🌟 Party at my iggy🌟

BARK BARK BARK BARK BARK BARK BARK sorry i couldn’t hear you over the sound of me putting a fictional man in a slutty apron and calling him mommy. sorry. i was too busy hand-feeding him strawberries and then writing 12k of emotional devastation and domestic porn. sorry i gendered him like a little fucked up doll in a victorian nursery.

YES. HE’S A WOMAN TO ME. HE’S A HOUSEWIFE. HE’S A HIGH-FEM BRAT. HE’S A PRETTY LITTLE THING WHO GETS RAWED IN THE MOONLIGHT AND MAKES SOFT WHIMPERS AND BAKES BREAD TO COPE. AND I DO NOT CARE IF IT MAKES SENSE.

HE IS MADE OF TROPES. HE IS MADE OF VIBES. HE IS MADE OF GLITTER AND TEARS AND POST-WAR PTSD. HE IS WHATEVER THE FUCK I WANT. HE IS NOT A MAN. HE IS NOT A WOMAN. HE IS A TRAGEDY IN LACE.

you’re talking about “misogyny” like i didn’t just write a fic where he gets folded in half by a feral beast of a love interest and then cries because he’s “too used to not being touched gently.” BABE. THERE IS NO DIGNITY HERE. ONLY CATHARSIS.

your academic thinkpiece cannot survive the heat of my horny little monkey brain. you want to talk about gender roles?? I WANT TO PUT HIM IN A COLLAR. I WANT TO GIVE HIM A GENDERCRISIS VIA DICK. I WANT TO MAKE HIM THE MAID AND THE MUSE AND THE MADONNA.

and also? sometimes i call him a manwhore for getting railed twice in one chapter and still being emotionally unavailable. because HE DESERVES IT. because I SAID SO. because it’s FUNNY and UNHINGED and that’s the POINT.