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September 27 2017

It is at times like these
I am reminded of my grandfather’s
Stepping over the threshold
and feeling the warmth,
Feeling the sun filter into
that cramped, glass room –
if there was sun, that is.
And if there was light
(There almost never was.)
It came through the remnants of vine
still atop the roof,
The lingering evidence of
the old man’s try at grapes.
(We called it “growing raisins”.)
And the smell!
What a smell it was:
The mulchy, heavy scent
of heated compost,
The ozone smell-taste of the heat iself,
and supporting the rest,
The florid, green power
of the leaves themselves,
All growing together.
Tomatoes and cucumbers grew up high,
Clinging to wooden rods, supports,
And when I think of them
I am reminded of his hand
On my back after a fall.
I can still see him now,
Bent at the hip over an old table,
Pouring soil into a pot
and gently blanketing a young shoot,
Cupping his hands around it and giving it a place to bloom,
Flecks and fragments of dirt cast away
And dropping over the text of The Sun
that served as tablecloth.
If I close my eyes
I see him,
Wearing that old shirt
that was more hole than fabric,
A forest green that matched
his darling nursery,
And I hear the lullaby he sung as much to them as me:
My darling Clementine,
half-remembered, half-forgotten.
Oh my darling,
Oh my darling,
Oh, my darling Clementine…

Hannes T. Evans,  27/09/2017

The Greenhouse

for Terry C.R. Evans

September 23 2017

What people are ashamed of usually makes a good story.
F. Scott Fitzgerald, from The Love of the Last Tycoon (1941)

September 22 2017

What are you, a dog?

Written for a prompt on the new kink meme. Lucius Malfoy, on a visit to some of the older Slytherins still at Hogwarts, comes across Sirius Black in the corridors, and allows himself an indiscretion. 6k. Anal, spanking, dirty talk, dom/sub undertones.

 On Ao3 here.

lucius dominating sirius a lot??

lucius throwing him around some and talking a lot, sirius being angry but also really turned on at everything, lucius making a lot of it about class and how superior he is to sirius and sirius can’t help but find it hot?

It’s some time past midnight, and Lucius is walking through the halls of Hogwarts with all the ease he did as a child, and then as Prefect and Head Boy, when he was here years ago. The Dark Lord had wanted a message delivered to some of his youngest recruits in the Slytherin Common Room, and it had been decided that a visit from Lucius’ father would be too obvious; a visit from Lucius, who keeps rather paternally-treated protégés is far less suspicious, even with the late hour in mind.

Slughorn hadn’t cared a whit.

“Oi! What do you think you’re doing out in the corridor at this time of night?” Lucius arches a silver eyebrow, holding his cane (a recent gift from Narcissa, this very Christmas) between his hands and turning to look. Down here in the dungeons, it is always dark, but the torches are dimmed after ten o’clock, and Lucius has to give his eyes a moment to adjust.

Ah, not a Slytherin prefect patrolling the halls, as it ought be, but Sirius Black.

“I don’t see a badge on your robe, Black,” Lucius murmurs quietly. Black’s face is silhouetted in shadow, making it impossible to judge the change in his expression, but Lucius can certainly see his body stiffen, his chin raise slightly. He had thought he might catch a snake out in the dark, perhaps, to victimize at his leisure.

Lucius begins to walk forwards, his dragonhide boots making a quiet slap each time they touch against the polished stone floor. Black is unmoving, and as Lucius comes closer, he sees his expression is pinched and defiant, his blue eyes shining in the light from the torch nearest to them.

Black’s hair is unkempt, down past his shoulders and barely brushed, and he is growing a patchy stubble across his face, undoubtedly to the mimic the Muggle youths Gryffindors seem so desperate to model themselves after.

“Why, cousin, never have I known you to be so quiet,” Lucius purrs. Black is displeased, now: Lucius is no doubt far too close for his liking, particularly as he suffers from a rather diminutive height in comparison to Lucius himself. Black is seventeen, now, (Narcissa had actually deigned to send him a gift, sentimental creature that she is, although her cousins no longer even recognize Black on their family tree) and no taller than he was two years ago. What is he, five feet and six? Even Severus is taller.

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“We’re not cousins, Malfoy,” Black spits. “Don’t know if my ex-mother has made mention of it, but I’ve been disowned.” He says this with such a relish that he must wear it wear it as a badge of honour with his fellow blood traitor friends, and Lucius cannot help the soft chuckle that escapes his mouth. “What?”

Lucius strikes as quickly as the snake he wears as a brooch upon his lapel.

Black lets out a soft oof of sound as his back hits the stone wall of the corridor, but an inch from the base of the torch hanging upon the wall: Lucius’ broad hand is splayed across Black’s chest, but although he is short, he is rather stocky, and his chest is broad. Lucius examines him for any sign of wrongdoing, but finds none – had he truly been merely searching the corridors for a snake awry?

“Let me go! You bastard—"

“If we are not to be cousins, Black, then why, pray, ought I let you go? What kindness ought I show you, if we are not to be related any longer?” Black scowls at him, curling his lip, but before he can speak, Lucius asks, “What is it you’re doing, lurking down here in the dark? Lions do not belong in dungeon corridors.”

“None of your bloody business!”

“Oh, I wince to hear it,” Lucius murmurs, tossing his hair to the side in a way that most would recognize as a sardonic dramatacism. Black is dim, though. “Such plebeian speech! Such a lack of enunciation! Have you need of elocution?”

“The only need I have is for your slimy fingers to stop touching me.” Black tries to struggle, but Lucius is a strong man, and has spent time in cultivating musculature most wizards of his standing would not. But what teaches discipline better than exercise?

“Tell me what you were doing down here, and perhaps I shall,” Lucius murmurs. There are numerous dungeon corridors that wind one way and another, each with arched ceilings and halls that are wide enough only for three people abreast, so if Black yells too loudly, it will undoubtedly echo through the halls and attract the attention of a true prefect or, better, a member of staff.

“You tell me first.”

“I was delivering presents to my favourites of the Slytherin Seventh Year,” Lucius replies cleanly, adjusting the position of his hand to trap the younger man by his neck rather than by his chest, and Sirius’ nostrils flare as he gasps in a little breath. “Your move, Black.”

“Who says I wasn’t just going for a walk?”

“In the dungeons after dark? Hardly pastoral, is it?”

“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”

“When one goes for a walk, Black, one usually has some sort of view in mind.” Black’s gaze flickers uncertainly, and Lucius turns his head. At the end of the corridor is a girl stood stock-still, but as soon as she sees Lucius’ face, which is well-lit by the torch (unlike her own), she turns tail and runs down the corridor, back toward the common room.

