.” 

“Did you have fun up there?” He asks, pulling his dinosaur extendo-arm back in and untying the small pocket knife from between its plastic teeth.

“No.” I crack my neck the other way, roll my shoulders, wish for a tennis ball to roll my muscles over. “Is it November?” I ask him. “Because I know I get more suicidal in November.”

“Close,” he says, motioning for me to sit back against the bars so he can reach through and rub my shoulders a little. His hands are always so cold they feel like they leave burns. As I crawl forward, dejected, he squats down and picks up something from the floor -- must have fallen out of his pocket while he was cutting me down. A small, folded scrap of paper, which he hands to me as he continues, “It’s the last full week of October.”

“I guess that counts,” I mutter, more to myself than to him. I don’t really celebrate Halloween anymore anyway. The paper is yellow and long as I unfold it, a legal pad like the ones I used to steal from my parents’ office.

“That’s a special request from Red Leader himself,” Patryck says, too much of a smile to his voice. 

I read it, and ask, “Are you sure I didn’t die?” knowing my face is scrunching in pain in that frog-like way my sister loved to poke fun of. 

Patryck laughs, a full peal of it escaping to echo down the hall before he catches the rest behind his fist. “Now where’s the fun in that?”


I’d asked how rapey it was meant to be -- Red Leader is into hentai, after all -- and Patryck had simply shrugged and said however much you wanna make it. 

But I don’t. Wacky Races is something to be confined wholly to my memories of Saturday mornings and staying up too late at night to wait through the old MGM cartoons for reruns of the original Powerpuff Girls.  

 I’d asked if he was mad at me and I’d probably started crying, but he’d simply said no and waited, silently, for me to finish. 

Thankfully in my pocket I found another request. It has that new paper smell that fresh printer heat, but I’m not going to discount the possibility that I’m hallucinating, like one of those people who get locked in a sensory deprivation chamber and start seeing zebras and shit. The most obvious point in the hallucination theory’s favor is that the username is an announcement of one’s having a microcock; definitely something I would do. 


paultryk with pat trying a dom role instead of his usual sub and fucking paul up with bdsm and making paul his bitch

I love that this is phrased as though Paul’s attempts at domming are a) any good at all and b) don’t belie the fact that he only tries to do so because it’s a social script written deep on his gray matter. After all, even in ancient societies that accepted male homosexuality on the surface, there was still that association of bottoming with passivity, a “hygenics of social power” as Bersani once said. To be penetrated, to be submissive, is to hand one’s balls in -- something you’re not even allowed to contemplate wanting. 

And then Bersani went back to Foucault and said, “Foucault more or less openly praises sado- masochistic practices for helping homosexual men (many of whom share heterosexual men’s fear of losing their authority by “being under another man in the act of love”) to “alleviate” the “problem” of feeling “that the passive role is in some way demeaning.”” 

The obvious tension: that being demeaned is precisely what makes it hot. 

So the second time Paul ruts into him until his thick brows furrow in pain and he has to withdraw, trying, only briefly, to jerk himself off before forgetting the whole affair, Patryck proposes a simple solution. He pulls from his desk drawer printed-off checklists ( of course he has a checklist for sex, and Paul can’t help but smile) and they both go through them, but Paul only either crosses things out or writes question marks beside them. 

Do you want to try that? 

I dunno, maybe?

Patryck’s fingertips ghosting along his stomach, a touch so soft it makes every hair stand on end. He tries to imagine the feeling of those soft, cold hands striking his flesh, tying rope around him, clawing down his back, not in the throes of passion but just to see the skin under them turn pink.

I’m very fucking tempted to have this end by Patryck just placing Paul in one of those vibrating cock-rings and leaving to do whatever the fuck (but not before unveiling his big whiteboard outline of how the cars in the Cars franchise don’t truly die but instead suffer endlessly like the gem shard fusions from SU), but 

Well - 

Okay no, I can do this, I’m a real author ( “look ma no hands!” as my TomTord roommate would yell over and over at four am in the throes of a self-loathing spiral, prompting me to shout back “Rick Flair, say something, tell me I’m good! ”). 

So instead I’ll leave off, for now, with this thought: 

Patryck loops his tie around Paul’s neck and pulls him closer, brushing their noses together. “What if we got you a real collar so I could do this more often?” Patryck asks, tightening the loop until his knuckles press ever so against Paul’s bobbing Adam's apple. 

“Do what?” Paul asks. 

Patryck yanks him forward, crashing their lips together, giving Paul just that hint of tongue that makes him groan before Patryck pulls back and smiles, brown hair falling into his eyes. “That,” Pat says, before qualifying it with, “How very Teenaged Girl of me.” 

Paul pushes some of Patryck’s hair back behind his, cupping Patryck’s cheek in his hand, imagining, as he so often does, the sharp bone cutting into his palm like a knife. “I thought you were gonna say lead me out into the backyard and just stand there while I piss on a bush.” 

“But we only do that when you’re drunk, which is mutually exclusive to us fucking.”

“I just thought the dog collar meant we’d be roleplaying a bit.” 

“Who said anything about a dog collar?” Patryck pulls their forehead together, looks Paul in the eyes, golden to brown. “Paul, dear, is there something you want to tell me?” 

“I mean,” and Paul’s voice vanishes into his laughter for a moment, before returning thin; “I did notice there’s no mention of yiff on this - - ow! Ow! I was joking!” 

Chapter Text


But no bed, however unexpected, no matter how apparently gratuitous,
is free from the de-universalising facts of real life.
We do not go to bed in simple pairs; even if we choose not to refer to them, we still drag there with us the cultural impedimenta of our social class, our parents’ lives, our bank balances, our sexual and emotional expectations, our whole biographies - all the bits and pieces of our unique existences.
Add to these socio-economic considerations the Judaeo- 
Christian heritage of shame, disgust and morality that 
stand between the initial urge and the first attainment of 
this most elementary assertion of the self and it is a wonder 
anyone in this culture ever learns to fuck at all.




it falls right into the social trap


that I've been complaining about in my


 vlogs lately where sex can be treated as



artful and important as long as it's



terrible either in being physically or


 emotionally unsatisfying


 or just having negative effects on the







 “Tell me what you are thinking about,” the man I was actually fucking said, his words as charged as the action in my mind. As I’d never stopped to think before doing anything to him in bed (we were that sure of our spontaneity and response), I didn’t stop to edit my thoughts. I told him what I’d been thinking.

He got out of bed, put on his pants and went home.


Behold another place: there is a pit, great and full. In it are those who have denied righteousness: and angels of punishment chastise them and there they kindle upon them the fire of their torment.

And again behold two women: they hang them up by their neck and by their hair; they shall cast them into the pit. These are those who plaited their hair, not to make themselves beautiful but to turn them to fornication, that they might ensnare the souls of men to perdition. And the men who lay with them in fornication shall be hung by their loins in that place of fire; and they shall say one to another, ‘We did not know that we should come to everlasting punishment.’


Nevertheless, there is no question of an aesthetics of pornography. It can never be art for art’s sake. Honourably enough, it is always art with work to do.



You can have it both ways; you can enjoy the immediate gratification of thousands of virtual sex partners and the long-term satisfaction of a real relationship.


To the analyst, any breakdown in mental or emotional machinery could be traced only to one cause. A sex life that was not sufficiently full.

We discussed my sex life. It was not sufficiently full. I asked the analyst how full a sufficiently full sex life would have to be, and the analyst waved a hand airily. “You should have had a hundred and twenty-five affairs by this time.” The number seemed staggering and I tried to calculate one hundred and twenty-five on a yearly basis but the dry beach was unable to cope with arithmetic.

