A term for biastophiles who don't discriminate between "targets"/"victims". A flag for biastophiles who's biastophilic attraction isn't limited by any set permeates like age, species, consciousness, living status, etc.
There is no wrong way to use this term as a long as your usage falls within the provided definition.
We support and even encourage archival and uploading to wikis, however do please credit us& as NecrophallicLoser and do not reword the definition we& have provided.
As always, if this has already been coined, consider this an alt flag.
paraphile joy is when I came out as a biastophile to my boyfriend and he said that it doesn't change anything and he still loves me and I'm not a bad person for thoughts I can't control
Hiii!!! I was listening to msi and thought of you and decided to check your intro and I didn't know/remember you're a fellow biastophile??!?! /pos
I feel like I don't see it talked about very much which is surprising so it's cool to somebody be open about ^^ /gen
Hrrrg the idea that someone listened to msi and thought of me :3 /vpos
I updated it with a longer list of paras when I reformatted the intropost I think? (I actually have such a wild amount of paras,including ones that haven’t been coined yet, so I have to rewrite that post again eventually 🥲 /nav) But yeah ^^ I’ve been one for actually my whole life I think,just didn’t realize/remember there was a term for it. Also fellow biasto moment??? /vpos
A noncon fic of my two ocs. (READ THIS FIRST >>) Introduction post to the fic part 2
DEAD DOVE DO NOT EAT
Brayden was drunk, drinking a beer in the dressing room. He had been stressed recently, due to the letters he had recently been getting… letters from his stalker. Every one got worse, wether it was talking about what kind of boots brayden had worn during a show or about how he had jerked off to a magazine article about his band. Thats when a employee of the club walked in with a envelope in hand. “hey uh, this was left in our mailbox and it was addressed to you, Uhh.. no return address or name from who, sorry man.” he handed the letter, and on the front it said “TO: BRAYDEN, OF POISON KISS”. Brayden set his half-empty beer bottle aside, heart skipping a beat at the sight of the familiar envelope type. The writing on it was distinct: messy letters that appeared as if they'd been written down in a hurry. His hands trembled slightly as he took the envelope, his pink painted nails tapping nervously against the paper. The other band members were still out partying, celebrating another successful show at the club. And he was left alone in the dressing room, a place of chaos aftermath and discarded clothes, empty cans, and half-burned cigarettes. “Thanks, man..." Brayden mumbled, his voice unsteady. He carefully opened the envelope, pulling out a single sheet of lined paper. eyes moving quickly over the words, each one sending a chill down his spine.
You were extraordinary tonight, my darling Brayden. That pink lipstick drove me insane, just like always. I long to feel those lips on mine. and your legs… fuck… I could barely control myself! had to go bust a quickie to you in the bathrooms.. haha.
- Your secret admirer.
He let out a shaky breath, running a hand through his big teased hair before standing up. "God, this is getting out of hand..." he then read the back.
I really want you. you’re really hot. I realized that the light hits you perfectly from exactly the left of the stage. so I remember to go there.
Brayden then dropped the letter when he realized that the letter was wet at the bottom… sticky. A look of absolute revulsion crossed Brayden's face as he noticed the damp patch on the letter. He quickly dropped it as if it were on fire, his stomach churning uneasily. His hands began to shake more noticeably, and he hastily wiped them on his leather pants, as if attempting to rub away the contamination. "Jesus Christ, this is sick..." he whispered. The room suddenly felt stifling, the air thick with the scent of smoke and alcohol. He took a step backward, colliding with his vanity table and causing his makeup kit to shift. The pink lipstick he'd used for the performance rolled across the table. His mind raced as he contemplated what to do. Should he inform the police? But what would they do? He didn't even know who was behind these letters. And if word got out that he had a stalker, it could harm his career, he would be seen as some joke- the glam metal vocalist who has a gay secret admire. He leaned against the wall, his forehead damp with cold sweat. “Who the hell are you???” he murmured, his eyes fixed on the letter as if it might just answer. He picked up the letter by the corner and threw it into the trash.
