elysianfreak

[elysianfreak]

Oh my god?!?

His slutty eyeliner sparked something on my mind: Butch Rictus !

[elysianfreak]

shout out to the butches/mascs who arent dominant!!! shout out to the butches/mascs who dont top!!!!! shout out to the femmes who dont like to bottom!!!! shout to femmes who like to be dominant!!!! youre no less butch/masc/femme even if you dont fit what people deem as "the norm"!!!!!

[elysianfreak]

💗happy valentine's day to every butches out there 🫶

[elysianfreak]

i love butches. short butches, skinny butches, fat butches, butches who don’t have the typical “butch body type.” butches who like being feminine sometimes, who wear makeup or paint their nails or wear skirts and dresses in the sexiest, most androgynous way possible. butches who are closeted and don’t always get to express their masculinity. butches with long hair, butches with buzzcuts, butches with mohawks or chelsea cuts or any other wild, alternative style. butches who want to be cared for just as much or even more than they want to be caretakers. butch4butches, butches who are attracted to masculinity, who don’t date femmes but appreciate us in the community. butches who have dated men in the past, late in life butches. butches who bottom, butches who switch, and asexual butches, too. butches of color, studs. disabled butches. transfem, transmasc, and non-binary butches. he/him butches, they/them butches, neopronoun butches. butches who want to be called “boyfriend,” “husband,” or “loverboy.” butches who only use feminine terms, as well. butches who wear the word butch proudly. butches who are unapologetically themselves regardless of what society expects from them.

i love butches who are a bit more stereotypical, tall stone tops with muscles who exude masculinity and want nothing more than to provide for their femme. but i love butches who don’t fit that mold just the same. i love all butches

[elysianfreak]

Sevika rave siren

An eldritch buzzing, trimmed in velveteen. Nestling of the writhing maggot-like decrepit–soft-bodied thrashing. 

Dance. 

The light carries you in a shock, every clip of the strobe a still in your pleasure-battered head. Patterns lulled into a trance, guiding you by hand.

Your mind, your body; all it is to feel the panting, wailing mass. The life that stirs at your sides, constant drunken waves that push into you. Sweat is damp on the nape of your neck. Your blood, you can taste it. 

There had been others in the beginning, they’ve gone long ago–left you to metamorphosize into the morning. Lonesomeness: the concept has no weight, ecstasy burnt into your tired muscles. The bass throbs, a pair to your heart. Excitement collects in pockets, stuffed between your ribs and into the bottom of your stomach where it bends, calling to you in rolling swallows up into your throat. 

What rumbling in the ground, in the ear, in your center. Dreams manifest here. 

Far from you, obscured in the thundering distance, there is a woman. 

A woman tall and bulky with strength, square-jawed; she wears only black tape on her chest, strapping her breasts flat, denim buttoned low on her muscled hips. She drags claws up her torso. Daggers sewn onto thick fingers for the ripping of supple flesh, sharp acrylic in some deep shade. Her short hair is in her eyes. The dance is a suggestion to the way of goth clubs, ritualistic, lending herself to the harshness, thrown by angered currents. 

She is alluring, undeniably. You ache to get your arms around her, sink your teeth into her meat and bite tendon from bone, lick them clean. A craving from your simplest parts, innate. You must eat. 

When her gaze finds your own, it says the same–carnivorous devastation in her steely eyes. 

The rave siren’s meal: drawn, caught, quartered. 

You creep closer, unison to her, bits stolen in shots–heady memories. A binding agreement signed under the flashing lights, contracts sealed in the sweeping of desire across skin. 

She is slick with sweat, matted hair to her temples, dripping as if she just climbed from the depths. When she is close enough you can smell her cigarettes, the rest doused in sandalwood. She is a seduction of every sense, looming over you–a feast you drool for. 

Dark lipstick smudged out of the lines, glitter smeared over her low eyelids fallen to her cheeks. A piercing under her bottom lip. Your body moves in response to hers, nearer, nearer, until your hips join. She is well-mannered, masculine; her hands don’t cup your sides until you grab her hot palms and shove them where they belong. 

She’s been waiting for something like this, you can tell. 

Together you dance, feeding off each other in smooth flailing caresses, gentle when the beat is tinny and insistent. You slither around her and constrict; the strength in her stomach against yours. Her breathing. 

All of your insides tangle up, twist and drip warmth, sick. Your body wants to buckle, for you to hold onto your gut as if shanked, put pressure to the tickling fizzley wound. The fever from the infection. 

You lean in and ask her name. 

Her voice is rich, evident of her smoking. 

‘Sevika.’ Sevika. You palate it, taste it in your mouth–pick her from your teeth. Her nails poke into your back. The calluses on her work-worn hands. 

 Confident, you rest your lips against her collarbone; a kiss, a test. She offers up her neck and holds the back of your head close, a drop in your chest at the willingness. Your tongue to her skin, licking up the length of her throat. 

She tastes of salt, of movement, of blood running close to the surface. She vibrates with some sound you cannot hear. Your spit shines on her skin, it gets on your face. 

She bends to speak in your ear, smiling, pleased with herself.

‘Take me to the bathroom.’ The heat of her breath. A sigh.

---

The rest of this smut is on god's application ao3.

I've been wanting to tumble for a while but it has been a beast in my journey of sharing creative stuff. So forgive my silly.

Her look is inspired by the amazing punk rock Sevika by zeusmachina. Absolutely in love with the idea.