“Even so,” the analyst told me, “you might still find yourself now with emotional problems. American men are very poor lovers.”


This extreme depression lasted for about a month before it started lifting, and when it did start to go away the first real emotion I found myself feeling again was love. Not love for a family member or friend, but for this little purple cartoon unicorn that had made me smile, laugh, and cheered me up so much when nothing else could during the most difficult period in my life. It was really weird and uncomfortable at first, so I tried to ignore it and hoped the feelings would go away…

She was on my mind nearly every waking second of every day, and every time I thought about her or saw her on the screen while watching MLP my heart would feel like it was skipping a beat and doing little fluttery things in my chest. I’d catch myself daydreaming sometimes about holding her in my arms and cuddling her, even going so far as to think about kissing her sometimes.

And that’s right about the time my sex drive started coming back, but not in the way I expected. 


There is a big secret about sex: most people don’t like it.


Chapter Text

Chapter Text

Night comes, and Scheherazade waits in bed for her husband the king to return – they always freshen up after sex, one after the other, without ever exchanging a glance or a word. That first night, it had been because she’d felt his hands still roaming over her skin like an infection and was half-sure she might vomit, but more importantly she’d needed that extra minute or two to ready herself, to slip into the snake oil mask every woman has under the one her genetics has painted on her. 

She’s certain his reason is still simply disgust. 

Scheherazade waits, legs crossed underneath her, swallowing as her throat threatens to close. She inspects her hands as she always does when nervous, running her finger-pad over the arc of her thumbnail, thinking of all the times she’d clawed one of the other children as they’d played and accidentally drawn blood. 

Her husband the king returns, face as hard as the marble he has to pad across to reach her. He sits down on the bed and snaps his fingers; a servant boy rushes forward to hand him a bag of circus peanuts. 

Scheherazade opens her mouth. Her husband the king tosses a peanut at her, bouncing off her cheek and into her naked lap. 

“TordMatt tickle torture,” he commands. 

Scheherazade’s mouth hangs open, wondering, fleetingly, if she’s more shocked that he would raise a hand other than to finally execute her or that he knew a word other than continue. But she soon regains her composure. “But what about the story I told you last night?” She asks. “It was just getting started!” 

He throws another peanut at her. “TordMatt tickle torture,” he says again. 

The drawer underneath their bed is suddenly thrown open, and inside rests Scheherazade’s sister, lively as ever. “You still haven’t finished my Paultryck BDSM request!” she cries. 

Scheherazade slams the drawer shut with her foot. “But who asked.”

Chapter Text

Alright, darling, Patryck says, clicking the collar into place -- tan leather, heavy with studs and a silver name tag that bounces against the small of his throat. Paulie. How does that feel? Not too tight?

You didn't have to, Paul says in lieu of a real reply. It itches, in a mental rather than physical way, jabs at him in that way only gifts can.

But I wanted to, Patryck replies, almost a snap. Paul looks down and watches as Patryck's hand draws up to take his chin and force their eyes to meet again. How's it feel? he asks again, and this time Paul swallows and says, Fine.

Patryck raises a brow.

Paul holds that golden gaze for a few seconds, before darting his own away. Sir.

Something stirs in his gut. He feels so much smaller than himself, has during this whole ordeal from the minute Patryck had told him to remove his clothes and sit down on the edge of the bed. A dog collar; he can't believe Patryck really took him up on that.

That was weeks ago. He remembered.

Now here Patryck stands in a tight black shirt and jeans, his hair pulled back into a ponytail. When Paul had first seen Patryck naked, the ponytail on his shoulder, he'd had a fleeting thought of pulling it -- pulling Patryck back onto his cock, over and over.

Then he had tried and Patryck had snapped don't touch my hair and how he only tries when Patryck is asleep, brushing it back behind his ear. Watching him breathe.


When I wake up, it's a room of pink. Pink, fluffy bedspreads, heart-shaped pillows, pastel pink along the walls -- Carebear vomit as interior design.

The first thing I do is pinch myself -- once, twice, three times enough to leave an angry red mark on my arm before I vault myself into the bed and breathe in the linen scent of the pillows.

Flop onto my back, look around again -- an open door to what appears to be a bathroom, given the glimpse of white title, and a TV in the opposite corner, a gray cube of machinery and plastic like I used to have when I was a child.

Thank God. I'd been waiting to redo the scene where the imprisoned lead of Oldboy, in his isolation and despair, jerks off to the commercials on TV.

Paul honestly hates the word “spank” -- or rather, the inherent question it raises here in Patryck’s bedroom atop the bookstore atop the Red Army’s base of operations, here with him resting naked across PAtryck’s lap, here with Patryck ghosting one palm over his back, his thighs, as the other fiddles with the thin leash attached to Paul’s the collar. A light awareness, like when someone plays with the ends of your hair.

That question: isn’t history repeating itself?

Yes, I have daddy issues, next question.

Paul feels that horrible flesh in his face as Patryck runs his fingers up to gently cup his balls, run his knuckles along the underside of Paul’s cock, the tip leaking from the kisses Patryck had given him once his the new collar was on. The softness of Patryck’s lips, the feel of his calloused fingers over Paul’s neck, the shame of being so naked, so bare -- he’s a man, what do you want from me?

Paul shifts away when Patryck's hands start to trace up from his balls to the cleft of his ass, that cold skin grafting over his lit nerves.

What's wrong? Patryck asks.

Paul buries his head in his arms, sighs. He doesn't know what to say, other than that something instinctive says no, not there, but --

Do you want to stop, darling? Patryck's hand runs over his hair, smoothing it over. Or are you just playing?

Paul raises his head, looks back. What do you mean?

Do you really want me to stop or do you really want me to punish you?

Knitted brows.

Patryck gives a small smile. Just because I give you an order doesn't mean you have to follow it, Patryck explains. Tord was the worst at that, good Lord -- he has to be beaten into doing anything. But then again -- and here he runs his hand down Paul's neck to his back, pausing to linger on his broad shoulders-- I'd probably have to go a lot harder on you. You're a big guy, a brief but firm pat on his rump. You can handle it.

A thoughtful noise. I didn't know you could do that, he says a bit quietly, more to himself.

So please, if you're going to be a brat, please keep it to a minimum, Patryck says. Tord was hard enough to handle and he's only half your size.

What do you mean?

Patryck's eyes widen, that look of having so much to complain about that the best angle of attack is unclear. Simply put, Patryck says, gesturing slowly for emphasis, it's not fun to have to browbeat someone into doing even the most trivial things. Imagine how sexy it is to be a parent and having to drag your child across the room and essentially puppet them into picking up their toys. That's how it would feel. 

Paul cringes in his turtle way. Patryck laughs, ruffles his hair again.

So just-- don't do that. He cups Paul's cheek. It's too exhausting.

We don't --

No no, it's fine, darling. Just...A sigh, then: this is a lot of work for me, too. If you truly don't wanna do something, just tell me. Now, what's the safeword again?

Paul thinks for a moment. Justine?

Yes -- a thumb over his cheekbone -- and you can use the colors if you want to slow down, too. Now, a hand looping around the leash. Patryck's golden eyes patient, almost free of lust entirely. Are you ready?

Paul nods.

Say it, love.

Yes, sir. What's over the--! Paul chokes as Patryck yanks the leash in the opposite direction, foiling his fledgling escape.

You'll have to do better than that.