Several hours and numerous drinks later, Brayden was stumbling backstage, his balance wavy in his signature pink stiletto heels he wore on stage. The alcohol had done its job of dulling his fear, but now it was making it difficult to focus. His makeup was smudged, the pink lipstick smeared across his mouth in a way that usually looked sexy on stage but now just looked messy. "Hey, guys, I'm gonna call it a night," Brayden slurred, waving unsteadily at his bandmates. They were all huddled around a table, engaged in a rowdy conversation that involved a lot of laughter and gestures. One of them threw a crumpled napkin at him along with a “alright bro! Be safe!”, but Brayden just grinned and stumbled towards the exit. As he made his way through the dimly lit corridor, he suddenly felt a hand on his shoulder. Startled, he spun around, his heart pounding in his chest. But it was just Damage, one of the local guys who always seemed to be lurking around after shows, but was a nice guy once you knew him, had even helped with hauling the bands equipment a few times. Brayden managed a tipsy smile. "Damage! Hey man... didn't see you there. What's up?" Brayden slurred. In turn damage’s face seemed to light up. “nothing much, hell man you look absolutely smashed. rough night?”. Brayden then leaned against the wall for support, squinting at Damage through slightly bloodshot eyes. His big teased hair was starting to lose its shape, and his leather jacket was hanging off one shoulder. "Ugh, you have no idea..." he groaned, running a hand through his hair and making it even messier then it already was. His words came out in a slur, but there was a note of real distress beneath the intoxication. "Got another one of those creepy letters tonight. Like, seriously, this dude is starting to freak me out. And this time..." He paused, shuddering slightly. “This time it was all... damp. You know? Like he'd... well, you can guess what he'd done."
He pushed himself off the wall, almost losing his balance but managing to steady himself with a hand on Damage's arm. “Sorry, man, I probably shouldn't be dumping this on you. It's just... I don't know who else to talk to. My bandmates are all too caught up in partying to care.” “it’s all good dude. thats so weird though, who would even think of doing that? it’s not like you are some famous girl in a magazine, no offense.” Damage teased, clearly being less drunk then the blonde. Brayden let out a drunken laugh, his grip still on Damage's arm. The alcohol made the light hearted insult roll right off him. "None taken, man. We're not exactly Motley Crue yet, are we?" He staggered a bit closer, his breath smelling of whiskey and cigarettes. "But I guess some people just get off on that stalker crap. It's like... they think they have some sort of claim on you just because they see you on stage." He suddenly pulled back, his expression turning more serious. "Do you... do you think it could be someone from the club? Like, someone who knows my routine or something? The letter said they always stand on the left side of the stage. That's a pretty specific detail."
His eyes searched Damage's face, still a bit unfocused but with a hint of real worry in them. The hallway around them was quiet now, the sounds of the after-party fading into the background. Brayden swayed slightly, his pink heels making it hard to keep his balance. Damage looked down at brayden. “yeah… but they are definitely trying to keep his identity a secret.” Damage said with a shrug, then taking a sip from his drink. “hey, how about this man, lemme buy you another drink to get your mind off of it and then I’ll drive you back to your apartment?” He smiled, offering it normally. And in this moment it was a normal offer- just a guy offering a very drunk guy a ride home after r a bad day. Brayden considered the offer for a moment, his brows knitting together in mild suspicion before the alcohol's influence won out. A lopsided grin spread across his smeared lips. "Yeah... yeah, that sounds awesome actually. One more drink couldn't hurt, right?" He pushed away from the wall once more, this time managing to stand a bit more steadily. “And I'd really appreciate the ride home. I'm way too wasted to drive myself, and I don't feel like waiting for a taxi." He started walking down the hall towards the bar area, stumbling only slightly. "But just one more drink, though. I don't want to wake up tomorrow with a hangover from hell... again." Brayden then laughed, turning to look at Damage over his shoulder. "God, last weekend was brutal. I couldn't even remember how I got back to my place."
At the bar damage had bought him another drink, something simple but stil strong enough to make it burn as it went down. They talked only until Brayden was finished and then started to Damage’s car.
Struggling to keep himself up Brayden leaned heavily on Damage as they made their way out to the club’s parking lot. The cool night air of the sunset strip hit his face, making him shiver slightly despite his leather jacket. His big teased hair was now completely disheveled, and his makeup was smeared beyond recognition of what it once was. The neon lights of the club sign flickered above them, glowing on the parking lot Ground. "Thanks for this, man..." he mumbled, fumbling with the car door handle. It took him a few attempts before he managed to get it open and fall into the passenger seat. His head lolled back against the headrest, and he closed his eyes for a moment, the world still spinning even as his eyes were closed.
"Just... just take me home. I need to sleep this off." His voice was barely above a whisper, and he pulled his legs up into the seat, not even bothering to fasten his seatbelt. The alcohol was hitting him hard now, making it difficult to keep his thoughts straight. He vaguely wondered if he'd said too much to Damage about the letters, but his mind was too clouded to care. “Alright” Damage said from the drivers seat. “You live north of rolling hills right?” He continued, receiving a nod from Brayden. Damage started the car, an old thing: a model from the 60s if Brayden remembered correctly.
It's so fucking funny in a horrified way when I see people say "oh MAPs aren't actually anti c unless they never talk to or look at or consume media that has children oh zoos aren't actually anti c unless they never ever interact with animals ever and leave public spaces immediately if they see someone walking their dog". Because I'm a biastophile what am I supposed to do⁉️⁉️⁉️ breaking news guys im only allowed to interact with animals like im snow white /silly
