Hiii! My name is Hastur, and I'm a transfem bnuuygirlthing. I'm poly, plural, and almost exclusively t4t and lesbian! I'm a vers switch, but I tend to default to being a subby bottom a lot of the time >.< Also I have autism, ADHD, and enough anxiety to choke a horse, so please be patient. If I don't reply immediately, my brain is probably being silly again :3
I have a lot of CNC/kink/steamy pics and nudes on my blog, so 18+ ONLY! No age in bio means you're getting blocked!!
My DMs and asks are always open, and I'm always down for flirting with cute transfems >.< please check my kink list below before you send tho! Also feel free to send some love to my gay foxwives @/tycrek and @/noelle-------------------------7
♧•4,634 words, Werewolf x Reader, Y'all do it in the words, Making out, Oral(you’re giving), Throat fucking, Bent against the tree->On the ground, Standing doggy, Missionary, Name calling/Pet names(e.g, slut, whore, bitch¹, pretty girl, good girl, sweetheart, etc), Choking(light), aftercare, etc•♧
Requested via dm;)
•18+ 𝑴𝒊𝒏𝒐𝒓𝒔 𝑫𝒐 𝑵𝒐𝒕 𝑰𝒏𝒕𝒆𝒓𝒂𝒄𝒕•
The bonfire eats the night, flames twisting high, wood popping and spitting sparks that float and die in the damp air. Someone’s got a speaker half-busted and loud, bass rattling cheap truck doors, voices rough with beer and smoke.
You’re tucked on the edge of it all, plastic cup sweating in your hand, letting the music and chaos blur. That’s when you notice her.
Leaning against the hood of a beat-up truck. Separate. Unbothered. Jacket hanging off her hips, boots planted wide, bottle loose in her hand. She doesn’t laugh at the bullshit jokes. Doesn’t jostle, doesn’t cheer. Just… watches.
And she’s watching you.
At first you keep looking away, but every time your eyes wander, you find her again. There’s no smirk, no friendliness in it — only the steady, patient weight of her stare. It coils in your gut, sharp and hot, until your mouth is dry and your skin prickles like you’ve been standing too close to the flames.
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You get up just to move. Just to breathe. Walk into the trees where the fire glow thins, where the cicadas scream louder than the music. It’s cooler here, damp earth under your shoes, the sweet rot of leaves in the air.
That’s when you hear her boots.
She doesn’t rush. Doesn’t try to hide it. Just follows, step for step, until you stop — and she’s already there, slipping out of the dark like she belongs to it.
She’s there when you turn.
“Running off?” she asks, voice low, smoke-rough.
Your mouth opens, but nothing comes out. Her eyes catch what little light there is, strange and gold, and for a moment you feel the urge to back away. But your body doesn’t listen.
She closes the distance slowly. Each step deliberate, the kind that makes your pulse stutter, makes your back hit rough bark before you realize you’ve been moving.
She doesn’t touch you at first. Just stands there, close enough that the heat of her body crowds yours, close enough that you can smell whiskey on her breath, pine and something wilder clinging to her skin.
“You were staring,” she murmurs, tilting her head like she’s studying you, like she’s already decided what you’ll say. “Thought you wanted me to come find you.”
Her hand finally comes up — rough palm against the side of your throat. Not squeezing. Not yet. Just holding you there, thumb tracing slow over your pulse. Your breath shudders under it, embarrassingly loud in the stillness.
She leans in closer, mouth brushing your jaw but not kissing, her teeth catching skin for the briefest scrape. You tilt without meaning to, offering her more.
And she laughs — quiet, almost pleased.
“You're going to be so good,” she says. “I already know.”
Her mouth hovers there, her breath hot, her hand pressing just enough to remind you she could take more. She waits, forcing you to squirm, to push up against her chest, to part your lips like you’ll beg if she keeps drawing it out.
Only then does she kiss you.
It’s slow at first, patient in a cruel way, like she’s savoring how long she made you wait. Then her grip tightens at your throat and she tilts her head, deepening it, tasting you like she’s starving.
When her hand finally slips under your shirt, you’re already shaking.
The woods are damp, dark, and thick with cicadas, the bonfire a dull light far behind you now. She’s pressed close, hand still around your throat, mouth finally on yours. What starts sharp and deliberate melts into something hungrier, the kind of kiss that makes your knees weak, sloppy with tongue and teeth.
