#&take the INFURIATING amount of abuse levied at them. i just. could NEVER be one lmao.

[jvzebel-x]

🦋

[bakugosbratx]

Hi hi! Congratulations!! 🎊

Could I please request a fic with Eren or Levi and could they have some yandere tendencies? Like they’re too protective, gets jealous easily, would absolutely fuck you until you’re screaming so that the guy who’s been checking you out heard?

NSFW 18+ Let them hear you — Yandere Eren Jeager x Reader

Warning: 18+ Content. Sexual content, bdsm, degrading, unprotected sex, oral, non-con, abuse, possessive, toxic relationship, gaslighting, Jean abuse, punishment, violence, etc.

Words: 1.9k

Check out my other works here

A/N: Hey love. Thank you so much for the request! I hope it meets what you are looking for. I am only on the third season so I apologize in advance for anything that seems uncanny. Enjoy.

P.S. I am still on break but I am trying to complete some request that have been sitting in my drafts. I miss y’all and will be back before y’all know it. Thank you for all the love and sweet messages.

“Eren, what are you—“

“Shut the hell up, Y/N.” Eren seethed through gritted teeth as he pulls you along. The death grip on your poor arm is making you cry out in pain. This only infuriated him more.

You did nothing wrong. You were eating your lunch with Mikasa when Jean strolled on over. It is not a secret that Jean likes you. Everyone knows that Jean likes anyone with a pulse. You have told the man multiple times that you are not interested — along with Eren — and you have a boyfriend, but it does not stop the man from trying. Especially when Eren is busy.

“Hello Y/N.” Jean greeted with a flirty smile. Your eyes couldn’t help but roll.

“Hello Jean.” You sigh as he sat across you two.

“What’s with the sad face, pretty thing? Eren got you down?” Jean chuckled before taking a bite of his sandwich.

You scoffed. “Me and Eren are doing just fine, thank you very much.”

“Well, your face says otherwise. If you ask me, I’d say you can do better than that douchebag anyways—“ Jean’s spill got interrupted with a hard punch to the side of the head then another one to the nose. Gasp filled the room as eyes landed on who did this to the man. No one was surprised to see it was Eren himself.

Eren grabs Jean by the collar of his shirt, lifting him up to meet his height. Eren’s natural blue eyes were filled with rage. “You son of a bitch. Why the fuck are you flirting with my girl, Jean? She told you more than once she’s not interested.”

Jean manages to release himself from Eren’s grip, stumbling to keep his balance. This is not the first time these two have had altercations with one another.

“Ha, you don’t see the way she looks at me. Besides,” he pauses to wipe the blood leaking from his nose, “she was totally flirting with me.”

“Bastard!” Eren bellows as he goes to attack again, but the higher ups stop him along with you and Mikasa.

“Eren, stop.” Mikasa and you demand, hanging onto his arms.

“Let go of me! I’m going to make that son of a bitch pay.”

“That’s enough, Jaeger.” Captain Levi scolds. Eren snaps out of his rage to meet the small man’s eyes. “In my office. Now.”

Though Eren is still angry, he still knows when to show respect. Especially when it comes to the higher ups. Everyone in the room knew this.

“Yes, sir.” Eren sighs, still breathing heavy.

“Eren,” You began with sorrow filled irises. Though this is in no way shape or form your fault, you cannot help but feel the guilt within your bones. If only you would have done more than maybe Eren would not be in this situation.

Eren just glared down at your small frame compared to his, clearly not happy with you. It was a look you know all too well and you know you will be in for it later. Your heart pounded against your ribs at the thought.

“We’ll talk later.” Eren hissed before following Captain Levi to his office.

Jean did not mess with you for the rest of the afternoon. Eren was sent to clean up the horse stables while the rest of the team did their chores. Eren made sure to have his eyes on you anytime you were in close proximity. His glare was one you always refused to meet with your own two eyes. It made you feel small. Just like how Eren wanted.