Lucius tuts, and makes a note of her dark hair.

“What are you, Black, a dog?” Black struggles anew under Lucius’ grip, so he fists his hand in the fabric of Black’s robe front and lifts him by it, making Black yelp and grab hold of Lucius’ wrists, his feet not managing to hit the ground as they kick. Lucius’ capacity for a stern hand is usually applied to those of Slytherin House, for it is so important that one learn etiquette as soon as possible, but Black… Well, in many ways he is a lost cause. “You think this is appropriate? Skulking about in order to deflower some slut?”

“What, Lucy? You’d rather I find a Muggle girl?” It is not an act of temper: it is calculated, and Lucius thinks it through before he does it.

The sound rings down the corridor like a pistol shot when Lucius slaps Black across the face. His face is snapped to the side, the skin soon flushing pink under the harsh attention, and Black breathes a little heavier, almost panting.

“While these might be base discussions, Black, we mustn’t sink too lowly.” Lucius releases Black, and when he drops to the ground, he nearly loses his balance; he keeps himself from stumbling only by grasping hold of Lucius’ well-tailored sleeve, but he soon withdraws his hands. “Return to your own common room, else you might find yourself set upon by one of the staff in this place.”

With that, Lucius turns, making his way toward the staircases some five minutes’ walk away: with another snake, he might have insisted upon an escort, but Black is hardly his responsibility, and Lucius can only be thankful that he is with the Potters now – sentimental, certainly, and stupid in their prime, but still of good stock.

“Wait,” Black says, surprising him, and Lucius glances back. “Is that it? You fucking hypocrite.” Lucius feels his brow furrow, and he narrowly inclines his head.

“Pardon? What hypocrisy am I guilty of?”

“Oh, come on,” Black snaps, his tone dripping with venom. “You were obviously in one of the Slytherin dormitories – who was it? Mulciber? Wilkes?” Black snorts. “It wasn’t Snape, was it?” Lucius laughs. It is not one of the dry chuckles he reserves for private jokes made with Narcissa, or with close personal friends over drinks in private; it is an almost operatic, airy thing, intended to read as quite false. Black’s shoulders are high, his lips curled into a canine snarl, his hands clenched into fists. “Laugh all you want. I know all about you and Snivellus.”

Lucius blinks once, twice.

“Snivellus? Is that what you consider a creative insult in these times?” Lucius tuts quietly. “They really ought return the study of literature to the syllabus. Such stupidity is near criminal. Black, I can assure you that any indiscretion I might be tended to belongs in the bedroom, with my wife. I do not select schoolboys with which to romp. Severus is a student of mine. I made the same offer of you before you came here, did I not?”

Does he remember? Yes. Lucius sees the way Black looks internally for a moment; it had been at some Solstice Soirée of the upper classes, before Black would even consider looking at a character like James Potter as a friend. The separations had been clear: Slytherin families to the right, Gryffindors to the left, and the Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw-prone mingling between the two… Black had been a sarcastic thing even then, haughty, and had awkwardly walked away when Lucius had offered him help at school. Lucius had never imagined the Hat would pronounce him a Gryffindor…

But what predictions can be made, these days? Narcissa’s own sister had gone so far as to marry a Muggle, and a daughter between the two, at that!

Black seems positively disappointed, as if he hoped Lucius might be selecting from the Hogwarts crop; he might take a man, now and then, but never from the Hogwarts student body. Much as some might ask, that is, but any school-time relationships ought be between schoolboys – Slytherin House has its own internal politics, and such things are as regular as wine at dinner.

“You’re going, then?” Black asks.

“What would you recommend, Black, that I reside here, in this corridor, indefinitely?” Black shrugs like an insouciant child, and then his hands go to the fastening of his robe at his chest and flick it open. His outer robe drops to the ground, leaving him clad only in the red underpiece of his uniform, and Lucius stares at him. Whistling under his breath, Black picks up the piece of black fabric from the ground and walks confidently through the open door of a disused classroom, and Lucius stands frozen in the middle of the corridor, weighing his options.

Black is seventeen, and while Lucius wishes to see relationships flourish of their natural course between members of the Slytherin House, Black is a Gryffindor. He is a Pureblood, of good stock, but he has been disowned; Lucius ought have no worry of corrupting him, for what is there to corrupt?

He couldn’t tell Narcissa, of course; she’d be absolutely ballistic with him, much as she usually enjoys tales of any masculine exploits, and he could hardly confide in friends either… However, what is truly so terrible about having a pleasure or two quite to himself? This would be an indiscretion of the highest order, but—

“Are you coming?” Black is now quiet naked, his head sticking out from the classroom’s doorway, and Lucius’ lips quirk.

“Get inside and bend over a desk,” Lucius instructs, and Black grins at him.

Stepping over the threshold into the classroom, Lucius gently closes the door behind him, locking it with a flick of his wand, and then he gestures windlessly with his other hand to the six candles about the room, which burst into flame. Black, studiously, is unimpressed, but Lucius knows he must be, on the inside. The classroom has nothing but a few scattered desks and chairs, with empty shelves on the wall and a single poster detailing the basic attributes of plants. Once upon a time, dungeon classrooms were used for all manner of things, but there is a smaller staff here in the castle compared to what there once was, a hundred years ago, or two hundred years ago.

Setting his cane and his wand separately on a desk surface, Lucius delicately removes his Krup-leather gloves, which are soft and supple, and then he very neatly begins to roll his sleeves up to the elbow, as he might tending his garden or cooking.

“I believe I told you to bend over, Black,” Lucius says mildly. This is an unexpected foray, but it hardly means Lucius is going to allow a lack of discipline. With younger men, he has certain expectations, and even a traitor like Black is going to be held to them.

“Why don’t you make me?” Lucius flicks his wrist slightly, adjusting the tuck of his sleeves at his elbow. Black is nude, his robes thrown haphazardly over a broken chair in the corner, and Lucius examines him, his lips pressed together. Over Black’s heart is a tattoo of the phases of the moon, and at his left hip is one of a rising son; the tattoos are made with Muggle ink, for they don’t move, and Lucius presses his lips together as he twirls his finger expectantly.

Sirius scowls at him, but then he reluctantly turns his back. Over his lower back is a magical tattoo of a stag silhouetted in the moonlight, dancing upon a hill, but it isn’t that that makes Lucius frown and lean forwards. He draws his thumb nail, which is neatly trimmed and carefully buffed, over a wound that cuts into the edge of Black’s hip, and is being allowed to heal naturally with thick scabbing. It looks a very harsh graze, as if he’d taken a tumble down some of the rougher-hewn stairs in the castle, but if that were the case he’d undoubtedly go directly to the new nurse in the Infirmary – what’s her name, Pamela, Penny? She’s only four or five years older than Lucius, a Ravenclaw.