When she pulls back, you’re panting, lips wet, head tipped back against the bark.
“They say you’re a monster,” you whisper before you can stop yourself.
Her eyes flash gold at the word, a grin cutting across her face — sharp, wicked. “I am.” Her thumb drags along your throat, pressing just enough to make your pulse jump under it. “Does it bother you?”
You shake your head, desperate, breathless. “No.”
Her mouth crashes back to yours, harder now, wet and reckless. She kisses like she wants to consume you, like she’s proving the point. Your hands fumble at her waistband, unbuttoning her jeans with trembling fingers. She lets you, leaning back just enough to watch.
Your breath catches when you feel her — thick and hot, heavy against your palm. The shock only makes the hunger worse, your thighs clenching as heat spikes through you.
You sink to your knees without thinking, damp leaves and dirt soaking through your jeans. She tilts her head, watching, eyes blown wide in the thin spill of moonlight.
You take her in hand, stroke her slowly, then press a kiss to the tip. Her breath shudders out, sharp. You do it again, softer, then tap it against your tongue.
She laughs low, filthy, chest rising hard. “Look at you… little slut can’t wait to get a taste.”
The words make you ache. You open wider and take her in, sucking her slow and deep, your eyes locked on hers. She groans, jaw tight, hand slipping into your hair to hold you steady.
Her body in the moonlight is almost too much — taut muscle under her shirt, the line of her throat, the wild gleam in her eyes. You moan around her, your free hand sliding lower, toying with the slick heat between her thighs.
She curses, hips jerking. You stroke and suck both at once, greedy, worshipful. She looks down at you like you’re the prettiest thing she’s ever seen, and the most promising.
The taste of her, the sound of her voice — rough and low, telling you how dirty you are, how good you look with your lips wrapped around her — it’s almost enough to undo you right there in the dirt.
The forest presses close, cicadas screaming above, the taste of her still fresh on your tongue. She’s too big to take comfortably, and it burns in the best way, jaw aching, spit dripping down your chin.
Her hand fists in your hair, guiding you, though she’s letting you set the pace for now. Her gaze doesn’t leave you — golden eyes locked to yours, watching every twitch, every choke.
“God, look at you,” she groans, voice rough, head tilting back for a second before pinning her stare down at you again. “So desperate to swallow cock you can’t even breathe right.”
Your eyes water as you work her deeper, drool spilling, the heat of her filling your mouth. She’s already slick with spit, your hand working her shaft, jerking her while your tongue laves over the head each time you pull back to gasp. You can hear the wet sounds—obscene, sloppy—your moans mixing with the sharp curses tumbling from her throat.
Your free hand drags down her stomach, under her shirt, nails grazing her lower stomach before scraping, teasing. She hisses through her teeth, muscles jumping under your touch.
“Fuck, you’ve got me dripping,” she rasps, grinding forward just enough to smear spit across your lips. “Bet you like it — choking on it, taking it all messy like a good little whore.”
Your thighs squeeze together, slick between them, but you don’t stop. You suck harder, eyes still fixed on hers, showing her how much you want it, how much you can take.
She groans low, rough, and something in her breaks.
“Enough.” Her grip in your hair tightens hard, yanking your head back just to see your spit-slick mouth, your watery eyes. Then she slams you down onto her dick.
Your throat convulses around her, gagging, nose pressed against her pelvis. She sets a brutal rhythm, fucking your mouth with sharp, desperate thrusts. Every sound is wet and obscene — the gagging choke of your throat, the lewd suck of spit, her gasps tearing loose each time you swallow around her.
“Take it,” she snarls, hips snapping forward. “Take it all, don’t you dare pull away.”
Your nails dig into her thighs, but you don’t fight it. You let her use you, tears streaking your cheeks, spit running down your chin, drool soaking into your shirt. She’s lost in it now, fucking your throat raw, eyes locked on yours the whole time.
The sound she makes when she finally comes is guttural, wild. Hot ropes of her release spill down your throat, and you gulp them fast, swallowing greedily until she’s wrung herself dry.
When she pulls back, panting, her grip still tight in your hair, you open your mouth wide, tongue out, showing her it’s all gone.
Her chest heaves, sweat shining on her skin in the moonlight. She laughs low, shaky, almost disbelieving.
“Good fucking girl,” she growls, and her thumb wipes spit and tears from your chin, smearing them more than cleaning. “Goddamn perfect.”