Your anxiety has been through the roof all day. No one can blame you, though. Eren is a loose cannon on a good day. So, your super barely being touched was noticed, but not discussed amongst your peers.

Strong hands touched your shoulders. You jumped out of reflex. Looking up, you see your boyfriend looking down at you.

“Eren!” You exclaimed with joy and fear. He noticed both emotions.

“Follow me.” Eren orders, patting your shoulder more rough than he should have. You did not even have time to comply as his hand snakes around your bicep and pulls you along.

“Eren, you’re hurting me.” You whine as he pulls you towards the closest bedroom available.

“Eren, what are you—“

“Shut the hell up, Y/N.” Eren seethed through gritted teeth as he pulls you along. The death grip on your poor arm is making you cry out in pain. This only infuriated him more.

Slamming the door open, he ushers you along inside and swiftly closed the door behind him. Your hand wraps around your now warm, pulsating arm. You can feel the heat from Eren’s glare down onto you. You start to tremble.

“Eren, I—“

“I said shut the hell up, Y/N.” Eren growls. He has taught you more than once to respect his orders, but you just cannot seem to listen. You will pay for that sooner than later.

Eren leans against the door, arms crossed as he heavily sighs. “What were you doing with Jean earlier today?” He finally asked. You turned to face him.

“N-Nothing!” You stammered. You know this made you sound guilty, but you are actually innocent. Just Eren knows how to intimidate you and when you’re in this position, your nerves take over.

Eren scornfully chuckled. “Please, do you really think I’m that dumb, Y/N?”

“I’m telling the truth, Eren! You know I don’t like Jean.” You spat. Your blood is boiling at this point. This accusation has been thrown at you more than once in your relationship and quite honestly, it’s getting tiring.

“Watch it.” Eren warned. You know you are not supposed to raise your voice towards him. He has corrected that behavior more than once and will do it again if necessary.

“Why was he sitting with you at lunch?” Eren interrogates after he notices you lose some confidence to yell at him.

You let out a deep sigh. “He just showed up. You know how Jean is.”

“And you didn’t stop him?”

“What was I supposed to do?” You questioned, raising an eyebrow.

“Tell him to fuck off!” Eren barks.

“And I did!” You argued back.

A small shriek escapes your lips as Eren charges towards you, wrapping his hand around your throat, and pushing you down onto the nearest bunk bed. You struggled to untangle his fingers as they squeeze your throat tightly.

“What did I say about talking back, slut?” Eren growls.

“I-I’m s-sorry, E-Eren.” You managed to get out as you lose circulation to your lungs.

“Oh, you will be. I’m going to make sure this filthy little mouth of yours will not be able to talk for weeks.”

Eren finally let’s go of your throat. You immediately cough. There is not enough oxygen in the room to get to your lungs fast enough it seems. Eren would argue and say you deserve it.

You hear a belt unbuckle along with his pants unzipping. His pants hang low on his hips as he watches you collect air. By the way his boxers are fitting quite snug, you know what is coming.

“On your knees.” Eren demands, pointing towards the creaky wooden floor below. You shook your head no, your eyes pleading. Eren did not respond to that well as he grabbed a hand full of hair and forced you to the ground.

“Do you ever fucking listen? I said on your damn knees.” Eren growls. You did not even have a chance to explain that you are not in the mood because Eren’s length is now being stuffed down your throat. You choked on Eren’s cock as every inch was entering your mouth.

Your nails clawed at Eren’s clothed abdomen. His hand never let up on your hair as he thrust in-and-out of you. You are choking, coughing for air, but Eren refused to show any ounce of mercy. In fact, he found it quite amusing. You should know better than to disrespect your boyfriend.

“Where is all that back talk now, princess? Don’t have shit to say with my cock down your disrespectful ass throat, do ya?” Eren mocks as takes another rapid thrust down your windpipe. Drool covered your chin and Eren’s dick. You can feel his girth stretch out your throat and he loves it. He loves seeing you struggle.

