i think we should be ridiculing them more for this. you don't get to try and go all "queer website" when your staff likes to go on nuking sprees targeting the trans fem users
would be remiss not to mention that the rainbow notably straight up just removed the trans flag colors from it. like they’re gone. it’s the progress flag minus the trans flag colors.
happy pride! remember that being a transgender is everything but fiction. there are so many real historical figures from every century about whose transgenderism we aren't even aware of
on this picture i drew Alexandr Andreevich Alexandrov - cavalry officer of the russian imperial army that participated in napoleonic wars. people persistently keep on misgendering mispronounsing deadnaming and calling him a crossdresser although alexandrov clearly stated that he didn't want to be called by his deadname and being treated like anything but a man. that's an interesting historical figure and i wanted to draw attention to his person. i can't tell everything about him in only one post so i recomend you to read about alexandrov by yourself
also be proud of yourself and remember that you're valid! 🏳️🌈🏳️⚧️
undiagnosed autistic people will be like "I don't get upset when my routine changes though!!" and it's because they've built a set of if-then loops in their head to pick from one of 6 different strict routines and they do get incredibly upset when they're unable to keep to any of the 6 scripts. I'm john normal
This is called a fault tree. You will always know how to act if your fault tree captures all possible scenarios. In NASA Mission Control during mission critical events like landings there are huge binders with fault tree protocols, kind of like choose your own adventure books except you’re not the one making the choices, the universe is making them for you and you’re just trying to keep up.
The engineers who develop fault trees, I am told, often imagine new ways for their precious spacecraft to die (new branches on the fault trees) either while in the shower or lying awake at 3am, because human
Was just thinking about this the other day. Yeah I have a favorite seat on the bus (middle of the bus, near the back doors, slightly elevated, facing forward), but I don’t get upset if someone is already sitting there, I just pick one of my other favorite spots. Then I realized that most people probably don’t have a favorite bus seat, let alone a series of backup favorites.
Naga or some other creature with hypnotic/compulsion abilities who know their lover/mate likes giving them control so they lovingly envelop them in their arms, hypnotize them to be blank and aroused just for them, and then has some fun teasing and exploring lovers body to hear all the pretty moans and sounds as the lover gets softer, blanker, and more submissive under hypnosis/compulsion (but this is all consensual… unless you want to write it another way) (:
Zilan's Dominion (naga male x fem human reader)
You eagerly submit to your Naga mate's hypnotic abilities, allowing him to take complete control of your mind and body...
TW: NSFW, MDNI, adults and fully consensual, hypnosis, mind control, oral sex (fem receiving), P in V, overstimulation, begging, knotting, aftercare.
Hello anon! Thanks for the request, I had a blast writing this! Enjoy!!
Note: I see all the requests you're sending me, and I am in love with all of them! Alas, there are too many, and I don't always have time to fulfil all of them :( I'm doing my best, but this mix:working/writing/dealing with family-friends-life is sometimes difficult to follow. However, I'm going to focus on requests for the next few months, so keep an eye out or turn on notifications :) Lots of monster hugs and love!!
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The heat of his scales against your bare thighs made your breath catch.
Zilan had you caged. Not roughly. Never roughly unless you begged for that edge. The languid slide of muscle and coil pinned your legs together and pressed your spine into the nest of silks he'd arranged just for nights like this. His lower body worked in slow, rolling movements, each loop of glossy emerald and obsidian scale tightening just enough to remind you who held you. Who owned this space between your ribs.
"You're trembling already." His husky voice poured over your cheek, your jaw, the shell of your ear. "Is it the cold, little one? Or the wanting?"
You swallowed. Your fingers curled into the scales at his flanks. "Wanting," you breathed. "Always wanting."
"Then let me have what you've promised me," he drawled, kissing the corner of your lips.
"I give you control. All of it. My—my mind, my body—"
"Go on."
"My noise," you whispered against his lips. "My breath. Every shiver."
His smile showed fang. "And?"
"And I don't want it back. Not until you're finished with me."
Pulling back just enough to look at you, his eyes locked on yours. Oh... his eyes... They were stunning. Even more so now that his magic swirled in their depths. Not the molten gold they appeared in daylight, but darker now. His pupils had swallowed the color whole, leaving twin abysses that seemed to drink the lamplight and return it as pull. As tug. As that strange, delicious pressure behind your temples that made your thoughts go syrupy and slow.
"Good, let go for me. Let go..." he purred as his his hand slid between your legs. The heel of his palm pressed your mound while his fingers spread wide, trapping the wet heat of you against his flesh without granting the friction you craved.