She doesn’t give you time to breathe. One second you’re on your knees, your throat aching and slick with her, the next her grip hauls you up by your hair. Your lips crash into hers, the kiss rough, full of teeth, and she moans into your mouth like she can taste herself there.
“Take your pants off,” she orders against your lips, voice ragged.
Your hands scramble, shoving jeans down your thighs, underwear with them. Before you can even step out, she turns you and shoves you forward. Your palms hit the rough bark of the tree, cool night air ghosting over your bare ass.
“Look at you,” she murmurs behind you, hands spreading you open. “Bent over like a needy bitch in the woods. Probably been dreaming about this, huh? About getting used like the whore you are.”
Your chest heaves, nails digging into the bark. You bite your lip, then whisper back, breathless and shameless:
“I just wanted it to be you.”
That makes her pause, makes her growl low in her chest. A hand slides up your back, pressing between your shoulder blades to keep you still. Her other hand guides herself, thick head dragging through your slick folds.
The stretch burns as she pushes in slow. Inch by inch, she splits you open, forcing your body to yield. The breath stutters out of you, throat tight, eyes squeezing shut.
By the time she bottoms out, you’re choking on a sob, nails clawing at the tree. Your pussy clenches helplessly around her, already trembling from how full you feel.
She leans down, her mouth right at your ear, her voice rougher now. “You good, sweetheart?”
You nod frantically, tears spilling, voice catching. “Feels—feels so good, please don’t stop.”
Her hand fists in your hair, yanking your head back just enough to make you arch. Then she pulls almost all the way out and slams back in.
The sound is wet and messy, the slap of skin on skin echoing in the dark woods. Her thrusts start slow but deep, deliberate, making you feel every inch. Then she picks up pace, hips snapping, rutting into you harder and harder.
“Listen to you,” she snarls, pounding you against the tree. “Crying on my dick, dripping down your thighs like you were made for this. You love it, don’t you? Being fucked like a slut out in the open.”
You moan, voice breaking, body giving in completely. “I love it—mhgm—please don’t stop—”
The bark scrapes your palms, your whole body rocking forward with each brutal thrust, sweat and spit and slick making everything louder, filthier. Her hand slides around your throat again, squeezing just enough to cut your breath, her pace unrelenting.
She’s gone feral behind you, hips slamming, teeth bared, using you against the tree until all you can do is cry and take it, the woods swallowing every ragged sound you make.
Her hips crash into yours, each thrust harder, wetter, filthier than the last. The night’s quiet except for you — your moans breaking open, ragged, unrestrained.
She leans in close, lips brushing the shell of your ear as she grits, “God, you’re so loud. Moaning for me like you want the whole damn woods to know. What if someone comes and sees you like this? Bent over for me, stuffed full like a desperate slut?”
The thought makes your stomach flip, your nails dig deeper into the bark. You whimper, throat tight. “I—I’m sorry—”
Her hand on your hip jerks you back into her. “Don’t apologize, baby.” Her voice drops, low and hot against your ear. “I love how you sound.”
Your heart stutters, your face burning. “Yeah?” you pant, voice cracking.
“Mmh.” She hums it, rough and deep, hips snapping into yours like punctuation. “Every moan… every cry… I want all of it.”
It breaks something loose in you. You stop holding back — the sounds pour out, unashamed. Each thrust knocks a new moan out of you, higher, wetter. Your thighs are shaking, and the slick gush dripping down them is copious. She can feel it too; she slides in and out of you with a squelch that makes her snarl.
“Fuck, you’re soaking me, baby. Making such a mess all over me."
Your moans climb louder, wild and unrestrained — until she suddenly stops. Her chest heaves against your back as she presses you flush into the tree. The bark scrapes your nipples, rough and grounding. Then her palm clamps hard over your mouth.
“Shhh,” she hisses in your ear. “I said I love it… but you’re gonna get us caught.”
The world narrows. Her hand tastes of earth and salt against your tongue as you cry into it, muffled and raw. Her sweat slicks hot down your spine, her breath burning at your neck.
And then she ruts into you like an animal. Harsher, faster, the kind of thrusts that make your body jolt forward against the tree. Her length slams deep, angling perfect, abusing your g-spot until your vision blurs.
Your sobs choke out against her palm, tears leaking hot down your cheeks. The sounds are a mess — muffled cries, wet slaps of skin, her pants and grunts.