Lucius waits a moment, but Black offers no explanation, and so Lucius stands straight again. He shoves Black roughly forwards, grasping at the back of his neck and pinning him down against one of the older slanted desks: Black lets out a sharp sound, his hands splaying on the varnished wood and grasping hold of it. The highest edge of the desk is pressing against his belly, his head down at an unnatural angle, and he’s forced onto his tip-toes to keep his balance in place.

Black has a pleasant enough arse.

He’s physically fit, more so than the average boy his age, and Lucius can see from his inner thighs that he’s used to riding a broom particularly, but there’s light muscle on the majority of his form, not just there. His arse, however, is a pleasantly padded seat, rounded and bright white under the light from the candles, and Lucius draws his fingers pensively over the soft, unmarked flesh.

“You’ve had men before?”

“Yeah, but—” Black is moving as if to stand, but Lucius’ wand is his hand in a moment, and he murmurs an incantation: Black is pinned in his place, stuck with magic to the table, and his breath speeds some. He tries to shift, but succeeds only in dragging his bare toes across the stone floor, and Lucius sees he has a few cuts and grazes about his ankles, too.


“But what, pray?”

“I have men,” Black says, sharply, defensively. “They don’t have me.” Lucius gasps, dramatically, and he spreads his fingers gently over the flesh of Black’s buttocks, holding them apart. The cool air on Black’s hole and the back of his sac obviously gives him a shock, because he lets out a muffled whine.

“You don’t mean to tell me I might be the first guest inside?” Lucius asks in a purr.

“No, no, no,” Black groans, but even as he says so, his thighs part, spreading and allowing Lucius more access to him. Black’s prick is up against the edge of the desk, hanging down toward the ground, and Lucius draws his fingers over its back. Black is already quite hard, but despite his height he has a decent size to speak of, and his testicles make for a pleasant weight in Lucius’ hand. He rolls them between his thumb and fingers, feeling their heated weight and the fuzz of hair upon them, so much softer than the ridiculous stubble on his face, and Black whines like a hunting dog desperate to join the outgoing party.

His left hand still working upon Black’s purse, Lucius draws his tongue over his thumb, wetting it thoroughly before dragging it over Black’s hole. The entrance is lightly hairy but pink and puckered, and Lucius can most certainly believe no one has partaken of it before. What luck, Black is not so well-used a man as he’d thought. Lucius spreads Black’s cheeks once more, looking at him closely: with his wet thumb tracing the seam that runs from his hole over his sac, he leans in closely, breathing over the soft skin.

“Oh, come on,” Sirius moans, doing his best to squirm beneath Lucius’ ministrations.

“Come what?”

“If you’re going to fuck me, fuck me.”

“Oh, but, Black,” Lucius points out, releasing Black and conjuring a small bottle of lubricant. “Did you not just tell me “no”? Thrice, if I recall.” Black exhales harshly, his hands shifting their grip upon the desk. Lucius takes his wand and taps Sirius’ coccyx, murmuring a short set of incantations (for the sake of cleanliness), and then he sets his wand within his pocket, taking the bottle of lubricant once more. Dripping a little of the filmy, clear liquid between his fingers and thumb, he once more reaches for Sirius’ entrance, thumbing over the wrinkled skin there. Immediately, it begins to glisten in the light, and Lucius feels himself smile with a mild satisfaction, pressing upon the skin and feeling the untested strength of the muscle within, wetting the pucker.

Black clenches beneath his ministrations, as if trying to draw him in, and then snaps, “I didn’t mean it. Just— Please, Malfoy, just do it, I just want to— I don’t know, I want something—”

“You’re rather pathetic, aren’t you, Black?” Lucius asks, dispassionately, and he slides his thumb inside. It moves without resistance, moving quickly to the root, and Lucius splays his fingers against Black’s lower back, pressing his thumb against the roof of Black’s insides. Despite the easy slide, Black is by no means loose: the muscle clenches tightly about Lucius’ digit as he shifts inside him, hugging tightly to Lucius’ own skin – Black all but writhes beneath the attention, but his groans and noises are all but nonsense, without any words or meaning to them. “Is this what you do, Black? Organise for girls to take care of your basest needs? You are quite the harlot yourself, aren’t you? Why is that, do you think?”

Lucius begins to move his thumb, drawing it back and then pressing it forwards again, thrusting it in parody of a member, and Black, from what Lucius can see, is biting hard upon his lips and pressing his cheek against the wood of the desk. How long has he fantasised about this, Lucius wonders? How often does Black lie in bed at night and dream of a man laying such attentions upon him?

“I’m not a— a harlot, who talks like that?”

“Those of your breeding, as you well know,” Lucius replies icily, and he draws his thumb away. Black has barely begun whining out his noise of loss before Lucius is replacing his thumb with his teasing middle and ring finger, wetly drawing them against his hole. Black is shifting beneath the touch, pressing his backside back against Lucius’ touch, desperately, achingly.

Lucius presses forwards, and this is a little harder, yes: there is a little more resistance to two fingers instead of just his thumb, and he hears the strain in Black’s elongated whines of noise. Lucius prides himself, above all else, upon his discipline and self-control, but what Black knows of either of these qualities is doubtful, for now he opens himself like a whore on Knockturn Alley.

“I bet you wish you were a woman, do you?” Lucius asks mildly, and he slides his fingers slowly forwards, feeling the resistance, feeling how very tight Black is for him, despite the wetness about the digits. “Were you born a lady you might debase yourself better, have men queueing for a taste of you, and carry the leavings of a dozen of them with you.” Black wails, and he shakes his head, but Lucius is unmoved.

“Why’ve you got to make it so— So strange? I like sex. What’s wrong with tha-at? Purebloods, they’re so, ungh, so hung up on it.” As he tries to speak, Lucius’ fingers are buried inside him, touching against the light bump upon his inner floor, and when Lucius strokes over it Black’s prick twitches at the stimulation. A little wetness gathers at the head, a pearly droplet falling to the ground like wax from a new candle, and Black whimpers. “You like sex too.”

“But, I think you will find, I’m not so starved for attention that I will beg older men to join me in a classroom and put their hands inside me.” Lucius ever so slowly scissors his fingers, feeling the ring of muscle at Black’s entrance resist the widening shift, but not enough to force him out. Lucius knows this sensation, the sweet burn of sensation as the muscle is forced to work in ways it has not before, and he sees that Black lives for it, loves it, is taken away by it. It is perhaps for the best his mother has disowned him: were he still a member of the Black line, he might be a liability, so swayed as he is by physical stimulation.