Chapter Text

Patryck found me again, face-first in the sink, the water running pink with my diluted blood. I'd tried to smash my skull in and by the time he woke me up my teeth were already grown back, not even  a chip. He's still berating me but all I can focus on is running my tongue along them, feeling for weakness, tasting only dried blood now wet again and that vaguely metallic taste you sometimes get after eating too many bananas.

If you're looking for a point, there isn't any. If you're looking for that parallel between the frame story and the actual story that makes them flow into and bounce off each other like a good rap verse, you won't find it. Any earlier attempt to make you think these narrative threads are going to eventually come together into a cohesive, meaningful whole is a lie.

I'm tired; trying is for losers.


Patryck's thoughts finally don't drift away as he shakes his hand out, the wrist sore, the palm numb and almost as red as Paul's skin, blood blisters specks of scarlet across his pale thighs. A pleasant departure-- normally when doming he has to force his thoughts to wander, if only so he doesn't get truly mad. That's always been his vow to himself: nothing rough when he's genuinely angry at them, ever. It's a bad look.

Paul makes it easy to stay in the moment, unfurling there before him, a shivering, whimpering mess as he's struck over and over again, pushing his hips back into the impact even as he hides his face in his arms. Patryck will allow him that. The hand that has Paul's leash looped around the knuckles smooths over Paul's back, cooing encouragement, another pleasant departure. Normally praise is dolled out sparingly, if at all, and much as Patryck suspects a part of Paul would find nothing more arousing than to be ignored, that's not what Paul needs here and now. "You're doing so well," Patryck says, running a hand over Paul's thighs, feeling the heat off them. "How does it feel?"

Paul mutters something and nuzzles harder into the covers.

"What was that?"

Something muffled again.

After that first escape attempt, Paul had rubbed at his throat and asked Pat to at least give a warning next time. So Patryck grabs him by the hair instead and yanks his head up, ignoring the way Paul gasps, and asks again, What did you say?

"Good," the quick response.

"Good what?"

"Good, sir."

Patryck releases his hold, and Paul falls flat again.


[And blah blah blah, Patyrck chides Paul about being embarrassed for feeling so good, and Paul can't describe how that sinking sense that he shouldn't be here makes his chest tight but his dick achingly hard, somehow so sure that when it's all over Patryck will look at him with a tiny bit of contempt 

(because a good portrait looks more like myself than even I do).] 

Patryck rolls on a latex glove and finds the place just underneath Paul's scrotum that lets him massage Paul's prostate from the outside until fluid runny and white, thicker than normal pre-cum, spills out. Those spilled milk tears the songs talk about. 

He asks, "Are you ready?" 

And Paul nods his head with more certainty than he feels. Patryck slaps his bruised thighs until he answers with words. 

Cold lube, those long, piano-player fingers. Their bodies folded over each other, a layer of sweat over Paul's skin. 



Patryck kisses sloppily across Paul's shoulders as Paul ruts back into his hand, crying out as his prostate is jabbed with every thrust of those two slender fingers.

"Say it," Patryck hisses, squeezing the base of Paul's cock firmly, his fingers wet with the slickness down the underside and dripping onto the sheets.

"It's embarrassing!" Paul snaps back, voice breaking with laughter.

"Why?" Patryck asks. "No one's here but us." He chafes his hand over the tip of Paul's cock, hard enough for Paul to cry out from the sharp overstimulation.

"It just is!"

"Really?" Patryck bites down onto Paul's shoulder, eliciting a loud moan as Paul's cock twitches in his hand. "Any more embarrassing than this?" Now it's his turn to laugh against Paul's skin. "Come on, darling. Do you have any idea how you look right now?"

Paul hides his face again. He also says stop, but the word dies in his throat - Pat might take him seriously out of spite.

"Red-faced, whimpering and groaning for me," Patryck's voice drops low as he talks, words puffs of hot breath into Paul's ear. "Goosebumps all over. " And he starts jerking Paul off again, out of sync between the thrusts of his fingers. There's something electric shared between them now, something that makes Patryck kiss and bite and growl between words, lose track of what he's even saying. "So fucking hot. You left a stain on my jeans just from me spanking you - you'd probably cum from me putting the tip in, wouldn't you?" Paul's cock is so wet with pre that Patryck's hand glides over his skin, his body a knot being pulled tighter and tighter. "Wouldn't you like me to fuck you anyway, until you fucking scream?" Trembling so hard Patryck is worried Paul might throw him off, but he holds on tight, continues anyway, "Come on, darling. It's okay to want it. It's okay."

Another kiss on a new bite mark on Paul's neck, which stings in such an awful, lovely way. "God, I love you."

Paul feels something inside him snap. He begs. Begs for Patryck to fuck him and it feels like the words just keep pouring out, over and over, please, fuck me, I need it, I need you.

Patryck grabs Paul's shoulder and prompts him to roll onto his back, then nearly rips the glove as he yanks it off and tosses it on the floor. Paul gasps, head swimming as Patryck shucks off his pants, only one leg fully free as he straddles Paul's hips. Paul feels lightening slice through his body as the empurpled head of his cock, slides across Patryck's sex, hot and soaking wet. They both cry out as Patryck drops himself down onto Paul, but Patryck doesn't give Paul any time to adjust before he's moving, hard and fast, eyes firey and wild.

Patryck grabs Paul's hands and forces them away from his face, pinning them down on either side of his head, fingers intertwining. Every thrust makes Paul's legs tremble and kick -- he's so close to that edge, so ready to fall over, and then Patryck leans forward and says -- no, growls, "I've never wanted you more than I do right now."

Chapter Text

Honestly the only reason  I want a dick is so I can fuck the fluffy blanket rolls at Walmart.

Chapter Text

Matt is a genius. The thought crests him to another orgasm, and then comes the thought of his cum -- imaginary now that he's been undead for only three days less than his whole time on earth -- mixing with the viscous blood they're sunken in up to the waist. Life and new-life, both inert and not, mixing together in the lapping waves of hot, sweet, delicious blood -- Matt's wings reach out towards the black sky above as he rides out his climax, Tom still hammering away at him below the waterline.

He's close; Matt can feel it in the way Tom's claws sink into his thigh. Finally, Tom climaxes too, holding Matt just above his knot as he pumps rope after thick rope of cum into him. Matt moans; with the tight hold of his own body he can feel each wave as it travels up Tom's cock and paints his insides. Wonderful.

When Tom is done, his body slumps back against the rocky cup of the spring, sighing heavily.

"Have fun, baby?" Matt asks, throwing a sultry look over his shoulder, feeling himself already growing stiff again as he feels the blood along the bottom edges of his wings drip off, watches Tom go to wipe the sweat off his brow, realize his near mistake, and wipe more blood off on his chest first. Even without having drunk much beyond what he could suck through a straw bigger than he was, all this blood around him -- the blood not of any living creature, but of the earth itself -- makes his whole body sing with power. Honey poured over his head by one token, warm and cozy, and by the other a straight shot of electricity, a sugar rush. If Tom wasn't gently pushing him off he'd fuck him again, and again, and -- well, however long it takes for Tord to come back.

They'd gone back to the little cottage Matt's parents had gifted them for the weekend for food and drink, but Matt needed Tord alone, so he'd taken the weeks of recycling he'd stockpiled and set up a tripwire to cut open the bag over their heads, a feast too grand for Edd's goat appetite to resist.

Tom laughs, still a little breathlessly. "Yeah. Jesus Christ, Matt."

