faetouchedfool

[faetouchedfool]

"Got himself nabbed by gobbos - same ones what chased us here."

[faetouchedfool]

hi. i don't usually make posts like these, but this is something very important to me, so we're pushing the content consistency aside for a moment.

j.k. rowling has established an organisation solely dedicated to financing legal initiatives that aim to exclude trans women from public life, workplaces, and women's spaces.

she's funding this organisation from her own pocket. i need you to consider what that actually means. it means that if you still support harry potter in any way, shape, or form — whether you stream the films, have a field trip to harry potter world, purchase the books (yes, even as a present for someone else), purchase the game, buy the merch — this is what you're funding.

you are actively contributing to this.

your money is now more than ever being actively used to target and strip trans women of the laws and regulations that protect them and their rights. it doesn't matter how much you publicly renounce it, how much you personally support trans rights, how much you preach at people that you "love harry potter, but hate j.k. rowling." regardless of your views and your intentions, she is doing this with your money. please stop giving her your fucking money.

my opinions on loving a piece of media regardless of who created it are usually quite lenient. i understand being so emotionally attached to something that you'd rather put your head in the sand about it. i get it. harry potter was my saving grace when i grew up queer and lonely in the conservative south. it used to mean a lot to me.

but we don't live in a society where we get to separate the art from the artist when said artist is fighting tooth and nail to further marginalise a group of people who barely have a place in this world as it is. continuing to support harry potter and thereby j.k. rowling is cowardly, intentionally harmful, and it is anti-trans.

source: myvoice-mychoice.org and j.k. rowling's own x account.

[faetouchedfool]

[faetouchedfool]

back on my bg3 bullshit

[faetouchedfool]

[faetouchedfool]

sometimes “!!!!!!!!!!!” is a word

[faetouchedfool]

At this point I believe Sydney's true love is Kylar lmao

I am tired as heck so I made the mistake of drawing them older. Oh, welp 😔

Goodnight, everybody!

[faetouchedfool]

Putting triplets in them immediately

[faetouchedfool]

aditya (@adityajainart)

[faetouchedfool]

but i stay silly! *←said in the most world-weary voice you ever did hear*

[faetouchedfool]

no fucking awoo. no awoo right now. its late. its not awoo time. its sleeping time. go the fuck to bed.

[faetouchedfool]

oops! church boy's got me falling in love!

[faetouchedfool]

Gender and sex are not the same. Gender is a social construct defined by your own terms and sex is what I’m having with Sydney tonight at the temple at 10:00

[faetouchedfool]

collection of merchandise stickers and price tag PNGs! free to use without credit

[faetouchedfool]

STICKERS/PRICE TAGS

[faetouchedfool]

Big sale ! ! !

[faetouchedfool]

𝙨𝙩𝙖𝙞𝙣𝙚𝙙 𝙜𝙡𝙖𝙨𝙨

⏾ 𝙧𝙚𝙦𝙪𝙚𝙨𝙩:

"shakily clambers back into your ask box on anon as if you dont know exactly who i am. hello hi i was thinking about sydney and um uh um i come bearing another writing prompt if it catches your interest 👐

i cant decide which flavour of syd its juicier with but..... transmasc sydney... facesitting... on pc... like kneeling in prayer... eee do you see the vision..."

⏾ hiiii “anon” (aka oomfie)!!! i’m so sorry it took me actual weeks to get to this request, but here is your smut!! it would have been more metal had i published this on easter but alas i did not. while writing this i might have entered a fugue state and started thinking about the bible and christian mysticism and the orgasmic bliss of finding god so uh. there’s that. i hope you enjoy :3

⏾ transmasc!sydney x m!reader. pure sydney. reader’s genitalia not mentioned, he/him pronouns used. in my heart it’s t4t though. facesitting, religious themes (a lot of it), implied intox (it’s the prayer room lmao). 1521 words.

During the day, the Temple is a simulacrum of heaven itself. It’s a sparkling edifice of paint and marble, a wonder of religious architecture cloaked in the light of the sun that God created. During the night, though, the Temple is more like a scene taken right out of dramatic Catholic art, the kind of art that calls to mind images of slaughtered lambs and bleeding palms. The melting wax candles and the pale moon are the only sources of light. The golden cross above the altar looks more like an omen than a symbol of salvation. 

Still, Sydney feels at ease here. He kneels between the pews, his folded hands pressed to his forehead. His lips move in silence with mouthed prayers, their words far too sacred to imbue with sound. This place is sacred. Safe. Despite that, Sydney’s heart thrums in his chest.

He’s not anxious, not scared. He’s just… impatient. You were supposed to be here hours ago. “Before sunset,” you had said, and yet the sun has long since disappeared, and still the place at Sydney’s side is empty. But he can’t fault you, not really. He knows how hard you have to work to pay your rent at the end of the week. Dozens of times Sydney has offered to help you with the money, and dozens of times you have refused. Sydney smirks to himself. You’re way too proud. Still, he admires your commitment.

A loud creaking comes from behind him, then a thud. Footsteps echo through the hall, and then a kiss is pressed to Sydney’s temple. He looks up to see you grinning down at him. You plop onto the pew beside him.

“Hey, Syd,” you say, reaching down to ruffle his hair.

Sydney playfully swats your hand away and lifts himself onto the pew. “Hey yourself,” he says. “Took you long enough.”

You sigh dramatically and rest your head on his shoulder. “Yeah, sorry,” you mutter. “The spa was a lot busier today than I thought it would be. I was swarmed with clients.” 

Sydney runs a hand through your hair. “Mm,” he hums softly. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine,” you mumble. “I’m here now.”