“Your hand?” Black repeats, but not with fear: Lucius hears only curiosity and excitement, and he tuts quietly at the shame Black ought feel, for he does not. Never has he known such a slattern, no doubt even among those very whores that lurk in the darkest alleys of London. Perhaps Black has ambition to join them, for he would likely love to be paid to do nought but lie upon his back and experience a cock inside him.

Lucius widens his fingers as wide as he can, and Black cries out a hoarse curse, so garbled Lucius cannot make it out.

“You are nothing but a slut, Black. Do you understand?” Lucius keeps his fingers in the same position, not adding lubricant or shifting the position of them, keeping them apart to keep the sensation of a stretch, and Black’s mouth clicks shut. There’s a long pause, and Lucius’ soon fingers feel stiff, but he was taught to play the piano and harp alike as a child, and his fingers are strong.

“Yes,” Black says, finally, harshly. “Yeah, I understand.” Lucius’ lip quirks, and he begins to thrust his fingers slowly within Black, rocking them into him before drawing them back again, and he slides his index finger in alongside the others when Black next clenches tightly, and he hears Black’s soft sigh of satisfaction. This is all he wants, it seems: to be filled.  

“What do you want?” Lucius asks, curious as to what Black’s response might be, and he drizzles a little more lubricant over his fingers, wetting them fully and burying them within him. Every time he draws over Black’s prostate, his body gives an involuntary twitch and his sac will jump a little, drawing up…

Black is made for this.

“I don’t know,” Black gasps out: he’s growing closer to release, now, as Lucius speeds the movement of his fingers up, pressing them deeper, scissoring them wider, and Black is breathing faster and harder too. “I don’t know, I don’t know, I don’t know—” There’s a petulant whine in his voice, desperate for whatever stimulation he might get, and Lucius muses for a moment whether he’ll let Black come. He lowers his voice, adding a softness to it, a layer of seduction.

“Are you sure?” He asks, posing the question as one to a lover, leaning forwards and murmuring it against Black’s skin as his spare hand plays gentle patterns upon Black’s back. “What do you like, Black? You want to reach release from this alone? You want more inside you?”

“More,” Black whispers.

“More? Are you greedy, Black? Is this not enough for you?”

“Fuck’s sake, Malfoy, don’t, just— Please—”

“Please, what? I don’t know what you want, Black. You want my fingers, I know, but what else? My tongue? My mouth? My cock?” Black’s breath hitches. “Ah, I see. And what ought I do with it? Take you, take your hole? Let you take me in your mouth? How many times have you done that before?”

“Done what? Given a blowjob?” Lucius wrinkles his nose.

“I don’t believe I’d call it that. There is no blowing involved.” Black barks out a laugh.

“Few times,” Black says, evasively. Lucius considers Black’s relationship with James Potter, as close as they are… But no, from what Lucius can tell from rare interactions, and from what he’s heard from Severus, Potter has no interest in other men at all. Perhaps that’s why Black is the way he is, but what does Lucius know? “No. No. I want to come.”

“Do you?” Lucius asks, in a superior tone, and he chuckles slightly, thrusting his fingers a little faster inside Sirius, widening their spread slightly as he draws back out, and Black grits his teeth. “How? On my fingers?”

“Mmm, yeah, fine, okay, just—” Lucius brings his left hand down hard on Black’s left buttock, the sound of the slap ringing in the room, and Sirius wails. “Ow, ow, Malfoy, what the—”

In a quiet and delicate tone, Lucius asks, “Do you want me to do that again?”

A moment’s silence.

“Mmm,” is the only response he gets, but it is sufficient. Lucius draws his fingers back, wiping them on a handkerchief from a pocket within his robes, and then he swings his hand down hard on Black’s backside, feeling the sting against his palm and the way Black’s buttocks shake under the onslaught, the way he quakes and awkwardly attempts to thrust his hips for more stimulation. Another slap, this one louder, and then Lucius begins in earnest: he hits the left and then the right cheek, again and again and again, until each of them have healthy glows of red and even a gentle draw of one of Lucius’ nails across the skin makes Black thrash and flounder beneath the touch.

Lucius spreads Sirius’ buttocks, and Black stiffens, letting out quiet, muffled noises, going as still as he can. Lucius draws fingers over the wetness of Black’s entrance, where it’s now slightly open and shining with wetness, the muscle clenching about nought but air. “Shall I hit you here, Black?” Lucius asks softly, thumbing over the skin. It’s a soft pink, but it isn’t as brightly red as Black’s arsecheeks, and Lucius considers it in the back of mind – how lovely might it look, with such a glow to it? “If I slap you here, it will burn if I enter you again.”

“Maybe after,” Black says hoarsely. Lucius cups Black’s buttocks in his hands, feels the heated skin and feels the way Black flinches, and satisfaction is all he feels. And to think, he considered allowing this opportunity to pass him by – Black might be a blood traitor, and a weakling, but he’s an attractive young man, and Lucius is certain with the right training he might become almost passable. “You gonna fuck me over the table like this?”


“Are you going to fuck me like this?”

“No,” Lucius says decisively, and he flicks his wand, letting the charm keeping Black in his place dissipate. Black shifts back, and Lucius pulls him up onto his feet, keeping a firm grasp of him to ensure he does not fall. Black’s knees are weak, but he keeps his stance, and Lucius has a quick glance over his chest. There are marks from the press of the wood against his skin in red and white, but nothing that will not fade within an hour or two’s respite.

Good, he thinks, and he slams Black against a wall.

He can see the younger man’s face now, see the mix of interest, excitement, desperation on his face, and Black’s thighs are spread as he leans back against the stone, his hair brushing against the old Herbology poster. “Stay,” Lucius says cleanly, the word a command, and he adjusts his robes, leaning against the desk and drawing himself out. Black looks at the length of Lucius’ prick with a hungry fascination, his lips parted and bruised from his biting at them; Lucius treats himself perfunctorily, merely bringing himself to hardness and ensuring he’s properly lubricated.

This is not the time for masturbation, after all. Rarely does Lucius feel the need for such things, and now is most certainly not the time for it. Were he lingering for longer, if he had need to make Black cry with desire… Yes, then, he might do so. But for now?


Lucius comes closer again, drawing the fingers of his clean hand over the Black’s cheek, and Black leans forwards, his lips parted.

“What is it you think you’re doing?” Lucius asks, cleanly and sharply, and Black freezes.

“What, you’re too good to kiss me?”

