#boywhore

Perfect brainless ripped beach-toy. Look at the grainy texture of his quads and the curtain of his lat coming down over his serratus: not huge but so fucking hard: the pouting Lundgren-lips, the trashy shades, the fuckboi hair. Everything about him is the finest kind of cheap. If I was a billionaire, this is what I’d be spending my money on: stables of prancing, glistening, sneering male fuckponies like this, kept on a tight leash.

I’ve never been so affirmed in my shifting identity before

Another dull and draining dinner was over with. One during which she had barely touched her food, and nursed only the chalice of wine she had been given. How else was she supposed to endure the endless nattering of her brat of a step-daughter? Moreover the cooing and coddling of her repulsive husband? She had sat at the table for an hour, and spoke not three words, and yet they didn't even seem to notice or care. No one asked her how she was, or what she had done that day -- though, they had no real reason to. Unlike everyone else who lived here, or even worked here, she was not allowed to leave. So to their minds, she wouldn't have anything to tell.  But she wasn't as subservient as they thought her to be. Often she had snuck out to take her magic lessons with Rumpelstiltskin, a task made easier by the king and princess' many lengthy trips during which the queen was left to rot. And sometimes her lessons even took her farther than the Dark One's castle. There was a chance, and one she was not willing to admit to, that her drinking had much to do with the encounter last week, and how it insisted upon staining her memories.  But that was over with. It had never happened, and the less she let her thoughts drift back to the encounter, the better.  Dinner ended without much ado, and when Regina excused herself from the table, neither of her new family members even bothered to glance up from the book Snow was excitedly showing to her father. A long sigh rumbled up her throat as she turned, unsure why she allowed herself to be so hurt by not receiving love she didn't even want, and she saw herself to her chambers.  She entered quietly. Somberly. The room was dim, lit only by the large open window and dimming fire that kept the room warm. She had refused servants at her door, not wanting anything but to be left alone for the time being. Regina's hands did not leave the door handles as she shut the two large panels. Her shoulders slumped as she leaned forward against the door, her head hitting the ornate wood with a dull, padded thwump.