i love when men are big and buff, yet they get treated like toys. like theres something deliciously obscene about it—that a man so large, so strong, could crumble so quickly. that he can go from cocky to crying in a heartbeat. that his brawn doesn’t protect him at all; in fact, it heightens the spectacle. a mountain of a man reduced to nothing but breathy whimpers, his voice cracking like a stained-glass window under too much pressure. his broad chest rising in frantic little bursts, his thighs shaking like they’re holding up the last cathedral on earth. sweat beads along his neck like holy oil, tracing the map of a soldier undone.
he’s so big everywhere else, yet the moment he’s opened—really opened—he becomes small in the most intoxicating way. cock splitting him wide like a holy ritual, dragging sobs from him he didn’t know he could make. his pretty, dumb-bruised lips parting, eyes glassy and unfocused, brain turning to warm candlewax as he takes more… and more… and more. a dumb, big beefy man who becomes a cockdrunk, overstretched, trembling toy… that’s devotion in its rawest form.
hello my eepwtf's congregation. i come before you today with a very serious question, meaning i am once again standing in the middle of my drafts like a confused priest asking the choir what kind of suffering they'd like next.
what are we craving more of right now:
• more soldier boy content
• more kai parker(for the freaks, the perverts, the lovers of unserious evil and pretty little psychological disasters)
• my new misc lane: joe goldberg (which feels a bit like opening the cellar door and letting something pale and unsettling crawl upstairs)
• or just whatever i end up dragging out of the crypt next which, let's be honest, is always an option because my writing process is less "carefully curated schedule" and more "possessed raccoon in a cathedral"
i do have things coming up regardless, but i want to know what the congregation is especially hungry for so i can aim the platter a little more accurately.
little rant from me because…yeah i’m just so done.
people love to posture about how “problematic” unconventional kinks or transgressive films are, as if their moral backbone hardens the second something stops flattering them. they clutch their pearls, roll out the same recycled language about taste and decency and representation, and pretend they’re doing activism when really they’re just reacting to discomfort. because the line is never about harm. it’s about aesthetics. it’s about whether the bodies on screen are legible, pretty, consumable enough to reassure them that desire is still safe, still marketable, still aligned with whatever instagram-friendly version of queerness they’ve decided counts.
meanwhile, those same people are perfectly happy going feral over two conventionally attractive men hooking up in a glossy, palatable narrative. suddenly it’s “groundbreaking,” suddenly it’s “visibility,” suddenly it’s okay to be loud and horny and obsessive—because the desire being depicted flatters them. because it’s clean. because it doesn’t ask them to sit with ugliness, power imbalance, obsession, or the fact that desire is often asymmetrical, humiliating, or just plain weird. heated rivalry gets a free pass because it reassures the audience that queerness can still be aspirational, still fit neatly into fantasy without threatening anyone’s sense of taste.
but oohhh the second something like pillion shows up—something messier, stranger, less cosmetically “pleasing”—people start acting like they’ve been personally attacked. not because it’s unethical, but because one of the actors doesn’t align with their internal casting couch of who is “allowed” to be desired. that’s the real offense. an unconventionally attractive body daring to be central, erotic, wanted. a narrative that doesn’t apologize for its power dynamics or sand down its edges so it can be sold as wholesome. and suddenly all that allyship evaporates. suddenly it’s “exploitative,” “disturbing,” “why would anyone want to see this?”
if your support for queer stories collapses the moment desire stops being flattering—or stops centering bodies you personally want to look at—you’re not an ally. you’re a consumer with conditions. you don’t support queerness; you support a very specific, sanitized version of it that never asks you to confront how desire actually works. because real desire isn’t always pretty.
i will awalys say that the og challengers will be “y tu mama también” because that movie is the prototype.
it is the blueprint of:
boys who love each other too much to say it.
a woman who sees straight through their bravado into the rot of their longing.
a road trip that becomes a pilgrimage to the grave of childhood.
masculinity cracking open like an overripe fruit, spilling everything they tried to hide.
y tu mamá también is the primordial slurry from which every modern “two boys one girl one inevitable breakdown” narrative crawled out, dripping with saltwater and shame.
its the genesis text of erotic rivalry. THEY WERE HERE FIRST!!! (but i larv challengers too, i just love to see a woman and her two boyfriends.)
do not repost, reupload, copy, or “rewrite” my bots, fics, blurbs, or concepts on other platforms (including c.ai), even if i’m no longer active there.
“yes but you don’t use it anymore” i don’t care. respectfully and disrespectfully. “you don’t use it anymore” is not a permission slip, it’s just you admitting you knew it wasn’t yours and hoped i wouldn’t see it. my absence from a platform does not magically turn my work into public domain. i did not die. i did not sign shit. me moving on does not equal “free buffet.”
tagging me is not consent. saying “inspired by” while lifting the structure and dialogue is not consent. “i thought you’d be flattered” is not consent. if you didn’t ask, and i didn’t say yes, then the answer is no.
if you’re capable of navigating the internet, making an account, and posting content, then you are also fully capable of coming up with your own ideas instead of lifting someone else’s work because it’s easier.
creators deserve basic respect. this is the bare minimum. it’s actually very simple: if you like my work, amazing. thank you. be normal about it. do not try to wear my work like a costume somewhere else and call it your own.
thinking about kyle gallner filmography is like tracing the slow rot and rebirth of a man who never belonged to polished hollywood—who always looked more like the haunted kid who never came home from summer camp.