Lucius arches an eyebrow, and says, “Kissing isn’t for escapades such as these.” He kisses Narcissa, kisses good friends on the cheeks or the forehead, kisses cousins and family members from France, but Black? Hardly. He remains frozen with his hands against his own chest, watching Lucius as if uncertain as to what he’ll do, and Lucius leans in, slightly. “I am going to lift you, and I am going to take you against the wall.”

Black stares at him.

“Can you do that?”

“Lift you? Easily.” Black’s gaze goes to Lucius’ arms, and then flicks back to his face.

“What, you work out?” Lucius despises the Muggle terminology that seems to insidiously work its way into the conversation of proper elements of society, and he arches his eyebrows in question. “You lift weights?” Lift weights? What does Black take him for, some costume-clad circus performer?

“I lift Narcissa,” Lucius says. Black snorts. “I have a series of exercises: you aren’t heavy, Black.”

“You’re not going to drop me?” Lucius ignores him, grabs Black by the hips, and lines himself up. He lifts Black by the buttocks, almost digging his fingers into the well-abused flesh, and the savage, cruel part of Lucius delights in the way that Black winces and lets out a short gasp of pain, and then he lets him drop slightly.

Black is impaled in one smooth motion, and he lets out a harsh choking sound, his head tipping back against the wall as he hooks his legs around Lucius’ thighs, his own tight about the ridge of Lucius’ hips, and he grabs at Lucius, throwing his arms around Lucius’ neck to keep his balance. He fists his hands in the fabric of Lucius’ robes, holding tightly to the expensive fabric. Lucius stays in place for a moment or two, allowing Black to adjust to the thickness inside him, to the weight of it, and Black’s head is tipped back, his eyes tightly closed, his mouth open. Black is a tight, wet vice around his cock, clenching every few seconds about the base of Lucius’ prick, and it’s good.

“Are you ready?” Lucius asks, mildly. Black takes a few seconds’ pause, and then he nods his head. Lucius throws him back against the wall, pinning him in place, and then he begins to thrust, letting Black drop down onto the length of him. He’s hot on the inside, hot and slick with lubricant, and when Lucius moves he draws himself out to the very tip before slamming back home; each time Black will let out a soft cry of sound, so pathetic a little noise that it is glorious to the ear, and Lucius loves the power in this moment, the power and control he has over the hateful little man that is Sirius Black.

Lucius is moving and Black is squirming in his place, doing his best to thrust himself back down onto Lucius’ hips, grabbing at his robes, his chest, his back, and when Lucius leans in and drags his teeth over Black’s neck, Black hisses. Black’s nails are digging into Lucius’ back, but they’re shorter than Lucius’ own, and it’s barely noticeable.

Pinning him back against the wall and keeping his left hand in place to steady Black, Lucius allows his right hand to go for Black’s own cock, which is wet with his own fluid, drawing the slickness over the length of it, squeezing slightly at the base; Black is gasping as Lucius thrusts inside him, gasping and whining.

He’s tight enough that every thrust draws pleasantly on Lucius’ every side, and Lucius feels himself growing closer to release. He bites at the side of Black’s jaw, at his neck, and every time Black is hurt it seems he revels in it, crying out and digging his heels into Lucius’ thighs to draw him closer, clenching as tightly as he can…

Lucius feels his hips begin to stutter slightly, losing control of his regular rhythm, but he allows himself to lose control: the wetness pulses inside Black as Lucius feels his sac draw tightly up and his cock twitch within him. Black bites down hard enough on his own lip that a droplet of blood drips down his chin, staining the stubble there, and Lucius squeezes a little harder as he fists over Black’s cock.

“Have you want of release?” Lucius asks, softly, but he doesn’t need to ask: already, Black’s cock is pulsing, wetness staining each of their bellies, and Lucius laughs as he strokes Black through it; carrying Black away from the wall, he sets him lightly down upon a desk, taking a handkerchief and his wand to clean himself off.

Black is exhausted and shining with sweat, leaning forwards and staring down at the floor. Lucius examines him for a moment, thinking about Black and his pride, his blood traitor friends, his fascination with the so-called side of “Light”. War is coming, Lucius knows, and the levee will break any day now, but how easy would it be, he wonders, to draw Black onto the right side, the side that will win?

The Dark Lord would kill a man like this, anyway, but if Lucius were to take Black under his wing, take him for himself… A traitor to his blood, why should he not be a traitor to his supposed friends? Lucius would gladly take Sirius Black as a toy, a student of sorts, but… No. He is too stubborn, and Lucius knows it would be impossible to sway him. He loves that Potter boy, stupid as he might be.

Lucius adjusts his hair, ensuring it is combed into place, and unrolls his sleeves to the wrist once more. Black is watching him, the sound of his heavy breaths echoing in the room. “You really don’t do anything with Snape?”

Lucius adjusts the cravat at the front of his robes. “As I said, Severus is a student of mine. We’re friends, Black, nothing more. You would do well to leave him be.” Black curls his lip, ready to say something incendiary, no doubt, but Lucius holds up a hand to stop him. Almost to Lucius’ surprise, Black holds his tongue. “Good night, Black. Take care in your journey back to your common room.”

Black’s lip twitches, as if he knows something Lucius does not – perhaps some secret passage right up to the common room.

“Come back soon,” Black says, a parody of a sign on a store in Diagon Alley, and Lucius ensures the wrinkle of his nose is hidden from Black as he takes his leave.

September 17 2017

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We need prompters, fillers and, most crucially, readers! Please signal boost where possible. <3

Come along and post your requests for your smuttiest, filthiest smut. Any pairing is fine - the only restrictions are no extreme underage (under 14) and no RPF! 

September 01 2017

August 08 2017

How Do You Say ‘Email’ in Yiddish?


In a thousand-year-old language like Yiddish, with many of its words rooted in the ancient Bible, how would you say “email”? Or “transgender”? Or “designated driver”? Or “binge watch”?

Those terms came into popular usage long after the language’s heyday, when it was the lingua franca of the Jews of Eastern Europe and the garment workers of the Lower East Side and was the chosen literary tongue for writers like Sholem Aleichem and Isaac Bashevis Singer. Though the Holocaust and assimilation have shrunk the ranks of Yiddish speakers — once put at over 11 million worldwide — to a relative handful, Yiddish still needs to keep itself fashionably up-to-date.

So two of its conservationists have produced the first full-fledged English-to-Yiddish dictionary in 50 years and it is designed to carry Yiddish into the 21st century and just maybe beyond. After all, Yiddish has always had a canny way of defying the pessimists.

