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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.

Chapter Text

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?

Chapter Text

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

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.

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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."

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

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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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My TomMatt roommate and I keep circling back to why so many people our age and over love to read nothing but YA. To her, it’s because so many of us grew up without the money to have the teen years we were sold in movies, can’t now have that adulthood we used to both dread and yearn for. To me, personally, it’s all muscle memory. Peter Pan Syndrome comes up every time. She says many people are vicariously living through these teen epics, and I think of two things:  

The first, a Beckett quote I prostitute often:  

Then it goes, all goes, and I’m far again, with a far story again, I wait for me afar for my story to begin, to end, and again this voice cannot be mine. That’s where I’d go, if I could go, that’s who I’d be, if I could be.  

The second, a hazy memory of a twenty-something  My Little Pony  reviewer circa 2013, 2014, unscrewing the cap off a bottle of store-brand bleach for his cereal:  If I drink bleach, will I go to  Equestria ? Will Celestia give me the answers I seek? Will Pinkie Pie love me?  

And when he drinks, he sings and then hums along to the famous early 2000s anime  Bleach ’s first ending theme, “Life is Like a Boat.” 

I call my boyfriend and try and explain the whole point of this essay, how the last time I thought too long about the glass whale I was really asking why I shouldn’t kill myself — that’s the essential question for everyone, isn’t it? and isn’t Orwell so great at giving you one detail out of twenty pages that you’ll carry for the rest of your life, who gives a shit about the rest, I mean it was pretty good I guess but— and he, still hungover from the cold medicine he’d taken some fifteen hours before, says, “I feel like I’m trying to operate my brain with a hand-crank.” 

The long and short of the glass whale is the fantasy of, as Orwell calls it,  

a womb big enough for an adult.   There you are, in the dark, cushioned space that exactly fits you, with yards of blubber between yourself and reality, able to keep up an attitude of the completest indifference, no matter  what  happens. A storm that would sink all the battleships in the world would hardly reach you as an echo Short of being dead, it is the final, unsurpassable stage of irresponsibility.  

The author autopsied here, Henry Miller, is a “willing Jonah” in a transparent whale.  He is fiddling while Rome is burning, and, unlike the enormous majority of people who do this, fiddling with his face towards the flames.   It goes without saying that you are in there alone.  

I added that glass part. I don’t remember exactly when or how, but  glass  feels so much better: thick, cold, inert. Black when it's natural, when lightning strikes the sand. Clear when we make it, with quartz sand and potash or lead oxide. The only thing that can eat through glass is hydrochloric acid.  

My old nemesis catches sight of me as she’s walking towards the kitchen, says, “I’m going to slit my fucking wrists.” Without moving from the couch, I ask her what’s wrong this time, and she launches into a rant about one of her classes, sitting down to face me in a spare chair. When it’s finally over, I tell her that whenever I want to kill myself over stupid shit, I think back to our text conversations last summer, swapping suicidal tendencies from coast to coast.  

Really I’m thinking about how I cannibalized those conversations for a scene where Paul tells Patryck, after the latter has finished putting out a cigarette on the head of the former’s cock, that he isn’t sure if he truly wants to kill himself or if he just wants every one he’s wronged to feel bad for him. Back then, she and Pat had said they’d felt the same, but also had concluded that living with the guilt was a much better punishment.  

Now, she smiles until it shows all her teeth. “The answer is yes.” 

Slavoj Zizek, in his commentary on Alfonso Cuarón’s film  Children of Men , says that the best model for the future is a boat: 

  It doesn’t have roots, it’s rootless. It floats around. This is for me, this is the meaning of this wonderful metaphor. The condition of the renewal means that you cut your roots. That is the solution.  

Jonah, after he is thrown overboard and then swallowed and then spit out, learns that God is not going to destroy the city of Nineveh after all, and is pissed. As the German theologian Hans Walter Wolff points out, the original Hebrew ra'a ,   really means  wickedness . Nineveh was in and then turned away from wickedness; God retracted the wickedness he was set to release upon them; Jonah in wickedness berates God for dragging him all the way out here for nothing. He is so angry he asks to be killed, and when God refuses, Jonah hikes east to sit and wait for God to change his mind again. Jonah wants to watch.  

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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.

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"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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