"Such a generous thing," he said, and his voice had dropped into a frequency. The one that made your vision blur at the edges and your thoughts dissolve like sugar on a wet tongue. "My eager, hungry little mate. You want to be empty for me, don't you?"
"Yesss."
"Empty," he repeated, and his free hand came up to cup your jaw, tilting your face toward his. "No thoughts. No worries. No performance. Just my voice. Just my hands. Just the places I touch you and the sounds I pull from that pretty throat."
His thumb traced your lower lip. You kissed it without thinking.
"Can you feel it starting?"
You could. The heaviness, the way your limbs had gone soft and useless inside his coils, as if your skeleton had melted and left only aroused flesh. Your thoughts had slowed to him. His scent, like musk and crushed ferns. The steady pressure of his scales around your ribs. The heat of his palm cupping your pussy over your jeans.
"Look at me," he commanded.
You looked into those black-hole eyes and fell.
"Good girl." His voice came from everywhere now. Inside your skull. Beneath your skin. Coiling through your blood. "Now sink for me. Let your mind go soft. Let it go blank. There's nothing you need to remember. Nothing you need to decide. Nothing you need to be except here and mine."
Your shoulders dropped. Even your tongue seemed to relax, pressing heavy against the floor of your mouth.
"That's it," he praised, and the warmth of his approval made your core pulse against his unmoving palm. "Such a perfect descent. You're so good at this. So beautiful when you let go."
You wanted to tell him thank you. You wanted to tell him more. But words had become slippery things, hard to catch and harder to shape.
Not that he needed them. He could read your desire in the flutter of your pulse, the glaze of your eyes, the way your hips tried—fruitlessly, pinned as they were—to grind against his hand.
"My empty, aching girl," he crooned. "Let's see how empty we can make you."
A few expert moves and you were naked.
Carefully, he laid you back on the silks and dragged his knuckles up through your slick folds with a slowness that made your thighs jerk against his coils. He circled your clit with the pad of his thumb, once, twice, just barely there, just barely pressure.
"Ahhhnnn—"
"There she is. There's that pretty voice. Let me hear what you sound like when you're not thinking. When you're just feeling."
He pressed his thumb down and your whole body bowed against his coils. A sob ripped out of your chest. Not pain but an ache, a pleasurable ache so focused it had teeth.
"That's one," he murmured, and you felt him smile against your temple. "I'm going to collect them all tonight. Every gasp. Every whimper. Every broken little please. I'm going to fill myself with the sounds of you falling apart."
His thumb kept moving, lazy circles that had no rhythm you could predict, fast then slow then agonizingly light, and your hips tried to chase him even though they couldn't move. Couldn't do anything except lie there in his coils and take what he gave.
And what he gave was torment.
Sweet torment.
He pulled his hand away entirely. "Nnnnhhhh—no, please—"
"Shhhh." He pressed his slick fingers to your lips. "Taste yourself."
You opened your mouth. Sucked his fingers inside. Your own salt and sweetness flooded your tongue.
"Such an obedient thing," he breathed. "So eager to please. Even when your mind is gone, even when you can't remember your own name, you still know how to suck my fingers like a good little mate."
He let you clean them. Every knuckle. Every webbing between. And when you whimpered around the last digit, he pulled free with a wet pop and replaced his hand with his mouth. The kiss was devouring. He licked into you and you moaned into his mouth, and his coils tightened in response.
"Look at you," he said when he finally pulled back. Your lips were swollen. Your chin was wet. Your eyes were glassy and unfocused, pupils blown wide. "You're already gone, aren't you? Already floating."
You nodded. Or thought you did. It was hard to tell where your body ended and his coils began.
"Then you won't mind if I..." His hand slid down your stomach. Over your navel. Through the damp curls between your legs. "...take my time."
He parted you with two fingers, spreading your outer lips, exposing the glistening flesh of your inner folds. You shivered. The shiver made your pussy clench around nothing, and the emptiness ached.
"So wet," he observed. "So ready. But I don't think you're ready enough yet."
"Please—"
"Please what, sweet thing?" He circled your entrance with one fingertip, dipping just barely inside, just enough to feel the clutch of your muscle, the suck of your heat then pulled away. "Use your words. Oh, wait. You don't have any, do you? Not in that pretty empty head."
He was cruel. Deliciously cruel.
"No thoughts," he continued, and his other hand came up to toy with your nipple, rolling the stiff peak between thumb and forefinger, tugging gently until the sensation lanced straight down to your clit. "No protests. No stop or slow down or that's too much. Just my voice and your wanting and these..."