"What?" Matt asks as their bodies finally un-join. He bounces on the spring's bottom, feeling its black sand between his toes. In the strings of light-bulbs overhead (for there back only two or three hours of natural sunlight here, another blessing), the blood looks black too, ink with red reflections in that yellow, fuzzy light. Tom's clawed hand are in his hair, a pleased, lazy smile across his face. Trim chest, large, ticklish ears, bottomless eyes that are crinkling in the corners now with humor. Crimson smears across purple-splotched skin. Matt might just have to fuck him again before Tord arrives.

"You're gonna suck the soul of me." Another laugh. "Are you sure you aren't part incubus?"

"Pretty sure, more's the pity. Why?"

"Because you're a lot better at sucking dick than you are blood."

Matt snorts. "Perhaps."

When Matt turns around to face Tom, he's lifted up into those huge, striped arms, Tom nuzzling into his neck, those two bite marks permanently scarred into his skin. "Perhaps," Tom parrots back. Then: "I dunno why I thought you'd be more offended."

Matt purrs at Tom's touch, pressing his own kisses to Tom's cheek. Even with how muted his body's pain sensors are, Matt can feel the emptiness Tom just carved out of him, feeling more of him slowly dripping out, and he closes his legs, holding it in. He groans; Tom, still kissing his neck, raises a brow.

"I don't know why either," Mat says, running his wet hand through Tom's hair before he can be stopped. "Being modest for all eternity? Hard fucking pass."

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Paul slows himself as Patryck writhes and sighs beneath him, careful to watch Pat’s face for any signs of pain. His body preens at the sensation of familiar skin and heat and wetness, but Paul digs his claws into the mattress and stays slow. He won’t hurt him, not if he can help it. 


Paul’s eyes follow the path of Patryck’s hand as it travels down between his legs, and Paul has to pause because he nearly cums just from the sight. 

Patryck, glistening with sweat, his brown skin flushed — legs spread wide open, impaled on Paul’s cock, fingers beginning to massage his clit as Paul slowly feeds more and more of his length inside him. 

I've missed you so much.

And then he feels the shape of Pat change, opening up and welcoming him in. 

Patryck laughs as Paul's tail begins to thump in earnest against the mattress. Raises one hand up to ruffle Paul's hair, scratch him behind his new, longer ears. Paul leans down, whimpering as Patryck presses their lips together. 

 It feels so good, Patryck says against his mouth ...go a little bit faster. 

Paul tears tracks into the mattress and angles his hips up, sinking almost the rest of the way to the hilt. Patryck’s back arches, body spasming — god, it's a small orgasm sure, but Pat’s never come so easily before. Paul thrums happily as Pat peppers him with brief kisses, nuzzling closer. Paul laps at Patryck’s mouth he as settles down onto his elbows, his weight pushing Patryck’s legs wider, feeling himself sink deeper, until the tip of his cock brushes up against a wall. 

Patryck sucks in a breath. Paul lifts his head, ears flattened back against his skull. 

This doesn’t feel real.

Paul starts to pull out, but Patryck’s legs are an iron grip around his waist. 

I didn’t say you could stop. Pat gently smacks him on the top of the head. Get back to work, I’ve got places to be. 

Remember that one time I posted Paultryck cervix-fucking and then someone made an EddTord ripoff of it so I posted a shamelessly plagiarized TomTord version of the original onto an alt account and it's now the most popular Eddsworld fic I've ever written?

Consensual cervix-fucking is still unironically hot. Stay woke.

Chapter Text

"Hi Joey," Edd says as the dog hops up on Eduardo's couch, leering forward to sniff Edd as best as its able with the white cone protruding past its head. "Hi Joey." The cone is getting in his face now. "Hi Joey." Now, Edd isn't adverse to dogs, mind, but it's a little hard to give one your full attention when you're dressed in only boxers in your arch nemesis's house, trying to pull up a movie on your laptop. And you've already petted him, he is not starving for affection, your hand still smells like dog, actually. 

Joey the dog wiggles its broken, curly tail, the top half limp on its back, like it just couldn't commit to the effort. He sets his head down on what slice of Edd's thigh is free from his laptop. "Hi Joey," Edd says. 

"Joey!" Eduardo snaps his fingers and whistles ----

sorry, my little sister just asked me to facetime her while I was writing this because she thinks her cabin is haunted by a ghost. 

"I'm a frail little white girl, what have I done to deserve this?" she asks as she walks around her cabin, though I catch only glances of oak door frames and pale creme walls. Her eyes are darting every which way, camera angled for a good look at the inside of her nostrils. It's been months since I've seen her face in anything other than a polished Instagram picture, remembered how she once mistook my baby pictures for her own. At least at thirteen, she has avoided my unfortunate bangs. 

"Be white," I reply.

"That's not my fault, I didn't ask to be white," she says, more to the ghost than to me.

"Am I supposed to hold it in my boobs?" Edd asks, curiously pushing them together before letting them fall back into place. 

Eduardo nods, a tiny shot glass full of fizzling coca-cola in his outstretched hand. "Unless you want me to do it out of your ass, which would probably end with a trip to the ER, so no."

Edd's gaze lingers on the glass, his fingers drumming on his breasts, but instead asks, "What if I wanna do it out of your ass?" 

Eduardo's face changes in only the smallest, almost in-perceivable way; only one muscle in that grimace moves. "No." 

Edd wonders what he's even doing here, ten pm on a Friday night, his clothes in a pile beside him on the couch like his dignity got Raptured away. Eduardo only fares slightly better, his jade button-up open to a hairy stomach only slightly more toned than Edd's own. With the silver watch and khakis, Edd feels like at any moment Eduardo is going to open up some scotch and start telling him about his divorce. 

"No?" A puff of a laugh. "I thought we were supposed to be experimenting here."

"Within reason. Though if you wanna shit out glass shards for the next week, be my guest."

"I already am your guest." 

"One more fucking come-back and I'm throwing this on you." 

Edd gives him a sultry look and lets his mouth fall open, lolling out his tongue. 

When I'd tried to call my sister, I'd accidentally called my mother first, so she asks now what's wrong. When I tell her [redacted] thinks she's haunted, mom says she can go upstairs and stay with them in their room. 

My sister says No. 


"Because I'm not a little bitch." 

She is definitely in a cabin; I can see the wood paneling now. She tells me she's been very paranoid about ghosts lately, and asks I stop bullying her.

"This is what you get for being whiiiiiiite," I drawl, warping my voice in that cartoon poltergeist way. 

"Trans Hamilton furry aaauuuuu," she quips back. 

I am genuinely trying my best to conceive of Edd and Eduardo having sex in a non-post Eduardo 100%ing Tony Hawk 1 sweaty and slightly-maybe-borderline-very drunk celebratory fuck-pile context and it's just not happening. I've got nothing. 

"It's gonna be okay, you have white privilege on your side," I say. 

"Do I really?" she asks. "If I did, I wouldn't be in this situation." 

Oh she just hung up. Guess the ghost got her.


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listen. im mad dog wild. yall chew your spaghetti? weak. pathetic.

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So it’s come to my attention that this Tumblr user (@/the-resurrection-3d) is real fucking problematic so. here we go . here we fucking go

lot of gross shit here please read at your own discretion

If you have any problems with this post you’re probably as bad as they are.

So first off, they are pretty disrespectful to trans people. As I am trans myself I find this quite offensive. They write Patryck as trans just to feteshise the shit out of him and it’s not brilliant. They’re also real terrible to women which also isn’t cool. We love a good bit of misogyny. As well as objectifying every minority you can think of, they also objectify Tom, a POC, in their fanfiction “mortals sipping nectar at 50 cents a glass” on ao3. 