Sydney presses a kiss to the top of your head. A moment passes in silence as your joint breathing blends into one rhythm, your chests rising and falling like the surface of a drum. When he speaks again, his voice is weary, uncertain, but undeniably curious.

“So what exactly did you want to do tonight?” he asks.

If he could see your face, Sydney would see the wicked, mischievous smirk that has begun to split it in two. But, due to the angle of his vision, he can’t, so this fact goes unnoticed. Instead, he hears the faintest giggle, and then you’re taking his hand in yours and pulling him up and you’re moving through the pews with an unprecedented speed and if Sydney didn’t know any better he would say you’re heading for the prayer room. There’s no monk stationed there, not like usual, so when the door swings open there’s no resistance, only the soft click of the latch as it closes behind him. 

The room is tiny. The floor is lined with red cushions and the air is heavy with the scent of incense. There is a small, creaky wooden table only adorned by an old Bible. Its pages are yellowed. It’s opened to Romans 1:24. Sydney swallows the lump in his throat.

Above everything sits a stained glass window. Preserved in the colorful glass is an image of Mother Mary clutching her bleeding heart. Sydney starts to feel dizzy, so he sits down on a cushion. You lay down on your back, splaying out across the floor.

Sydney leans to rest his head on your stomach. His temple robes fan out behind him, and his fingers idly trace the contours of your ribcage. “So what did you want to do?”

You hum, then reach up to thread your fingers through his hair, pulling him down for a kiss. Sydney lets out an “mmph” of surprise, but otherwise readily reciprocates, his tongue slipping into your mouth with practiced ease. Your conjoined lips are pink, blushing like ripe fruit. Your hand comes up to Sydney’s waist and you pull him on top of you, and he happily goes along with it, tangling your legs together like wisps of smoke.

When you separate, a trail of spit hangs between your lips. Your faces are red, your lips are swollen, and your lungs are breathless, rapidly expanding and contracting to take in air. But all the air leaves Sydney’s lungs when you speak again.

“Sit on my face.”

Sydney’s chestnut eyes go wide, their sheen of desire mixing with a hint of shock. “What?”

You pat your cheek as if you’re patting a seat. “Let’s try it,” you say. “We can stop if you hate it.”

Sydney’s gut coils with heat, but he’s still hesitant. He lifts a hand to his face, shyly adjusting his glasses. “I don’t know…” he trails off. “Is this even allowed?”

You grin. “We’re promised, Syd,” you say, your fingers caressing his hip. “Why shouldn’t it be allowed?”

Sydney thinks on it for a second, then comes to the conclusion that it’s fine. It’s not a sin if you’re promised, right? You’ll be married one day. Everything is sacred within the bounds of that covenant. Even if this particular act is more… well, out there.

Sydney starts to stand up to remove his robes, but you catch his wrist. “Stay dressed,” you say. “I want to go under your skirt.”

Sydney frowns. “You won’t be able to breathe.”

You smirk. “Well, that’s a risk I’m trying to take.”

He scoffs and bats at your chest, but complies. Sydney lifts his skirts and scoots on his knees until he’s hovering over your face. You grip his hips and abruptly pull him down. He yelps.

“Give me a little warning, would you?” he scolds.

You don’t reply. You’re already too lost in the warmth of that sacred space between his thighs. Usually, you would tease him a little, keep him guessing, but there’s something about the air in the prayer room that is turning your brain to mush. There is little you can do to resist the urge to gently pull the crotch of Sydney’s briefs to the side and press a long, gentle kiss to his clit.

Sydney gasps, his hips inadvertently grinding downwards into your face. “P-pervert,” he stutters, but there’s no venom behind it; he’s enjoying it just as much as you are. Less than a minute has passed and he’s already tingling all over. Your tongue slips out of your mouth and curls around his clit, lapping at it like it’s something holy, like you’re trying to sap from Sydney’s body the juice of the forbidden fruit.

And it works. He’s wet immediately, dripping onto your lips. Ecstasy overcomes him. Pleasure spears through his heart. Sydney’s hips spur forward, riding your face like a warrior of the Lord riding a loyal horse into battle. Your tongue slips into his cunt, fucking him with a surprising strength. Your hand gropes the round flesh of his ass. Your eyes are closed, and you are subsumed by the darkness and the humidity of the world beneath Sydney’s robes. Behind your eyelids visions play out. You were never too spiritual, but as Sydney’s cunt clenches around your tongue, as his clit rubs against your nose, as his thighs close around your head, you can swear that you see God.

Sydney, too, is split by something otherworldly. Sweat drips down his brow. His glasses fog up from the pure strength of his lust. The words of the Bible blur before him. He looks upward and sees Mother Mary, illuminated by the light of the moon. The light refracts through the colored glass, splintering into fragments, painting Sydney’s face in a rainbow of holy colors. The spear piercing Mary’s heart glints wickedly. Sydney swears he can see her heart still pumping, her aortae pulsating with life, her blood spilling down the panes of glass.

Your hand comes up to play with his clit once again and Sydney’s fate is sealed. He comes then, doubling over and clapping a hand over his mouth to stifle his wanton cries. His hips quake, shivering with the force of his orgasm. His strawberry blond hair tumbles over his shoulders. Sydney grew up safe within the arms of the Lord, protected by the high walls of the Temple from the sins of the world. But, he thinks as he meets Mary’s eyes, how could this be a sin? Should there be anything unholy about that sacred, blinding pleasure you just brought him?

The Lord made Sydney—his body, his mind, his soul—perfect in his image. The Lord made this pleasure for you and Sydney to share.

You try to get up, but find that you can’t. Sydney’s thighs close around your head once more. Though it’s muffled by the weight of his heavy robes, you can hear him speak one word:

“Again.”