this is obviously very weird but at that one point, i'm like... okay, this is just a weirdo who has too much time on their end and with the type of asks they are sending, they are probably a minor who isn't happy about the fact that we have boundaries and that we don't want them on our blogs. they could also be a troll, rage-baiting us for amusement. i'd let them, i don't care, i don't mind and i'm too old for this shit.

BUT after that, they decided to tag me and a bunch of my moots on THIS FUCKING POST:

and you know, i'm alright with being called names, being insulted, being made fun of. but i won't EVER let a mf call me those types of things. i'll never let a mf call me a pedo or a groomer. and the fact that they are calling me that and my moots THOSE THINGS while we DON'T want them on our blogs doesn't even make any senses. obviously, this person either deactivated after posting this because they have no balls or got banned by tumblr.

i'll repeat it: I'M NOT GOING TO LET A MF CALL ME THOSE THINGS.

you can come into my inbox and cry about the fact that i don't want you (minors) on my blog, cry about it all you want, call me old and shit. i don't give a fuck and i'll repeat it as much as i need to: YOU ARE NOT WELCOME HERE. THIS IS NOT A SAFE SPACE FOR YOU. GO ELSEWHERE. this is dangerous, this is breaking people's boundaries, this is disrespectful toward us.

do not ever come to my blog or into my inbox and call me ^ those types of things because you aren't happy with my decision. that is DISGUSTING of you. this is not funny or quirky or whatever you think it is. pedophilia is a fucking crime. grooming is a fucking crime. how can you genuinely call me that when i literally DO NOT WANT YOU HERE? be serious with yourself.

i also think a lot of people are simply not used to encountering queer work that is not quietly available for their projection. they are used to entering a space, finding the nearest surface, and trying to press themselves into it until it reflects them back. but not every work is built to be infinitely accommodating, and not every queer space exists to be translated into something straighter, softer, or more personally convenient. sometimes the answer really is: this is not for you in that way. and that is not cruelty. that is just the existence of a boundary.

▸ kai is the kind of frat boy who looks like he smells like beer, sweat, and someone’s regret but somehow it’s hot on him, always slouched on the disgusting ripped couch with one hand down his sweatpants, totally shameless about adjusting himself in front of you because why would he hide anything from his favorite boy, especially when he gets off on watching you pretend not to stare. he’s a gross freak in every direction, the kind who leaves his clothes everywhere, eats over the sink, jerks off in the shared bathroom with the door unlocked because the possibility that you might walk by and hear the slick wet schlk-schlk of his fist around his cock makes him harder.

▸ kai has never washed a dish in his life and absolutely watches porn on full volume in his room, letting the girls in the video moan ahh—ahh—ahh way too loudly, because if you hear it he wants you to imagine him making sounds like that for you. he’s a little too into being called out, loves when you shove him or insult him or grab him by the jaw, the kind of boy who gets a visible twitch in his sweatpants when you talk to him with even a hint of authority. he’ll grin all smug like he isn’t basically panting inside.

▸ he’s the type who will sit on the couch spread wide with his legs open, reaching down to adjust himself with a soft “tch… so fuckin’ tight today,” knowing full well you’re right there, pretending you didn’t hear the wet sticky sound when he freed himself from the fabric for a second. sometimes he palms himself lazily through his sweats when he’s bored, not even fully touching, just enough pressure to make himself grunt. he’ll glance at you while doing it, rolling his hips the slightest bit because he knows the motion catches your eye.

▸ he leaves his door cracked on purpose. every night. doesn’t matter if he’s jerking off, hooking up, or just pretending to sleep—he keeps it cracked because he wants you to hear him, wants the possibility that you’ll walk in, wants to know if you’re listening.

you’ve heard the sounds before, that low “nnnh—shit…” when his hand gets too good, that sloppy wet rhythm whenever he’s got someone else in there, the headboard tapping out a slow steady thk-thk-thk against the drywall.

and if you try to ignore it?

the next day he’ll smirk over breakfast, hair a mess, voice rough as he says, “you sleep okay? i got kinda loud… thought i heard you pause in the hall.”

▸ kai 100% has jerked off over your hoodie. more than once. leaves it on the floor and pretends he doesn’t know where it is when you ask. He’ll return it days later smelling suspiciously like him, the faint musk baked into the fabric no matter how many times you wash it, and he’ll grin that stupid guilty grin with the bitten lip

▸ he jerks off to the thought of you way too often. he doesn’t even hide it from himself—he knows exactly what he’s doing. he pictures you coming out of the shower, towel low on your hips, your skin damp, your breath soft.

he pictures you sitting in his lap, grinding down, using him until he’s gasping “hah—fuck—keep going…” with his head tipped back and his fingers clawing at your waist. he finishes fast when he thinks of your voice, your weight, the way he imagines you’d gasp his name.

and if you ever catch him? oh, he doesn’t stop.

if he’s got his hand wrapped around his cock and you open the door by accident, he just meets your eyes, breath hitching, hips jerking upward into his fist as he murmurs a filthy little “c’mere… unless you’re just gonna watch?”

he’s shameless, rutting into his palm with these obscene sounds, chest rising fast, eyes glazed and greedy. if you step closer, even a single step, he groans deep in his throat, a broken “aaah—fuck—yeah…” like your attention alone is getting him off.

▸ kai is the definition of touch-starved frat boy hunger, the kind who pretends he’s cool and laid-back but melts the second you so much as brush his wrist, sucking in a shaky little “hnh—“ that he covers with a cough, cheeks bright pink. he’s needy in this instinctual, embarrassing way, always hovering too close, always finding excuses to touch you, shoulder pressing yours, hand lingering on your waist just a second too long. he plays it off like it’s nothing, but his breathing betrays him every time.

▸ kai’s neediness is painfully obvious when he’s horny. his whole body goes soft, pliant, his voice lower, breathier. he’ll sit next to you, thighs pressed together, fingers fidgeting as he murmurs, “i’m so pent up it hurts…” and he’ll press your hand to his lower stomach just above the waistband of his sweats like he doesn’t understand boundaries. his hips jerk slightly when you touch him there, the tiniest gasped “ah—“ slipping out before he bites it back.