As if that isn’t enough, they’re quite possibly a fan of hazbin hotel, which is notorious for being incredibly problematic with a shitty creator. They’ve liked several hazbin hotel edits on Instagram, and this leads me to believe they are a fan of it.

Their ao3 is a minefield of problematic content, too. In their kinktober fic, “horseshoe’s daughter”, there is a chapter where they advocate for beastiality, using a passage from Bear by Marian Engel where a female character is eaten out by a bear. They also provide a picture of this bear the book is about. I believe they are using eddsworld as a vessel to spread their problematic ideals to other people.

In this fic, horseshoe’s daughter, they also have a footnote where they make fun of me, and call the children in the eddsworld fandom “crackheads”. They have also written something where Tord from eddsworld replaces my legs with furbies. I’m both a minor and traumatised. They have admitted they knew this, but have still continued to mock me.

As well as this, in discord calls they have made several jokes about fucking my mother, and told me to kill myself. They know I’m suicidal, but this doesn’t seem to stop them. They have a habit of mocking people who are suicidal, it seems, as they have written a whole essay dedicated to taking the piss out of them.

There are also continued themes of cannibalism in their work, too. In their fic “crush”, which is not only has a/b/o, which is sort of gross by itself, they also give Edd a duck’s penis. This makes me think, again, that they’re subtly trying to make beastiality seem okay. There is some art to go along with this story, but I’m not quite sure who the artist is. If anyone knows anything about that, please do add it on.

They’ve written a whole fic dedicated to a little red riding hood au, with paultryck, which not only has cannibalism in it but also is quite homophobic. There are also several fics on their ao3 featuring rape and abusive relationships like they are just trivial, everyday things. I haven’t read these, as it is a triggering subject for me, but I know from the tags that they aren’t good in the slightest.

Another fic that could be considered problematic is their “eddtord sex slave fic”, as they call it. One look at the tags says it all, unfortunately.


On the subject of things that are gross, they also have a track record of being shitty to people who ship tomtord, such as calling them necrophiles, and making fun of me for writing it. They have made constant comments about how bad my taste is. This is incredibly toxic, and doesn’t help the state of the fandom, which is already in shambles as is. This kind of attitude is what makes the fandom such a bad place to be. They’ve also said that people who like tomtord fuck corpses and dogs.


On top of whatever this shitshow is, they constantly sexualise MLP, which, as it is a kids show, isn’t brilliant! They’re probably some kind of greasy neckbeard who regards the “rainbow dash cum jar” story as some kind of holy tale, only to be mentioned by those worthy of its greatness.

They sexualise a lot of kid’s media, actually, such as Yin Yang Yo, that one show about the rabbits nobody really remembers. They age up these characters to make it seem okay, which is still just as bad.

In this fabled text of terrible things - “horseshoe’s daughter” - they also have a chapter dedicated entirely to pokephilia which is kind of weird. All of these are kid’s shows, aren’t they? Things that shouldn’t be taken into a sexual context? Apparently not, according to them.

Plus they’re a Tord kinnie and I don’t like doubles

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When they were kids, they would sit on the edge of Matt’s pool and tell stories. All four of them abreast, kicking their feet in the cool water, watching the trembling lines of moonlight on their waves.

I found this post on Reddit the other day …

I was looking on the Amnesia wiki and…

I wish they’d let us read this in class…

Matt would sit quietly and absorb the information, his eyes darting back to the huge French doors, shushing their laughter so his mother wouldn’t come out and ask what all the ruckus was about. Whenever the matter of weight would arise, Tom or Tord would pinch Edd on the hips, where his white T-shirt had ridden up to reveal a band of lingering baby fat atop his swim trunk’s waistband. Then he’d push either one of them – or perhaps even both – into the pool. He’d slip after them; Matt would roll his eyes and try to kick away Tom before he too could be dragged into the water. It usually didn’t work.

The stories they’d usually finish on the portico, words filtered through water-plugged ears.

They found she was hiding her food in her vag and letting it rot.

Eventually they end up in this cannibal Mitsuki’s house, and he shows them how he –

--‘s eaten her own sons, and then he stabs her in the neck.

For all the time he's spent sitting here, the worst thing is that what looks to be Edd's glass is too far away to spit in. He's already tried stretching himself across the table, much as he can with his legs cuffed to the chair's leg and his electric taken. They even took his socks; what kind of sick fucks take a cripple's socks?

Oh well. There's probably not anything in the glass anyway, so Edd would notice immediately.

There was something in his glass, though. Keyword: was. Wine, rich-scented and dark red, and now soaking into the tiny holes in the gray stone floor. What kind of idiot do they take him for?

'They.' Ha. Edd, he means; let's not kid ourselves for even a second that those other idiots have enough brain cells between them to do more than fall in line. That's how it's always been - Edd not so much leading as corralling them from place to place during their adventures, like a man-child father and his overactive sugar-speed kids, just along for the ride.

Well, that was the both of them, really. Just along for the ride.

Now here we are. Tord strains his remaining eye to the ceiling, but it's too high to really get a good catalog of its cracks. It looks like he's inside the dining room of some abandoned movie set mansion: high French windows that nearly reach the ceiling, should overlook a beautiful, well-kept garden, spray-painted black so that only a few smears of dim sunlight can filter through; a table that seems to stretch a mile out in front of him, what was once polished wood now stained and covered in dirty plates and utensils, tattered white tablecloth; a great hearth filled with ash and empty cola cans.

No blueprints laid out, no computers, no radio transmitters, no telephones. Red frowns; it's a little disappointing to not be able to imagine those three sitting here around the table, chowing down and discussing battle plans. Edd would have his face in his hand, guzzling down coke through a straw; Tom would be much the same, nursing his latest vodka bottle; Matt would be on his tip-toes, leaning forward until Edd snaps at him to stop breathing down his neck.

Breathing down his neck. 

Tord chews his cheek and tells himself he won't look behind him.

Tom appears, two white foam cups in his hand, closing the door with his foot. Milkshakes. Only a straw for Tord. Honestly we're at the point where I have tons of snippets of dialogue all happening simultaneously, telling myself I'll go back and flesh the scene out, stitch it all seamlessly together. 


You can tell if she's a thot if she can drink a Cookout milkshake through a straw.

Yeah, he says, playing with the spoon. I forgot how much my dick-sucking skills've atrophied. A smile. But I'm sure you won't have that problem.

Oh yeah, Tord says, you know every morning I tell all my boys to line up -- bukkake is really a very powerful bonding experience. That's why you keep losing.

A crack: a titter. Obviously. Tom averts his eyes and swirls the thick shake around, blending the white with the brown.

Sometimes I'll tell Paul to come here and add -- Tord can't help but laugh, his free hand miming milking a cow -- and add a little shot of vanilla to my breakfast shake.

Tom's shoulders slack. That harsh grimace on his face. 

Gotta get my protein, you know.

Tom's face is drawn down in defeat for only a moment before he's spooning some shake into his mouth, leaning back in his chair. Tord waits a few moments for a response, but lacking he takes up the cup and pops the lid open enough to pour some onto his tongue.

Oh and by the way, Tom says so suddenly Tord jerks, when you find any hairs in there, lemme know how my balls taste.