“That’s it,” she growls into your hair, voice ragged. “Take it. Cry on my dick, baby. Let me ruin you.”
Your nails scrape grooves into the bark. Your body can’t stop clenching around her, spasming with each brutal stroke. Her weight pins you, her heat smothers you—grounding you in her, in this moment.
Every thrust drags another muffled scream out of you, your whole body unraveling as she fucks you deeper, meaner, until all that’s left is sweat, tears, and the dizzying rhythm of her cock hammering into you.
Your cries are nothing but muffled whimpers against her palm now, the sound of your own wetness loud in your ears. Every thrust feels like it’s breaking you open — her cock hitting that spot so deep inside you that your vision keeps flashing white. Bark digs into your palms, your breasts scrape against the tree with every shove, but the pain only anchors the pleasure.
You swear you can feel her everywhere — the heat of her sweat dripping down your back, the way her chest rises and falls heavy against you, the thrum of her heartbeat pounding like a drum against your spine. And her cock—God, her cock feels carved for you, stretching you wide, bottoming out until you’re choking on every stroke.
Your body betrays you. You know you shouldn’t, know you barely even know her — but somewhere between her filthy whispers and the way she fills you, you think you might love her. It’s not love, not really. But your brain is too fuzzy to care. All you know is that this is the best you’ve ever had. That no one else has ever fucked you like this. No one’s ever ruined you so good.
Her lips brush your ear, her voice husky, dangerous, sweet.
“Good girl, so fucking perfect. You love it, don’t you? Being split open like this. Being mine.”
Your stomach knots, your whole body clenches. You moan into her hand, a desperate muffled “uh-huh.”
“Yeah, baby. I feel you squeezing me. You’re gonna cum for me, aren’t you?” Her pace falters only to grind deep, forcing her dick flush against your sweet spot. “Come on. Make a mess on me. Show me how bad you need it.”
The world tilts. Heat floods your body, your thighs quake as pleasure rips through you. Your orgasm is violent — a sharp cry torn from your throat, muted against her hand. Your walls clamp down so tight around her that your vision blacks out at the edges. Wet gush spills down your thighs, dripping onto the dirt, obscene and shameless.
“Fuck,” she snarls against your neck, rutting into you harder, chasing her own end. “That’s it. That’s my girl.”
Your body shakes, overstimulated and trembling, but she doesn’t let up. Her hips slam faster, rougher, until her voice breaks, guttural. “Gonna give you everything.”
Her teeth graze your shoulder, not breaking skin, just enough to make you shiver. You feel her throb, swell, stretching you further until you’re gasping around her hand. The knot locks in, hot and brutal, plugging you full so deep you can’t move.
She finally lets your mouth free. Before you can breathe, she turns your head and crushes her lips to yours. It’s a filthy, hungry kiss, tongues colliding, your tears mixing with her sweat. You moan into her mouth as her cock jerks and she spills inside you, thick heat pumping so much you feel it seeping around the knot, dripping down your thighs.
Her body shudders against yours, the beast in her groaning low in her chest. She doesn’t pull away. She keeps kissing you — wet, sloppy, messy— her hips grinding to push it all in deeper.
When she finally pulls back, her eyes are glowing faint gold in the moonlight, wide and dilated, wolf and woman tangled together. She pants against your lips, voice rough velvet as she whispers,
“You’re mine now, baby. You feel that? Nobody else is ever gonna fuck you like this.”
Your head spins, your cunt still spasming around the knot that’s keeping you stuffed and helpless. You can’t even deny her — not with your body clinging so tight, not with your heart thundering like it wants to believe her.
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The knot finally goes down, slipping free with a wet sound that makes you whimper. Your legs nearly buckle, but she’s there instantly, big hands gripping your hips, holding you steady so you don’t fall against the tree. She turns you gently, guiding you until you’re facing her.
Her chest rises and falls heavy, her skin slick with sweat, her hair sticking to her forehead. In the moonlight, she looks like something carved out of shadow and silver — sharp, strong, otherworldly. You can still hear the cruel whispers from earlier at the party, the way people muttered about her looks, about what she was. But standing here, flushed and panting, you’ve never seen anyone so beautiful.
Your hands lift almost without thinking, wrapping around her neck. You pull her down into a kiss. It’s slow, but messy—open mouths, tongues brushing, both of you breathing hard into each other. She hums against your lips, like she can taste the truth of what you’re feeling.