He pinched. You keened.
"...these gorgeous sounds you keep making for me."
He spent the next hour taking you apart.
He sucked your nipples until the areolas were swollen and every brush of air made you whine. He licked a path down your sternum, your belly, the crease of your hip, then bypassed your pussy entirely to nip at your inner thigh.
He held your legs open with his coils—spread wide and displayed—and simply looked at you. At the glisten of your arousal smeared across your lips. At the way your clit had peeked out from its hood, swollen and desperate. At the little flutter of your entrance, clenching and releasing, clenching and releasing, like a mouth trying to speak.
"You're dripping," he moaned. "Look at you. You've soaked through the silk beneath you."
You couldn't look. You could barely see. But you could feel the wetness trickling down your perineum, your ass, the backs of your thighs. You could feel how empty you were. How hollow. How every nerve in your body had become a single, screaming point of need.
"Please," you tried again. The word came out slurred. "Please, Zilan—I need—"
"What do you need?" He settled between your legs, his human torso lowering until his breath ghosted across your exposed cunt. "Tell me. Show me. Beg me."
"Your mouth," you whimpered. "Your tongue—I need you to—"
"To what?"
"To eat me. Please. Please, I'll be so good, just please put your mouth on my—"
He didn't let you finish.
His mouth sealed over your pussy and devoured you. His tongue—longer than a human's, textured and incredibly dexterous—laved through your folds, collecting every drop of your arousal, dragging it up to your clit. Your vision whited out. Your hands flew to his hair—twisted, grabbed, held on.
"HHHAAANNNNGGGHHH—"
He hummed against your flesh. The vibration shot through your clit and you felt your cunt gush onto his waiting tongue.
"That's what I wanted to hear," he growled. "That broken, filthy sound. Give me more."
He flattened his tongue and worked you in broad strokes that covered you from perineum to clit, over and over, until your hips were bucking against his face and your thighs were trembling so hard the scales beneath them sang. He stiffened his tongue and dipped into your entrance, as deep as he could reach, curling upward to stroke that rough patch inside you that made your whole body sing.
"Zilan—Zilan—I'm going to—"
He pulled away.
Pulled away.
The sob that escaped you was ugly. Wounded. "NNNnnnOOOO."
"Not yet," he said, and his chin was soaked. His lips were slick. His eyes were twin black holes drinking in your desperation. "You don't come until I'm inside you. That's the rule tonight."
"Please," you wept. "Please, I'll do anything, I'll be anything, just fuck me, please, I need your cock, I need—"
"Shhhh." He crawled up your body and positioned himself between your spread thighs. His cock pressed against your stomach. Massive. Tapered at the tip like his tongue. Darker than his scales, almost purple at the head, and ridged in a way that made your empty hole clench helplessly. "You have it. You have all of me. Just... let me watch you while I..."
He notched the head of his cock at your entrance. Just the head. The flared, tapered tip that was already slick with your combined arousal.
"Look at me," he drawled.
You looked into those black-hole eyes.
"That's my good girl," he whispered. "Now you can come."
He pushed inside you in one go. The ridges of his cock dragged against every nerve in your channel, catching and releasing, catching and releasing, and your orgasm hit you like a fall from a great height.
You sobbed, raw, throat-tearing moans filling the room. Your walls clamped down around him, spasming, milking, trying to pull him deeper even as you shook apart and he groaned, a low, gravelly sound that vibrated through his chest and into your sternum.
"Yes," he hissed. "Fuck, yes. That's it. That's my sweet girl. Squeeze me just like that."
He didn't move. He stayed buried to the hilt, his pelvis flush against your mound, the ridges of his cock pulsing inside your still-clenching channel and let you feel every aftershock. Every flutter. Every desperate grab of your muscles.
You were crying. Actual tears, streaming down your face, because the pleasure was too big for your body to contain.
"So beautiful," he muttered as he kissed them away. "Look at you. Already ruined. Already destroyed. And I haven't even moved yet."
True to his word, he still didn't move. He held himself above you, arms braced on either side of your head, scales pressing warm against your thighs and simply watched as your orgasm faded into trembling aftershocks.
"Zilan," you whimpered. "Please. Please move."
"In a moment. I want to feel you soften first. I want to feel that pretty cunt stop clenching and just... hold me."
And he did. Stayed moveless. Waiting. Feeling the last ripples of your pleasure fade intoaching stillness.
"There," he murmured. "There she is. My soft, sated girl."