“Email”? How is “blitspost” — a combination of the Yiddish words for “lightning” and “mail”? “Transgender”? How’s “tsvishnminik,” which blends the common Yiddish words for “between” and “type.” “Designated driver”? “Der nikhterer shofer” does the trick by fusing the Yiddish word for “sober” with that for “driver.” And “binge watch” is “shlingen epizodn,” literally “wolf down episodes.”

… “In the long run if you keep borrowing English, you end up speaking English,” he said.

Read Joseph Berger’s full piece in The New York Times.

July 14 2017


Let villains be villains. But, also don’t forget that they don’t need to be in their ‘villain’ mode 24/7

Corporate and political villains will live their lives mostly normally, outside their shady work.

Warlords, corrupt politicians, crooked law enforcers, other unsavory authority figures, unethical doctors, etc, have families and friends, and full lives outside the shitty things they do.

Even serial killers, hitmen, violent fanatics, etc, can have lives; hobbies, friends, romantic partners, and so on.

 Most villains will be shitty people only in certain aspect(s) of their lives, and carry on like everyone else the rest of the time. 

They are still absolutely shitty people but being afraid to emphasize on their human sides, to lose the sight of their villainy, is incorrect, and takes away a lot of interesting aspects of a character for potential development. 




“artists dont work for the love of art anymore, they just rely on commissions and patrons”

this is how art has literally always been the fucking sistine chapel is commissioned fanart of the bible 

Listen, son.

We artists work REALLY FUCKING HARD to get to a point where people want to actually pay us for our craft, because usually it’s all “lol draw me” and “you should draw x” and “I can’t pay you, but I can give you exposure!”, like we can go to the supermarket and pay for a loaf of bread and a six pack of dr. Pepper with that.

Like art isn’t a fucking service or craft provided like getting your hair cut and dyed, like it is something we should give for free because “artists love making art, they should make art and give it freely”.
Fuck that.

You don’t tell your lawyer that he should council you for free because they “love practicing law”, DO YOU?
You pay them for the work and service they provide. And it’s the most natural thing in the world.

We are working hard to make a career out of a profession that’s viewed as a public service, not a craft.

We are working to make or career or of the thing we love to do most, and you’re NOT HELPING by being an entitled little shit that feels that besides the ton of freely available -for your goddamn viewing pleasure- art, you want artists to just never ask money for hours and hours of work purely because you feel like they should do it “for the love of art”.

I can imagine your face when your boss tells you he’s not gonna pay you this month because he feels you should provide your time and effort “for the love of your job” 😒

This response is basically what I think and I love it! People should just stop treating art as something that lacks value. It’s worth every single dollar, and if you think it isn’t, instead of complaining and ridiculing artists, just don’t buy art. Ever. Don’t see movies, listen to music, read comics or do anything that involves art.

July 13 2017



I think every writer/artist has that one story/drawing that gets completely skipped over, and they’d never say it aloud, but inside they’re like

‘fuck all y'all, that’s one of the best things I’ve done’

plus one story/drawing that everyone loves

‘really? that one?’

apparently this rant has struck a chord with people jfc

July 12 2017

Sooner Than You Think

After the events of Arkham City, Bruce doesn’t know what to do with himself, and secludes himself in the Batcave.

“Master Bruce?” Alfred’s voice echoes in the quiet of the Batcave, bouncing off the walls and the high ceilings, hitting hard against the rough stone. Down one of the shafts over the water, a few bats shuffle around: no doubt the thought passes through Alfred’s mind that the population is getting a little high, and that he should shoo some of the bats out, lest guano become an issue for the equipment.

There is no response. Bruce doubts he expected one.

He hears the soft sigh (because that echoes too, of course it does), and then he hears Alfred’s footsteps down the stone corridor, and the electric hum of the lift in action.

Bruce sits on the floor of his training room, an untouched plate of cheese and crackers on the floor to his left, with an untouched glass of water beside it. The grate metal of the floor digs into the thin material of his pants, imprinting red and white on his ass and his thighs in uncomfortable, digging pain and irritation, but Bruce doesn’t stand or think of moving to a chair.

His back rests against the training console, one knee drawn up in front of him, his other leg stretched out, and Bruce stares into space, his jaw set.

Alfred doesn’t understand. Alfred couldn’t, can’t understand, because Bruce doesn’t get it either.

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He remembers his mother, when her father died: he recalls the funeral blacks and the torn ribbons she’d worn in her hair and on the lapel of her coat, remembers the cloths hanging over the mirrors in his grandmother’s house (but she’d died herself, not even a year afterwards, hadn’t she?), but most of all, Bruce remembers how his mother had sat with her mother, in silence, on the sofa they’d taken the cushions off for days afterwards.

He’d never seen her like that before, with her hair messily tied with one of those ragged ribbons, with no make-up on her face, no shoes, with none of her proper posture, as he’d known her for so long.

The actual image of her is a blur, now, because it was so long ago – how old could he have been? Six? – but he remembers how he’d felt seeing her that way, and how his father had quietly pushed him to leave her be, for a while.

“What’s she doing, Father?”

“She’s sitting shiva for her dad, Bruce.” He and his father had taken a walk in the grounds, walking side by side: his father’s voice had been quiet. “For a week, your grandma and your mother are going to be sitting low, as they grieve for your grandfather. It’s complicated, but you’ll understand it better, when you’re older. Do you have any questions?”

Bruce had dozens of questions. He doesn’t remember, now, what any of them were.

“What’s wrong, Batsy? You’re not sa, are ya?” Bruce can almost see him, standing there, his hands on his hips, his elbows standing out from his body at a comical angle, his head tilted to the side and that huge, ripped grin on his face. “Oh, this is funny. This is really- you know, this is hilarious. The big bat, brought down, all because’a little old me!”

Bruce’s mouth is dry, but he doesn’t want to drink the water: it’s been sitting there on the grating beside him for two days now.

The Joker takes a few steps forwards, doing a stupid walk with his feet wide in a parody of the Penguin, and he leans in so close that Bruce can feel his breath hot over the top of his forehead, smell gunpowder and flowers and a sickly sweet undertow clinging to the Joker’s suit the same way his pinstripes do, as if they’re woven right into the cloth.

Doesn’t make much sense, does it, Batsy?” The Joker speaks in a whisper that rings in Bruce’s ears, and Bruce closes his eyes, except that just makes the vision of The Joker clearer, because he’s standing alone in a sea of blackness, without the Batcave behind him to be a distraction. “Ya don’t even go to temple, and you’re sitting low for me? I gotta say, baby – I’m flattered! What am I to you then, huh? Mommy? Daddy? Bro?”