Tom hasn't even changed out of his uniform. Tord isn't able to articulate exactly why that's so offensive to him, even though he has to admit that the splatter of blood along his white dress shirt is pretty aesthetically appealing. "Aesthetically appealing"; he's been hanging out with Patryck for too long. Pretty hot is probably more fitting, at least with his sleeves shoved up past his elbows, his arms empurpled to just below. His traditional checkered shoes up on the table, torn and tattered, black-clawed toes seeming to worry the holes in his socks the way a tongue worries an injected tooth.

And of course, his head tilted up, swallowing another mouthful of Tord's arm.

Tord wishes the transformation would hurry up. Tom's a lot hotter without a face made for radio. "So," Tom asks, not taking his eyes away from the ceiling. "Where is Edd?"

Tord shrugs.

It's not vore if I don't eat you whole.

Thank you Thomas, that is so very comforting.

  "So that's really the logic behind any fetish of a bodily function — except for periods, I guess."

Tom bites down on his arm, teeth hitting bone, but Tord only shudders, tasting bile and swallowing it -- no, stay down. His flesh yields only too easily, and Tom makes a small noise of -- surprise? pleasure? -- as he pulls his head back, ropes of pink salvia connecting his lips to the gaping wound in Tord's --

to the white in the red that must mean --

"Did once date a girl with a period fetish," he continues, voice undeniably weaker. "She said it was about how the blood just keeps rushing out and how it gets everywhere."

His own blood is hot on his skin. The way it runs down Tom's chin Tord can't help but want to lean forward and lick it off.

Tom at least chews with his mouth closed. "See," he says, words muffled with masticated flesh. "I know you're trying to gross me out so I'll lose my appetite, but it isn't gonna work." Then he swallows so the next word is nice and clear: "Cunt."

The black spots, the far-away voice, the cold, incorporeal fingers raking through his hair. Tord wants to ask something, he only vaguely knows what, but before he can Tom snaps his fingers in front of his face, calling him out of his head.

Oh sorry, am I boring you, Red Leader?

How amusing it would be to have Tom come visit the base and teach him the terrible banality of pain.

Yeah, a little. Red smiles. Might I suggest adding lemon juice?

This was going to be the part where Tom heals Tord by ejaculating into Tord's wounds, Tord fighting to stay awake as Tom takes for-fucking-ever to bring himself off.

What, do you expect me to have a fuckin' jar of this saved up for you? 

And Tord will drop that forced smile. If I play dead, will that get you off any faster?

Tom's own grin grows wide at that, his claws digging into Tord's cheeks as he grabs his head and pulls that silver eye up to meet his own, bottomless voids.

Nothing ever really changes, eh Tord? He asks, before his face drops into a puppy pout. Oh, sorry, Red Leader.

And his sides split with that loud, thunderous laughter, shoving Tord's head away, where it hangs limply. Staring at his feet.  Who the fuck takes a cripple's socks?

You wouldn't hear it, but Tord mutters something in that old conspiratorial tone, like they're kids again swapping hushed stories their mothers can't be allowed to hear; I don't know why you thought they would.

Chapter Text

Chapter Text


My clones everywhere, ripping out my desk drawers, projecting my worst thoughts onto the walls like an old drive-thru movie theater, and most heinous of all, eating my goldfish mixed in with barely reheated cheese dip.

This is one of my friends' favorite things I've ever written:


But being bitter is a whole lot easier, isn’t it?


And recovery’s boring, right?


Who wants to read about someone who could be better if they could stand to take a little self-responsibility?


Hey, wanna see a magic trick?

(She takes 4’s scissors off the floor and stabs them into her arm, pushing pushing pushing until the pink blade is poking out through the other side.)

(Bones crack, and the house heaves, but nothing comes out.)

22 (cont.)

Jealous, right?

Chapter Text

I'm running into some problems. 




See, a few weeks ago I found myself unable to get out of bed. A terrible pain, something large and hard sitting lead in my stomach. Spreading my legs out helped a bit, but not much. I touched my stomach and felt something rigid. A pattern that almost imperceptibly shifted underneath my skin. 


Last night, my friend [REDACTED] was driving us home from dinner. Winter gets dark so early; back roads to look perfect for a werewolf or some other monstrosity to jump out. When I was a child I used to see them running alongside us, scarcely hidden by the thick line of trees. 


We passed a high school and he told us about fucking a stripper who had gone there, her being so thin he could see the bump of his penis inside her. 


I ran my hand up and down my stomach for probably hours, memorizing the dips and hills. Tire treads.


And another: 

I was going to go into CM Punk's pipebomb but I don't know or care enough to name names, and unlike some of you I'm uninterested in gargling Morpheel's cock until the heat death of the sun. 

I guess I could play him as my John Cena, in this instance, but there's no real passion behind it. I don't even watch wrestling; the only reason why I'm considering the idea is that Drowning in Horseshoes did it in Horseshoe Finale, his big send-off to both the brony fandom and Horseshoes Saga. It worked then not only because he could take potshots at people, but he had enough clout with his own dedicated little fanbase, some of them among the most popular creators in the MLP analysis community, to back it up. 

I am the best writer in the world. I’ve been the best ever since day one when I walked into this company. And I’ve been vilified and hated since that day, because the Dark Lord Lucifer saw something in me that nobody else wanted to admit. That’s right, I’m a Satan guy. 

You know who else was a Satan guy? 

Thomas Ridgewell.

He split, just like I'm splitting. But the difference between me and Tom is that when I leave, I'm taking the WWE Championship Title with me! 


I think about repeating the last decade and it genuinely makes me want to kill myself. Which is stupid, I know, because I've come so much farther in professional writing than I ever thought I would. And people would presumably miss me. For a time. I guess. 

Really I need to finish my first book and then kill myself to generate hype. 



Patryck's rolls his eyes when he hears about my condition. "Don't you see it?" I ask.


"See what?"


"The tire." I point towards my stomach. "Come feel it."


"You don't have a tire in your stomach," he says, making no move towards me, averting his eyes from my bed. "That's preposterous." 


"So I can kill myself multiple times no problem because Red Leader wants me to write him cola losers wacky races roleplay dubcon but spontaneously manifesting a tire in my stomach's what's preposterous?"


He runs a hand over his face and his voice ages a decade; "I'm going to pretend I didn't understand any of what you just said."


I once found a manga of an anime I'd really liked where they slowly ran over the main girl's clitoris with their bike wheel. I want to cross my legs at the memory, but it only makes the thing inside me scrape against my walls, like a chip cutting into your throat on the slow slide down.


"Besides," he adds with a sigh, stepping towards me with his fingers still massaging into his eyes. "Red isn't who's keeping you alive. It's a what." 


"What do you mean?"


"Narrative contrivance." A crooked smile tugs up the corner of his lips. "Whoops! I'm breaking the fourth wall." And he waves to the corner of the room, the red metal glass eye bulging out of it like a pustule. Where have I seen that before...?


There is no grand master plan to this shared universe, by the way. 


I’ve grabbed so many of these fandoms' brass rings that it’s finally dawned on me that they're just that, they’re completely imaginary. The only thing that’s real is me and the fact that day in and day out, for almost ten years I have proved to everybody in the world that I am the best on this microphone, in that ring, even in commentary! Nobody can touch me!

And yet no matter how many times I prove it, I’m not on your lovely little rec lists. I don't get any long, passionate comments. I’m certainly not getting any fan art-- fan art, mind that someone could make as much money as they want off of while fanfic writers have to charge less than a penny per word and still get warned we'll be sued. Oh, the fandom is dead, it's dying! 

But the fact of the matter is, it should be.

And trust me, this isn’t sour grapes. But the fact that some worthless hack threatening to jump into traffic for the sixth time this week gets more comments than me makes me sick! 