He pulled out. Slowly. So slowly that each ridge caught on your inner walls and tugged them outward, a sensation so decadent and full that another whine leaked from your throat. Then he pushed back in. And the drag of those ridges going in was different—smoother, eager.
"Ohhhh," you breathed. "Oh, fuck. That's—that's—"
"That's what?" He drew out again. Squelched in again. Found a rhythm that rubbed his pelvic scales against your clit with every roll of his hips. "Tell me how it feels."
"Full," you gasped. "So full. I can feel all of you. Every... every ridge."
"Mmmmm." His satisfaction rumbled through his chest. "Good. Because I can feel all of you. Every inch. The way you flutter when I hit this spot—"
He angled his hips. The head of his cock stroked across that sweet spot inside you—the one his tongue had found earlier—and your vision sparkled.
"There," he groaned. "There's that spot. The one that makes you scream."
He fucked you with focus. Every stroke hit that spot. Every retreat pulled almost all the way out, just the head of his cock caught in your entrance, the widest ridge stretching your opening before he pushed back in with a wet sound.
Your hands had stopped gripping his hair. Your arms had fallen limp above your head. Your legs—what you could feel of them—were boneless and trembling inside his coils. He'd taken everything. Your thoughts. Your voice. Your will. All that remained was sensation and surrender and the delicious drag of his cock inside you.
"Look at me," he said.
You tried. Your eyes rolled.
He caught your chin. Held you steady. Forced you to meet those black-hole eyes.
"You're going to come again," he said. "And when you do, you're going to keep coming. Every time I move. Every time my cock drags across that spot. You're going to come and come until you can't remember how to stop."
"Nnnnhhh—can't—I can't—"
"You can, my sweet." He lowered his mouth to your ear. "Because I said so. And you don't have thoughts anymore, do you? You don't have limits. You just have me. And my voice. And my cock splitting you open."
He punctuated the last word with a thrust and your second orgasm crashed into you like a wave against a cliff.
But it didn't stop.
Every ridge of his cock as he pulled out triggered another spasm. Every inch as he pushed back in triggered another. Your poor pussy was clenching, continuously, in time with his strokes and each clench sent a fresh spike of pleasure through your exhausted nervous system.
You were crying. Openly. Tears and drool and sweat slicked your face, your neck, your chest. You couldn't see. Couldn't breathe. Every inhale came out as a moan, every exhale as a whimper.
"That's it," Zilan groaned. His hips had lost their rhythm. His composure had cracked. He was fucking you now. Hard. "That's my perfect greedy cunt. Taking everything I give you. Begging for more even though you can't speak."
He was right. You couldn't speak. Couldn't form words. The only sounds you could make were high, keening moans that rose in pitch with every thrust.
"I'm going to fill you," he growled. "I'm going to pump you so full of my seed that it drips out of you for days. get ready, my sweet."
He slammed into you—once, twice, three times—and then his cock swelled. The base of it, the part that had been outside your body, suddenly wasn't. His knot fattened up, sealing his shaft to your entrance, locking him inside you.
Next, his spine arched and then came the heat; his seed flooding your insides in thick gushes. The sensation triggered one final orgasm, before you went limp. Completely, utterly limp.
Your eyes stayed open. Your mouth stayed open. But you weren't there anymore. You were floating in bliss, wrapped in his coils and his scent and the aftershocks of his lovemaking.
He collapsed on top of you, mindful of his weight and buried his face in your neck. His breath came in ragged huffs. His cock, still locked inside you, gave a few final twitches, leaking the last of his cum into your already-sodden channel.
"Mine," he whispered against your throat. "Forever. You understand?"
You couldn't nod. Couldn't speak. Couldn't think.
But something in you purred.
"You did so well," he murmured, pressing kisses to your forehead, your eyelids, your mouth. "So perfect. So good for me."
You tried to say something. Your throat produced a croak.
He chuckled softly and reached for a cloth. He cleaned you, wiped the tears from your face. Kissed the salt from your lips.
"The trance will lift soon," he said. "But you can stay here as long as you need. I have you."
And he did. Wrapped in his arms and tail, filled with his seed and his love.
So I’m moving into a new apartment, and I was told that the room had been damaged, but nothing could have prepared me for the fact that someone had carved Li Shang’s head out of the bathroom door and written “We must defeat the Huns!” on it.
adhd paralysis sucks bcuz im just sitting there and my brain is like
YOU ARE WASTING TIME YOU ARE WASTING TIME YOU ARE WASTING TIME YOU ARE WASTING TIME YOU ARE WASTING TIME YOU ARE WASTING TIME YOU ARE WASTING TIME YOU ARE WASTING TIME YOU ARE WASTING TIME YOU ARE WASTING TIME
no work done no rest gained. literally no point of this at all
I've been thinking of this line from episode six about how Zooble wonders why no one else in the Circus got Avatar Gimmicks, but..... They literally all have an avatar gimmick as Caine essentially confirmed this episode.