The Joker’s fingers are on Bruce’s cheeks, now, cupping the strong lines of his jaw with the pads of his fingers drawing over the messy stubble growing on his cheeks, and Bruce can feel his heartrate quicken, his breathing speeding up a little, as the Joker leans in towards him, so he can feel the space between them close. And the Joker’s nose is nearly brushing against Bruce’s, now, and is he going to kiss him?

If he was Batman, he’d punch right, knee up, get a blow in to Joker’s solar plexus and then throw him down on his back.

But he isn’t Batman. He’s Bruce Wayne.

And Bruce Wayne is sitting alone in an empty cave, pretending to himself that a dead man is threatening to kiss him.

He opens his eyes, and looks at the emptiness surrounding him, at the rough walls of the cave, at the mannequins with their faceless stares and the stacked crates of Batarangs and gadgets to the side of the room.

Seems to me like I must be your lover, Batty-Boy, if you’re sitting shiva for me.” The Joker whispers in his ear, and Bruce feels himself let out an unwilling sound that’s too hoarse to be a sob. What does he do now? Why had it hit him so hard, seeing the Joker dead on the ground in front of him, feeling the sickly unweight of him in his arms? Hearing Harley Quinn’s ragged cries and tears, and feeling like he should be joining her? “Shame there’s no sex allowed in the grieving time, huh?”

“Stop it,” Bruce hears himself whisper. It echoes off the walls, just like Alfred’s voice had done – there’s no echo in Joker’s voice, because Joker’s voice isn’t really there. Bruce is going crazy.

Ain’t it funny, Batsy?” Joker’s tongue on the shell of Bruce’s ear, Joker’s mouth leaving a red wax trail against Bruce’s temple, Joker’s body, frail and limp in Bruce’s arms, and the ringing silence of Gotham City in the wake of his death.

Bruce wishes he was dead.

Oh, go on! Do it, do it, do it!” Joker clapping his hands together, Joker jumping up in the air, Joker’s skin with holes in it and wrinkled like something already dead, Joker’s eyes glassy and bloodshot, Joker dead. “Lots’a ways you could do it, honey, sweetie, babes. You could use a Bat-noose or a Bat-razor or Bat-pills! Would it be suicide or vespertilicide?” Joker cackles like a Halloween decoration, and then the imagining is gone, and silence reigns.

Alfred can’t understand.

Bruce turns his head to the side, looks at the stale cheese and the soft crackers, arranged neatly on the plate.

He needs to go out.

That’s it, Batsy. Go see Harley. She’ll be so glad to see you…” The Joker giggles, and Bruce sighs, drops his head back against the console behind him a little too hard, so that the pain rings in his skull for a second or two. “We’ll be together again sooner than you think, Batman. Sooner than you think.”

Bruce pulls himself to stand, and dizziness hits him in a nauseous wave, making him grab onto the console to keep his balance as he closes his eyes and tries to stop the room from spinning.

Sooner than you think, he thinks to himself, and he takes the walkway across the cave, towards his suit.

July 09 2017



random thought but what if books were formatted like 2017 rps

     Mr. && Mrs. Dursley  ,   of number FOUR ,   Privet Drive ,   were proud to say that they were perfectly normal  ,   ( thank you very much. ) They were the   last    people you’d    expect    to be involved in anything strange or mysterious, because they just didn’t hold with such NONSENSE. Mr. Dursley was the director of a firm called Grunnings, which made drills. 

      ― He was a big, BEEFY man with hardly any neck, although he did have a very large    mustache   . Mrs. Dursley was thin && blonde && had nearly twice the usual amount of neck , which came in very useful as she spent so much of her time craning over garden fences,     spying    on the neighbors. The Dursleys had a small son called Dudley && in their opinion there was no finer boy ―ANYWHERE.

July 06 2017

people who leave detailed reviews on fanfiction are a gift to the world
— all fanfic writers, ever, awake at ungodly hours doubting everything they’ve ever written or thought of writing until they see that one (or more, hopefully!) magical, long-ass comment that makes every bit of struggle totally and completely worth it (via rudderless-in-an-ocean-of-stars)
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Reposted byvairasohryunitroventKryptoniteAluAluDagarhenQdeuteluEineFragevonStillost-in-spacegodivakeineGefangenenmushuc0ffeefinkreghrachelbonesHanoimrthewafelstraycatanabeeshampaincoffeebitchhiroshima2zurawianiaczkano-longer-korerosseskatastrofobellthecatlalunaoutlinemimi07janealicejonesdjahneeblackdramatorinagaybardzodobrarada

July 04 2017


Tumblr RP 2012: He grabbed a carton of milk and drank it.

Tumblr RP 2014+: Slender digits might curve delicately——&& OPAQUE biodegradable material would find a long-lost home snugly ‘neath gangly sticks of bone and sinew. A cow’s utter hath provided CREAMY substance now floating on white clouds of honeydew in said CARTON—— and as butterfly petals part to receive the rich nectar, a feather-like sigh finds it’s way into the Autumn air.



person: but it’s canon

me: yes, but it’s very badly written, so we ignore it

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July 03 2017

You Won’t BELIEVE How Many Em-Dashes Local Writer Can Squeeze Into One 5K Word Fic



Just go ahead and @ me next time

listen –

July 01 2017

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                                             GOTTA GO FAST

- 616 Pietro Maximoff, with X-Men movie influence, no MCU
- AU & X-over friendly!
- character development & story-focused

                                  WRITTEN BY DICTIONARY

June 30 2017






okay like. supposedly being interested in m/m relationships, or even a specific m/m relationship because you like the specific dynamic depicted is fetishizing. because it’s only acceptable to take an interest in any m/m relationship if you’re a man who likes men, apparently. BUT then also m/f relationships are supposedly relatable and accessible to everybody???

or maybe.

just maybe.

that’s a bullshit argument used to shut down enthusiasm for anything that isn’t heteronormative as well as to shame a group of what is perceived to be young women and girls. because any time young women like anything at all, however harmless or even positive and uplifting, that thing is relentlessly mocked and derided as shallow and ridiculous.

this post has so much going on that i guess i gotta write a whole essay so here we go

as a gay man, i can say with full and total confidence that more often than not, women’s consumption of our relationships, and our sex lives, and our trauma is fetishistic. it’s not about fighting heteronormativity. it’s really not that deep.

finding another man loving man in fandom is incredibly difficult, especially in shipping circles. i’ve been in the tumblr business for almost seven years, and i’ve met maybe 1 or 2 guys total who write slash besides me. slash fiction is dominated almost entirely by women and woman-aligned people, and it’s been this way for a very long time. even a good amount of smutty slash fanzines in the 70s-90s were written by women who liked to write about boys fucking. when i met another guy who wrote slash fanfic, i was completely shocked. it had taken 6 or so years to meet him, and i was completely bowled over. and i just thought “boys don’t write about boys loving boys, that’s not our thing”. but what i wanna know is why isn’t it our thing???