When he reaches up inside me further than anyone has ever gone and grabs a hold of this thing it hurts worse than anything I've ever imagined, and I hold onto his sweater with white knuckles and close my watering eyes and when I ask him to kiss me he rolls his own and rests our foreheads together, flushed with sweat to cool and dry, telling me to just breathe, Just breathe. 


Him pulling the unicycle out stops the pain, but not the flood-rush of confetti. 

Chapter Text

“Wow, what a work of art. It starts promising, and becomes severely disappointing on purpose in order to mirror the disappointment of the human experience! And it is the tastiest disappointment since your first gloryhole experience.”

My Japanese Animes: Bleach

In this privatised universe pleasure is the only work; work itself is unmentionable. To concentrate on the prostitute's trade as trade would introduce too much reality into a scheme that is first and foremost one of libidinous fantasy, and pornographic writers, in general, are not concerned with extending the genre in which they work to include a wider view of the world. This is because pornography is the orphan little sister of the arts; its functionalism renders it suspect, more applied art than fine art, and so its very creators rarely take it seriously.

Fine art, that exists for itself alone, is art in a final state of impotence. If nobody, including the artist, acknowledges art as a means of knowing the world, then art is relegated. to a kind of rumpus room of the mind and the irresponsibility of the artist and the irrelevance of art to actual living becomes part and parcel of the practice of art.

Angela Carter, The Sadeian Woman

Here’s something I wrote last year, December 31st, 2018:

As I’m writing this I’m switching between tabs of Nyx Fears reviewing the latest possession movie. Bemoaning the lack of violence, she says, “By the time I die in my life, I would like to be just a plethora of — of — just images that I wish I could unsee, and then death will be bliss.”

So Tord drags his nails down Edd’s back as hard as he can and imagined he’s digging right down to the bone.

Here’s something I wanted to write earlier:

Red and Green Leader fighting, Red in a wedding dress with the pants of his tuxedo visible whenever the mess of skirts fly up to reveal them. It’s a bit from Marquis de Sade’s Juliette: the titular character and her latest awful boy-toy propose marrying twice in cross-dress, each trying out as “bride” and “groom.” And then they kill a bunch of people. Honest to goddess I think that concept is really sexy.

While the confetti is still pouring out of me Paul opens the door, a gray arm in one and a bear trap clamped over the other. The arm is in a gray sweatshirt, its hem held down by the other. No pants.

“Do you need help with that, dear?” Patryck asks, resting the slimy unicycle against the bed frame.

“Yes. Ow,” Paul says blandly.

The person he brought in, meanwhile, looks at me and smiles through a wall of dark brown curls.

“Dentata?” I ask, mimicking jaws with my hands. Their eyes dart towards Paul and Pat as Paul’s “ows” raise only in volume, though not so much in emotion. Patryck braces a foot on Paul’s chest to pull back.

“Dentata?” I ask again, and they look back to me, eyebrows furrowing, so I clarify, “Did that bear trap come out of your vagina?”

They nod, slowly.

“Oh shit!” I bounce off the bed and steal up them, nearly falling over myself, nearly colliding into their chest face-first. “I’ve always wanted to do that!”

And then something something something I smash Mugs knees with a sledgehammer and they shoot me and we 69 tongue-fuck each other’s wounds. I know I started writing an actually fleshed out version of this some weeks ago but I cannot be fucked to find it now.

“Sometimes I feel like I can sense your dick, like, twisting menacingly at me,” Mugs says, wiping my blood off the corners of their mouth. “And it feels like when you were a kid and you were convinced some slasher villain was gonna pop outta your coat rack and kill you, you know? So I have to just lie there and I can’t fucking sleep.”

I don’t look up from my stomach, onto which I am slapping my corkscrew duck penis, watching its mesmerizing helicopter spin. “That sounds like a you problem.”

Another fantasy: a dark living room, movie on low and I forget what happens exactly, but Edd is watching Tom and Tord play as he idly runs his hands through Matt’s hair, lolled back against the chair. And then something happens -- that scratch or slap too hard, and suddenly it’s not playful anymore -- blood is pouring, punches landing with loud, harsh sounds and Edd tries to get up but Matt is undoing his pants, now, and when Tom throws Tord into the wall the screen scatters, glass and metal all over the floor, the world is buzzing with static and sirens are blaring and

Edd finally looks down, and Matt is drinking from the gash in his crotch as though it were a faucet.

“You’ve given up, haven’t you?” Mugs asks, pulling back the wallpaper to see all the tally marks on the wall.

“Oh, no, that’s someone else’s,” I say, rolling onto my side. Mugs is not a huge fan of my being a huge fan of nudity, so I’ve taken to spending most of the day rolled up in the counterpane like a burrito. “I mean I have given up, I’m just too lazy to keep track like that.”

“Oh, same,” Mugs says, releasing the silver of wallpaper hanging on like excess skin. “I was just wondering if you had some kind of plan.”

“Do you have a plan?”

“No, that’s why I’m asking you.”

“I asked yesterday if I could stick my head up there so your cervical bear trap could crush my windpipe and suffocate me.”

“So you have some ideas.”

I laugh but roll back over onto my stomach; “I’m going back to sleep.”

Edd sees the spikes rising under his skin before he feels them; the cloud of vanilla and vodka is making him swim in his own head, not even aware of the pain – no, there’s no pain, just an awareness of its potential. Like feeling sharp nails just resting atop his skin.

But, you know, inside.

The thought makes him giggle. Tord settles back in the pillows, his cheeks already beginning to gain color as Edd readjusts himself, feeling the nails scrap up as he takes in as much of Tord as he can.

He wonders if he should be feeling more. Like, a suction, a dripping, or something like that. But then again, he also supposes he should be feeling intense agony – any sudden movements upwards and his organs will be ribbons – but the pheromones in the air must have shut that part of his brain off.

“How do you feel?” Tord asks, already a little breathless.

Edd stares at the hill of flesh now rising out of his side, right under his diaphragm, and pushes down on the tip – lightly, of course. The dull pain of pressing a blunt fingernail into the pad of your finger.

He’s sitting on Tord’s spiked cock and cannot move lest he be torn in haf. The thought echos dully. Oh. Huh.

“Dare ya to play bongos on them,” Tord says, to which Edd laughs.

“God,” he says, his smile big and woozy,voice husky with arousal as much as with mirth; “Can you imagine?”

Mugs’s cervical bear trap does not kill me, so much as it kills whatever chance of our friendship lasting beyond the necessity of avoiding isolation-induced-insanity.

“Why on earth would you write that?” my boyfriend had asked me when I’d asked for permission -- I’m a lot of things, but not a cheater (so much as “erotic” unerotic roleplay could be considered cheating).

“For fun,” I’d replied. Haven’t I already posted this conversation?

“Just for the god don’t show me.”

Here’s how it ends:

They flush the prison out and wash us into the lake outside, like we were rats pushed out of the sewer. I was writing down my comparative analysis or cervix fucking versus vore, two sides of the same symbolic coin, and the water ripped the pages right out of my hands. Screams and confusion overpowered by the waves.

Here’s how I’ve wanted this story to end. I feel like I should tell you how it started -- that horrible thing that made me sit down and write a silly story about Paul getting gangbanged juxtaposed to me being imprisoned by some faceless warden. But what would be the point?

Here’s how it ends. Patryck fishes me out of the lake by my hair and looks at me with something close to pity in his eyes. Red Leader is a few feet to the side, shouting orders at some cowering soldier. Boxes are moving, moaning bodies pulled from the water. Over the cacophony I hear metal on metal, Paul’s scream of agony.