Pre-cum started to leak from his erected member. You are mentally thanking your maker. You needed a break and a gasp for air, but those prayers were answered quicker than expected. Eren pulls out his cock from your sore mouth. You let out pitiful coughs as he stroked himself to the sight of you.

“Strip then get in doggy.” He demands. Not wanting to make this worse for yourself, you do as your told. You are not even sure whose room this is. You just hope they do not walk into see the sinful things you and Eren are doing.

Each article of clothing fall to the floor and you get in the position Eren wants you in. All of your delicate tight holes are displayed for his taking. He walks over and spreads your ass out some more to get a better view. You yelp when a hard slap hits your ass.

Without warning, he brings you closer to him by latching his hands onto your hips and his cock slips into your tight cunt. Your walls do their best to expand to his girth, but no amount of sex with Eren can get you prepared for that. Your pussy takes in inch-by-inch. His stamina and merciless rhythm is forcing you to be accepting of his cock. Your knees shake under the pressure and your hands tightly grip onto the covers below.

A hard slap to your ass exploits the moan you have his behind your lips. “I kept your throat intact for a reason. Use it.” Eren scolds before hitting your ass again. You whimper.

“Eren.” You mewl.

“Yeah, who is making you feel this good?” He teases as he continues his venomous thrust.

“You do.” You sob. Your pussy is beginning to become accustomed to Eren’s erection and he is hitting all the right spots. He always does.

“Can Jean make you feel this good?” He groans, his knees slowly buckling beneath him.

“Never.” You wail. Your weeping cunt confirmed this as well.

“Damn,” he pants, “straight.”

Cum leaked from Eren’s cock deep into your cunt. You let out little moans as you became stuffed with Eren’s seed. Though you did not like he was not using protection, you have no say in the matter. This is for his pleasure and your punishment. You just have to take it like the good little submissive girl he taught you to be.

You milked every single drop of Eren before you were granted permission to put on clothes. Your hands intertwined as he lead you to the door. There stood Jean, Armin, and Conny. They all looked horrified as well as you. Eren’s smug smirk never left his features.

“What the hell are you doing in my room, Eren?” Jean exclaims in furry.

“Handling business,” he wraps his arm around Jean’s shoulder and let’s go of your hand to pat his chest, “By the way, thanks for letting me fuck my girlfriend on your bed.”

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All Rights Reserved

[sinessinessines]

STRAW MEN, STRAW WOMEN, STRAW GENDER-FLUID BODIES, OR STRAW MEN COLONISING FEMALE SPACE BY HAVING THEIR DICKS CUT OFF AND WEARING A DRESS.

I have read a fair bit about feminism and it’s many currents and debates, and I am currently updating myself on these issues, thanks mainly to Susan Watkins’ lengthy and fascinating article on the current state of feminism(s) across the world in the current issue of the New Left Review (109 Jan Feb 2018, pp. 5-80).

Possibly as an expression of a certain male self-loathing common to the besieged, post-ideological working class liberal of the period, I used to describe myself as a feminist sympathiser, rather than as a feminist. This was because I quite fervently believed at the time (some ten years ago) that male feminism was an attempt to breach ontological terrain that was impossible to breach without accumulating a certain amount of bad faith. One could empathise and understand as much as it was possible to empathise and understand, but a male being, born and brought up as male, could never “be” female.

The problem, one that I didn’t identify at the time, was the absence of any male equivalent to this. Men, the generalised enemy, particularly white, male, working class, heterosexual men, put me firmly in the firing line for all types of abuse, misandry and the militarisation of such abuses to underscore bourgeois bigotries.

Having recently declared myself communist, in hindsight it does seem like a peculiar injustice - the injustice of being pilloried for controlling the patriarchal means of production by a millionairess. One person who explains this process, and who was seriously fucked up by this process, was the Austrialian poet Les Murray.