why aren’t most slash fanfics written by boys who love boys? why isn’t a genre, a subculture ABOUT US, something that we’re seemingly not allowed to participate in? why do we feel like outsiders when writing our own stories? why are some of them most praised “gay shows” and “gay books” (for example, the song of achilles and yuri on ice) all written by women, and read by women, and aren’t really catered towards gay men at all even though we’re the SUBJECTS of the story.

when you go through websites like goodreads and look under the “gay romance” section, you see names like madeline, jane, abigail, marie, amy. i mean, abigail roux’s writing alone probably takes up half the list! you might see a sean or a david thrown in, but for the most part, stories about men loving each other are written by women. ones that are written by men often don’t get the attention reigned in by the foxhole court and cut and run. that’s where the issue lies. in a community supposedly dedicated to us, our love, our sex, our relationships, we take the back seat. we don’t get recognition. we don’t get control. we don’t get to tell OUR stories OUR WAY.

not to mention, much of slash has always been smut. and that smut, for a lot of questioning boys who love boys, that’s our first exposure to sex between two men. i know it was for me. but when it’s written by someone who’s never been a man having sex with a man (and no, if you’re a cis girl having sex with a cis man is not the same way trans men have sex with cis men, but y'alls abysmal treatment of trans men will have to wait for another post), it’s often written inaccurately and unsafely. not using a condom? unsafe. spit as lube? definitely not safe. SHOVING IT IN???????? REALLY NOT SAFE. rimming someone without having them clean or use an enema first????

not only unsafe, but also really gross. the general consensus (and yes i asked) about this is that safe sex has been deemed by slash shippers to be “boring”. they want to get right to the fucking, no time for prep (which is literally the most important part), no time for cleaning, no time for lube, no time for protection. this is incredibly dangerous for young men who love men who are trying to figure out all the different ways that we can make love to each other. if this is their only exposure, they’re going to think that doing this is okay. they’re going to think “yeah, i can just shove my tongue into someone’s dirty asshole” or “i don’t have to prepare my partner before shoving very large into something very tiny” which is not the case and will get people hurt. i know fic isn’t supposed to be a sex ed class, but the lack of sex safety is really concerning.

and when men who love men like myself bring up the fact that maybe you guys should stay in your lane a little and let us take the wheel in a genre entirely dedicated to us having sex with each other, you somehow claim that we are “kinkshaming” you and being misogynist by taking away “the one place where women can explore their kinks without judgement”. which is complete and total bullshit because FIRST OF ALL gay people are not your kink. we are not your fetish, we don’t exist for your entertainment or your gratification. if you really think that two men who make love to each other is your “fetish”, then maybe that’s telling you something. human beings aren’t kinks. so fuck outta here with that.

and the obsession with boys enduring homophobic and sometimes transphobic abuse and rape for the sake of ~angst~ and hurt/comfort is uh pretty fucked up. the obsession people have with gay trauma is by far the most disturbing of all. like so many woman slash writers go out of their way to subject gbt male characters to all sorts of injury and abuse just so they can be ~comforted~ and possibly get comfort sex. the idea that you want to see us hurt just because you think it’s cute when we comfort each other isn’t okay. like, didn’t someone want to write a check please fanfic about the pulse shooting??? yeah how can any of you look at that and think it’s okay. it’s not okay. in no world is that okay.

so this brings me to your claim that if gay/bi/pan men (including trans men and male-aligned people) tell you to maybe chill out and maybe let us write stories about us for a change, that’s a misogynistic/homophobic/shallow statement. this just blows my mind. i need a little more clarification about why it’s such an evil no-no for us to want to represent ourselves or speak for ourselves or tell our own stories. because it kinda seems homophobic that you’re so angry about gbt men wanting to represent themselves. it almost sounds like you only think our love and our sex and our lives exist only for you to write and read about. you’re making it sound like we are objects made for your consumption, and by establishing ourselves as real people is ruining your fantasy.

nobody’s saying you can’t be supportive of gbt boys and want to write about them in your stories. but for the love of god, don’t get angry when we want to tell our own stories, and don’t pitch a fit when we express that we’re uncomfortable with being objectified for your own sexual gratification.

tldlr; men who love men have never existed for your consumption. we are not your “escape from heteronormativity”, we are not your “safe space for kink exploration”, we are not your favorite ships, we are not your kudos on ao3. we are real men with real stories who want a chance to express ourselves in a genre that’s about us but that we seemingly aren’t allowed into. we are people, and we deserve to and be seen as people and treated like people. stop speaking over us and invalidating our concerns about how we’re being treated. and that’s the tea. 🏳️‍🌈💁‍♂️☕️

@ all you straight fujoshis

Oh my gods this. This is everything I try and fail to say when people ask me how to explain fetishization vs storytelling.

Do you know how many books by gay men I edited in my time at the erotica publishing house? One.

Out of literal thousands of manuscripts, there was One gay man writing m/m, the rest were all by women, and I feel safe in saying, the majority of them, not from within the LGBTQA+ community.

And boy howdy did they pitch fits when we turned to them and said “your manuscript does not meet our health and safety requirements please revise” because our house had a strict safe sane consensual rule, along with body positivity, which everyone LOVED when they were writing m/f stories. But when it came to m/m we had so many authors say “ew, but that’s not ~sexy~ :/” to which my reply was often a very politely phrased “literally don’t give a fuck Susan, you know what else isn’t sexy? Bleeding assholes, which coincidentally is what you’re being.”

But y'know, nicer. Because I’m a fucking proffesional.

Anyway. Do you want to know what happened to said singular man writing m/m fiction? He got dropped after a year. Because, and I quote, this is a direct line from our then marketing team, about a gay man writing gay erotica: “that’s not what women want to read”

And if that’s not one of the most precise and fucking infuriating demonstrations of what the fuck is wrong with the “but I write gay slash fic! I can’t be homophobic!” “~allies~” (spoiler: you’re not) in fandom and yes, even in “real” publishing, I dunno what is.

There is a Difference between storytelling and fetishization, and all y'all crying “kinkshaming!” when someone asks you to treat them with respect, need to stop.

Okay, I’m sorry, but this is sort of something I’ve been sitting on and not sure how to express. So glad this post finally graced my dashboard

June 29 2017

What’s my writing trademark?


I’ve seen this for art, but what about my writing makes you go, “ah, that’s a _____ production”?

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