“Sir?” Patryck calls.

Red looks over his shoulder. “That the Wacky Races one?”

“Yes, sir.”

I can’t see Red from where I’m at, clinging onto Patryck’s legs and heaving up sour water, but there’s a lull in the chaos before he asks, “Breast size?”

“Um.” Patryck squatz back down, allowing me to flop against his chest as he pushes wet, thick strands of hair to the size. “Uh, A cups, I guess?”

“Throw ‘er back.”

Patryck pauses; I see him bite his lower lip. “Are you sure?”

I dig my nails into his arms.

“What’s the Red Army’s motto?”

“No love for these hoes?” Patryck chimes.

“No -- well yes, but I was thinking ‘if he aint got double ds she’s no person to me.’ But actually, I dunno anymore -- the more I say it the less I like the sound of it.”

“But the sentiment is fine.”

“Yes, obviously. The Red Army is a certified Itty Bitty Titty Committee free zone,” Red Leader continues, side-stepping a screaming soldier with a bear trap clamped over the left half of his face. “Now throw them back in, private. That’s an order.”

Patryck’s chest heaves, but not for long, before he twists a hand into my hair and yanks me away from him, dragging us both back into the water. I struggle and scratch at him, but he’s stronger.

“Hey, hey, hey,” he tries to soothe me, running his knuckles down my cheeks. “It’s okay. You’re outside now; you’re back in the real world.”

I almost ask him what I already know that means, but the water is too close to my lips, my struggling already making the burning salt splash up into my sinuses, and I know if I open even to cough I’ll be gargling fish. Patryck holds my face with more fondest than he ever has -- or is it just pity? -- his hand so corpse-cold it makes me shiver.

And with one more imperceivable look he holds me under.

Chapter Text

As part of my final portfolio for creative nonfiction class, I submitted chapter ten of this fic as an interlude, with a few new segments I shall relay to you now:


The most egregious of these changes was the excerpt of that fic Will wrote about me fucking one of his pet rats to death with my corkscrew duck cock.


The most prominent was the inclusion of explanatory footnotes: 

[1] You know, my [TomMatt roommate] (not to be confused with my old nemesis) has a theory that you only put up with me out of boredom. After all, poke the idiot bear once and you’ll get hours of entertainment for free. I told this theory to Professor [REDACTED] today and the look on his face told me she was at least partially right.

[1] The first time I ever commissioned anyone was because I felt sorry for them. Their bills were coming up, half a cent per word, Come on, I’m desperate. So I said, Sure, write me some threesome tentacle skull-fucking. They were a lot more enthusiastic than I thought they’d be.

Within a week or two of my waiting, I’d somehow made them think my boyfriend had dumped me on our three-year anniversary for calling out a cartoon character’s name during sex. So goes (at least half) the story of Bullycon 1.

[1] “You’re a bad influence,” my plagiarist tells me often.

 “We’re going to Hell,” I and my old nemesis tell each other after the third joke about fucking sheep or eating cereal out of a corpse’s ass for a Rolex or how we’re the same soul made separate, evil past-life twincestous lesbian lovers.

[1] That’s where you went wrong: thinking there is a point to be had, other than building up the expectation of a point before negating it. You can make the orgasm control joke here for me.

[1] I’m reading all this out loud to the friend whose art you’re about to see. “I feel like these footnotes are only making things more complicated,” they tell me.

[1] “I tell like you are definitely crossing a line,” my artist friend continues. “But you just do not care.”

[1] Bullycon 3 came before the proper culmination of Bullycon 2. Let me explain. Bullycon 2 wasn’t really plagiarism so much as a knock-off; I actually think taking a sex scene I’d written and culling the angst is a perfectly acceptable way to riff on me. Plenty of art, as we touched on in class, is in conversation with other art, but there need be some acknowledgment of where the conversation starts. Another friend and I joked about it; the story was quickly deleted. I’d debated for weeks on how to respond more directly, but before that, that other friend decided to more forthrightly steal from me, word-for-word, but he made the joke too obvious, so I had to create an alt-account and plagiarize myself to show him how it was done. I got more shit for it than both of them combined.

“Sounds like Bullycon 3 is just people dunking on you,” [TomMatt roommate] said at the time, to which I’d shrugged and asked her, “In what way am I above parody?”

[1] I became good friends with my plagiarist a few months ago after he finally got the nerve to ask what I thought of him…he has very funny ways of showing it. Will is one of his characters; I like going by Drake online. If you want a point, here it is. Or just go back and read section 1.

[1] I never directly confronted my plagiarist over Bullycon 2 because he seemed fragile, and I couldn’t think of a way to not sound bitter (and even know when I say I’m not mad he clearly doesn’t believe me). Still, the lack of closure was gnawing, and New Year’s Eve I got about 6,000 words into a quasi-response before I decided to scrap the whole thing. You can’t tell a joke to yourself, after all.

[1] There may be some pictures floating around Instagram of me singing a song based on this man’s obsession with a purple cartoon horse, looking like the biggest douchebag in the world in a sweatshirt and backward snapback, microphone held at an angle like those teenaged white boys who listen to Eminem once and think they can swap rhymes with the best of them. When I sung directly to my old nemesis about how she was a “porn-addicted man-child fuck-stick,” my performance apparently drastically improved.

[1] Eventually, however, I ended up posting a chunk of my response—a normal scene suddenly interrupted by my morbid interest in the fact that male ducks have corkscrew penises and the females counterclockwise vaginas to try and deter unwanted mates (of which there are many, because if there are only three things ducks love, they are rape, necrophilia, and frozen peas).

[1] Months later, I paid my artist friend to illustrate its most memorable scene. After his penis is swallowed, our protagonist wakes up the same morning, feeling only a little bit nauseous. “I honestly don’t know how you ended up like this,” my artist friend tells me now, as I type up these very footnotes. “How were you not ever attacked and killed in the streets?”

I am reading out the previous footnote about ducks to test its cadence when my old nemesis walks by, says, “That’s why they fit you perfectly.”


The most thematically meanful was this quote from Zero Punctuation's review of South Park: The Stick of Truth:

You know, South Park humour kind of lost something after a while, because a taboo is a finite thing; you can only extract humour from ingesting feces and owl pellets for as long as it takes to start developing a taste for them. So to South Park's credit, while it isn't above making trouser trumps a major game mechanic, it seems to devote a little bit of time to the entire comedy spectrum. Yes, knob jokes and gay jokes and rape jokes as well, and let's not forget abortion jokes! 

You may have heard that the game fell victim to the censorship hammer here, entangled in the petticoats of the nanny state Australia, wielded as ever the way a monkey wields a typewriter, and that several scenes were replaced by a text description under a picture of a crying koala. Yes, very funny joke, "Fuck the Man" and all that. But the funny thing is, after the fourth or fifth time, I kind of lost sympathy for the creators.

 "You know what," I thought, "from your description, that does sound pretty fucking stupid and I'm kind of glad I was spared it. You just bang that shock humour glockenspiel until you're ready to continue, I'll just be over here reading The Spectator."

 Oh, I shouldn't get sniffy; I was talking about forcing heads into vaginas four paragraphs ago." 


And then, to cap it all off, I included a version of that EddTord dick-eating pic uglykhakis drew for me censored in the way described above. But because you, my dear reader, hold no power over my GPA, you get the premium experience -- bigger, longer, and uncut. 

I got an A in the class, by the way.