“There’s a lake deeper in the woods,” she murmurs between kisses, her forehead pressed to yours. “We can clean up.”
You don’t let her pull away. Your fingers tangle in her damp hair, tugging her mouth back to yours. You kiss her harder, hungrier, the ache in your body sparking all over again. “I want you again,” you whisper, your voice raw, needy.
That makes her pause. Just for a breath. Then she smiles at you — not mocking, not cruel. It’s soft, almost fond, the kind of look that makes your stomach flip. “Yeah?” she says, low, like a secret just for you. “Alright, baby. You’ll have me again.”
You drop down into the dirt without care, your back pressing into the ground, twigs catching in your hair. You spread your legs open, shameless, the ache between them screaming for her. “Give it to me,” you tell her, your voice thick, trembling.
Something in her shifts. She lowers down, crawling between your thighs on all fours, her movements heavier, more animal. Her broad shoulders roll under the moonlight, the cords of her muscles flexing as her body changes in small but undeniable ways. Her jaw looks stronger, sharper. Hair prickles along the line of her face, her cheekbones catching the silver glow. Her eyes are wide and blown, lit faintly gold at the edges.
You should be afraid. You’re not. You’re burning with it.
“God,” you breathe, your hands trembling as they cup her face. “You’re so beautiful.”
She freezes, her lips parting, her breath shuddering like she doesn’t know what to do with that. Then she surges forward, capturing your mouth again. The kiss is deep, consuming, her tongue sliding against yours like she wants to devour you whole.
And then she’s pressing inside.
The stretch makes your back arch, your nails digging into the dirt as she slides in deep and slow, every inch pushing the breath out of your lungs. She bottoms out, her hips flush to yours, her heat sinking into your core until you’re full in a way that makes your head spin.
Her forehead rests against yours, her voice wrecked, half-growl, half-praise. “Look at you. Taking me again. Sweet little thing—can’t get enough, can you?”
She's deep in you, stretching you until your eyes roll back, and stays there — buried to the hilt, not moving, just breathing against your mouth. The weight of her settles heavy, her body pinning yours into the dirt. Her hands slide up your sides, wide palms spanning your waist like she’s mapping every inch of you to memory.
Your breath stutters, lips parting as your gaze locks to hers. Those eyes… god, they’re darker now, the pupils blown wide, catching the moonlight with a faint glow. Her canines are sharper when she kisses you, grazing your lower lip like they want to bite but don’t. She looks more monstrous, more wolf than woman — but still the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen.
“Fuck, you feel so good,” she whispers, her voice wrecked and low. She starts moving — pulling back just enough to make you ache, then pushing in slow and steady, grinding deep against the spot inside you that makes your thighs tremble.
Your hand trails up, brushing over the sweat-damp planes of her stomach. The muscles twitch under your touch. Higher, until your palm cups her breast, your thumb flicking her nipple. She groans into your mouth, kissing you rougher, deeper.
Her hips snap a little harder now, the rhythm still deliberate but edged with hunger. You whimper, your nails biting into her chest. She pulls back just enough to look at you, eyes locking to yours, her expression wrecked and reverent all at once.
“You’re so pretty like this,” she murmurs. “Spread open for me. Taking me so good.”
The words make heat bloom in your chest, make your throat tight. You nod, whining softly. “Only for you,” you whisper, voice breaking, sweet and raw.
Her hips jerk at that. A low growl rumbles in her chest, not threatening but desperate. She presses her forehead to yours and kisses you again, slow and sloppy, her breath hot against your lips. Her hand slides between your bodies, fingers finding your clit, rubbing lazy, perfect circles.
The sound you make is broken, high-pitched, almost a sob. You can’t stop clinging to her, your arms wrapping tighter around her neck. “God, you make me feel so good,” you whisper, tears stinging the corners of your eyes. “I—fuck—I think I love you.”
Her thrusts stutter, her eyes going wide, almost wild. Then she groans deep, the sound vibrating through your chest, and pounds into you a little rougher, still keeping that slow rhythm but harder, deeper, more consuming.
“Say it again,” she begs, her voice shredded.
“I love you,” you whine, and it’s not real, it can’t be, but in this moment it is — it’s all you feel. “I love you so much.”
Her hand works your clit faster, her cock grinding into your sweet spot with every thrust. The heat builds fast, unbearable, until you’re trembling under her, gasping into her mouth as the orgasm crashes through you. Your body seizes, cunt pulsing around her cock, slick dripping down your thighs.