Caine says he makes a body perfectly encapsulating their mind files.
I have always said among my friends that Digital Circus's character design is one of the strongest parts of the show and it tells you everything you need to know about the character from the design alone. But their design is quite figuratively baked into the plot.
I will cover the characters and their designs a bit
Kinger's design is fairly straight forward. He is a Chess piece, yes, but he is only one half of a whole and folks who have played chess or know anything about Chess have clocked it immediately. And it makes sense he became this and not something relating to bugs or programing or computer science. Kinger is, well the King. He made Caine primarily. But the King in Chess is one of the weakest pieces yet most important piece on the board. The King is slow, can only move one step at a time, and has to be the one to be protected by the other pieces on the board. The Queen, obviously the more powerful piece and can move in any direction she wishes, but as a result, usually is taken out quickly in order to protect the King. The Game is over when the King can't move anymore and gets taken.
But I'm sure folks know this. What I'm trying to say, is that Kinger being the "weakest" but most important piece is a literal insecurity of his character.
We can infer a lot from his dialogue but I think it's obvious Queenie isn't a programmer or didn't work for C&A and wasn't supposed to be here. Kinger even in episode six says that he hated himself for the things he believed he was responsible for. To say he felt "useless" without his Queen I think is an understatement. Which makes sense he would take the form of a Chess Piece. He is the most important piece, but also... the most useless, and we have seen him extremely aware of that fact.
Even as early as episode 3 when we are introduced to the multitudes of Kinger, he knows that he is more or less useless in the light, even if he tries to be helpful, like warn the gang about Abel in episode 7, or just keep the bucket on his head as long as it takes for him to have a lucid thought. The surviving King piece with no chess pieces. The Strongest, but the most worthless.
Ragatha has been fairly obvious to me. She's a Rag Doll. One to be played rough with, and as Jax says "torn up every other adventure" Made to take the hits and absorb them. Her digital manifestation chose this form like so many other things in her life as a defense mechanism. Like if she just takes the abuse and makes everyone like her then everything will be fine.
Even in the digital Circus like everything in her life, her mother also is a major influence over her manifestation. Just absorbing all the hits and trying to control the energy in the room and hoping everyone will like them. Her avatar can take the brunt of so much physical abuse because she took the brunt of so much mental abuse so her mental manifestation would reflect that.
Get your Jax Toy, get a little laugh boy.
I love this torment scene. The whole torment scene of the cast is probably my favorite sequence in the entire show. Jax being revealed down to his barest essentials and people laughing at that person, not just people, but the three people who he knows can see through his thin facade. his rabbit skin is paper thin, but there's also something to be said for Jax's design avatar as it is, unpeeled. If you want to go with that this is a nightmare sequence and it doesn't count as his "true form" or whatever.
The thing about Rabbits... They're ultimately prey animals And throughout the show Jax has been painted as the Asshole, the scamp, the bully the cruel one, the violent one... But he is a Rabbit.
A very highly anxious social species, that can be timid as well as bold.
Not just that Jax is sad cus he lost his friends and also pushes those away... but that HE was the one who lashed out at Pomni, not the other way around, and HE's the one who ended up getting hurt the most by the fight. He was the one who hurt himself.
"you are my playthings" ....Sure Jax, from episode 6 onwards, you're the one who is like......Clinically depressed over pushing the one damn person who had a chance of being your friend and you know that.
Time will tell if "peeled Jax" is his true form and that was his avatar gimmick, and I kind of really hope that that is the case, but even if it isn't. This asshole being a Rabbittoid Avatar makes so much sense to me.
And it took me awhile to wonder why Pomni's physical manifestation was a Jester. Like, why could that possibly be the case, but rewatching the show it hits you all at once.
Pomni even says people feel like that ('nothing') where she's from... sounding like she speaks from personal experience. While Pomni has a high emotional intelligence, and a deep compassion for people it's pretty clear that she was in a line of work where that doesn't play to her strengths at all. She was an accountant for a supermarket chain.. a nobody, or... saw herself as a nobody. Or someone that had to keep their head down and not speak up. That her life had really little meaning outside of the circus.
So, her manifestation as a Jester is a bit ironic and cruel that she would take that form. Because it's one thing clear about Pomni throughout the entire show.