She follows you over, eyes locked to yours, her jaw tight, her canines flashing as she buries herself deep one last time. The sound she makes is primal — half-growl, half-moan — as she spills into you, her hips jerking, her chest pressing hard against yours.
For a long moment, neither of you move, just breathing, clinging, staring into each other’s wrecked faces. Then she kisses you softer, slower, like she’s savoring you.
When she finally pulls out, she’s careful, her big hand sliding to your hip to steady you. She nuzzles your temple, voice husky, low. “Come on, sweet girl. Let’s go clean up.”
She pushes up off you, then reaches a hand down, strong fingers curling around yours to pull you gently to your feet. And even as your legs wobble, even with dirt clinging to your back and sweat drying on your skin, you feel cared for. You feel hers.
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The water is cold enough to make you gasp, but her arms are warm around you as she helps guide you deeper, both of you wading until the moon ripples silver across the surface. The dirt and sweat slip away in the dark water, her fingers trailing over your shoulders, your back, as if she’s not just washing you but touching you because she can’t not.
You mimic her, your palms smoothing over her chest, her stomach, feeling her muscles relax beneath your hands. It’s quiet except for the gentle lapping of the lake and your soft breathing, the night wrapping around you both like a secret.
“Sorry,” you murmur after a long silence.
Her brows knit. “For what?”
“For saying I loved you,” you admit, eyes dropping to the water. Your voice is small but honest. “I…I really like you, though. And thank you—for tonight. I’m glad I came to the stupid party.”
For a moment, you think she’ll tease you. Instead, she tips your chin up with wet fingers, making you look at her. Her smile is small but real, softer than you’ve ever seen it. “It’s okay. I know what you were feeling. And… I want to see you again.”
Your breath catches, surprise flashing in your chest before it melts into something warm and dizzying. “You do?”
“Yeah.” Her thumb brushes your cheek. “I really do.”
You can’t help it—you laugh, relieved and giddy, before leaning in and kissing her. It’s slower now, sloppy and wet from the water on your lips, but it feels like the sweetest thing in the world. You both linger in it, mouths parting, breaths tangling.
When her body shifts closer against yours, you feel it—hard, insistent, pressing into your hip again. You pull back just enough to look down, then back up at her face.
“Oh wow,” you say softly, surprised and breathless.
She grins, a little sheepish but amused, and that cracks both of you open. You laugh together, the sound echoing over the water, light and easy after all the heaviness.
She kisses you again, smiling against your mouth, and the night feels endless, the moon above, the lake around you, and her arms holding you close.
[trying to hide my current cravings in a broader statement] you need to cook up a shit ton of fried fish for that trans woman in your life. for her boobs but also because she really wants fried fish. trust me.
Actually this is an obvious question but it’s not what you might think. Let me explain it to you, I’ve been an opiate addict for a long time and tried many drugs. Drugs that are ‘uppers’ have the most ‘obvious’ euphoria. For example if you take adderall/coke/meth/speed/MDMA you will get this shining bright euphoria, self confidence, energy, and other drug-specific feelings (for meth like you are king or for MDMA like you love everyone). However, you owe these drugs back what they delivered to you. After a meth binge, or lots of MDMA use, or staying up all night on coke you will feel like shit. To an extent this aspect is similar to an alcoholic hangover.
On the other hand, for many people who experiment with heroin they are underwhelmed (not including IV usage, but most experimenters rarely ever IV first time). They just feel good, chill, happy, but they feel like this spooky drug ‘heroin’ hasn’t delivered. They are just mellow. Oh obviously it has all been a lie they will think. Heroin isn’t spooky, it’s chill. It’s not addictive like everyone else thinks. It doesn’t make you do stupid shit or stay up all day and hallucinate like amphetamines or coke. It doesn’t empty your serotonin like MDMA or give you a hangover like alcohol. People tend to just think oh, what a nice drug.
So the next day they wake up and everything is normal. No headache or shitty feeling–just a slight afterglow of that nice feeling. Oh it was cheap as well! It only cost $10 for a whole night of being high! I thought people said heroin was expensive? And then next weekend comes… There are all these drugs I could do but I liked heroin. It didn’t fuck me up,‘I could still think clearly. No hangover. No feeling like shit later. I still was awake. It just made me happy and content with life. Oh and it’s only $10! Well, I should get some more for the whole weekend. This is great! I will use Heroin on the weekends now!
Now let’s say this person works and has responsibilities. He knows he can’t go into work drunk, or on MDMA, or high. So he doesn’t. It’s actually simple. But heroin… Well the user might actually find they do better work on heroin. Instead of being sad or grumpy or depressed with his job… he is just… happy. Mellow. Content. Everything is fine and the world is beautiful. It’s raining, it’s dark, I woke up at 5:30AM, I’m commuting in traffic. I would have had a headache, I would have been miserable, I would have wondered how my life took me to this point. This point I’m at right now. But no, no, everything is fine. Life is beautiful. The rain drops are just falling and in each one I see the reflection of every persons life around me. Humanity is beautiful. In this still frame shot of traffic on this crowded bus I just found love and peace. Heroin is a wonder drug. Heroin is better than everything else. Heroin makes me who I wish I was. Heroin makes life worth living. Heroin is better than everything else. Heroin builds up a tolerance fast. Heroin starts to cost more money. I need heroin to feel normal. I don’t love anymore. Now I’m sick. I can’t afford the heroin that I need. How did $10 used to get me high? Now I need $100. That guy that let me try a few lines the first time doesn’t actually deal. Oh I need to find a real dealer? This guy is a felon and carries a gun–he can sell me the drug that lets me find love in the world. No this isn’t working, I need to quit.
To answer your question, heroin feels nice. That’s all, it just feels very nice. You can make the rest up for yourself. Attach your own half-truths to this drug that will show you the world and for a moment you will feel as clever as Faust.
Edit: Thank you for the kind words. I received help and I’m doing well now. Luckily I was able to pull up and get help right before I entered the deadly downward spiral. Some of my friends have not done as well. Sorry to steal the limelight from OP
A reply to this from Ifuxdalion
Reading that was more haunting than any anti-drug campaign that I’ve been exposed to. Thanks. A lot.
End of reddit post.
The third image are tags on tumblr. They read #anti-drug campaigns should be run by recovering addicts #cause like #how are you gonna talk honestly about how a drug affects your life if youve never done it #how can you really communicate what it does to your life if you ignore the reasons people do drugs in the first place? #i dont think anyone’s gonna believe you when you say a drug is bad if you never acknowledge the way the drug makes you feel good #tags
The thing that kills me about this, is that it frankly discusses the general misery and malaise that we put up with in our regular sober lives, and it says straight up that the drug makes it BEARABLE. This is the clearest and most straightforward description of “drug addiction is not a failure of personal strength and character, it is an attempt to medicate and make survivable the horrifying sociocultural conditions that we are being forced to accept as the normal cost of living.” It’s the Rat Park drug addiction hypothesis demonstrated in humanity.
Yesterday I overheard a trans woman saying to another "the fourth law of robotics is that the robot has to be gay and trans" and a cis guy nearby going "oh what? I only know the first three" and her repeating "yeah it says the robot has to be gay and trans. Asimov wrote that" and him earnestly saying "whoa I didn't know that!"
xenomorphs are weirdly sexy but not in the "hear me out" way because i know that they're supposed to be erotic in their design no i mean weirdly as in a strange type of sexiness that does not make me physically horny for them but when i see one im like admiring it in awe with a nebulous awareness of sexiness behind it
i think it's a quality of giger's art in general. he presented eroticism in a way so far beyond intimacy that even explicitly sexual imagery in his works looks. hmm. distant and unattainable? like it's a pure concept. sex with no sex. i am not smart enough to describe this
it's like. if the concept of eroticism was so condensed that it became dangerous and rigid. the fluids are strongly acidic the form is perfectly efficient and it's no longer a safe dosage of the idea it's over the allowed maximum
xenomorphs are sexy not only in their physicality but because they represent the eroticism of something so purely alien it is unknowable, unattainable, and barely even understandable. a distillation of the eroticism of difference taken to its utter extreme. gigers 'biomechanical' art portrays, as you said, something so far from human intimacy and warmth, horrific and metallic, and yet so familiarly sensual in its shapes and lines that it is inescapably erotic to the human eye and mind. there is terror in recognizing that eroticism in something so alien. the way the xenomorph looks and moves is sensual but also threatening on a primal level. it exists in the tension between fear and desire: you are simultaneously repulsed by and unbearably attracted to it
Tranny Lesbibun :3 @fluffymoonrocks - Tumblr Blog | Tumgag