Les Murray was from a piss poor working class peasant background. In the poem Burning Want, from his landmark Subhuman Redneck Poems (Carcanet U.K.), he describes the experience of being forced to inhabit the same school as middle-class Australian women, who would mercilessly attack and bully him as a child. What is being expressed here is a twisted class warfare, expressed by Murray as “erocide”. Unable to articulate that, or to organise his thoughts along those lines, the poet later collapsed into a depression that nearly destroyed him. He believed that nobody could love him - that it was impossible to love a man who had been interpolated as abhorrent in every imaginable way:

all my names were fat-names, at my new town school. Between classes, kids did erocide: destruction of sexual morale. Mass refusal of unasked love; that works. Boys cheered as seventeen- year-old girls came on to me, then ran back whinnying ridicule.

Of course, my assumptions, about the ontological impossibility of male feminism, depended upon certain assumptions about what feminism was. It also depended upon my own desire to ghettoise feminism. It was women’s stuff, and that stuff didn’t impact men. Men and women were categorically different. This seemed uncontroversial.

The white working class male, inhabiting Margaret Thatcher’s newly “classless” society, is faced with a double bind that makes such a subject particularly vulnerable to acts of self-destruction. Alcohol and drug addiction is the symptom of losing trust in humanity. To women the white male subject is a symbol of patriarchal oppression. To middle class men, the white male working class subject is seen as a “loser” for failing to compete in a rigged game where social mobility is stagnant, and where most “tests” are not about aptitude, but about “instinct”. The resultant rejection is thereby levied onto the victim himself, forced to shoulder an unbearable shame, a suicidal depression and a contradictory, shattered identity, split into two mutually contradictory states. On the one hand, the white heterosexual working class male is a symbol of power, whereas, on the other hand, he is a symbol of failure. This stigmatisation is compounded yet further when the temporary relief of such a state involves a bottle of vodka or a needle in the vein.

There is, of course, nobody out there to recognise you - the white, male, heterosexual abhorrence - as a victim. Indeed, the very act of “playing the victim” is, in itself, seen as an abhorrent act. As well as being “responsible” for, and guilty of somehow constructing a patriarchal order that subjugates all women, the white, male, working class subject is also guilty of his own failure to live up to the expectations of that patriarchy. In other words, the subject in question is rendered abject from the very beginning, by not only facing stigmatisation based on a class system that no longer exists, but by being burdened by assuming an “othered” role in a patriarchy where he is seen as the chief instigator for historical crimes against the female.

Since then, the argument has taken a postmodern turn. My viewpoint about female essence has been marginalised by people who argue that gender, and even biological difference, is nothing more than a social construction. A “performative” difference, as Judith Butler argues in her largely incomprehensible book Gender Trouble.

Generally speaking, this flapping around with gender and sex is articulated as “postmodernism gone mad” by people who dislike postmodernism. It is generally seen as the work of “feminazis” by people with a bee in their bonnet about feminism. And, of course, pointing out the presence of essential biological differences that cannot be surgically added or subtracted from the human body, such as possessing a womb and, consequently, having menstrual cycles is seen as “transphobic”. More problematically still, having any uniquely female experience is seen as an expression of “transphobia”.

To take one example, I, along with Richard Seymour, author of this material on the issue, which explores the issue in far more depth and with a far greater sensitivity to the issue than I could ever be bothered to write, were both labelled “transphobic” on a Facebook group by a number of people after I decided to post the article to shed some light on the issue on a so-called “Leftbook” site.

This debate, like so many debates that involve the use of passive-aggressive, and slightly infuriating suffixes such as “-phobia” to describe anybody who contests or even expresses curiosity about the nuances of what is a phenomenally complex philosophical debate about who and what we actually are, has a general capacity to degenerate into an “us” versus “them” contest, where all who think that men and women possess certain, essential biological differences are labelled “transphobic” and are part of a generalised enemy against transgender people. The straw men, and straw women constructed in this argument, ironically enough, are also the very same people who argue vociferously against “non-binary” designations of gender and biological sex.

Perhaps one of the most shameful articulations of this plebiscite, social media generated, mob justice cod-philosophy was expressed in the backlash against the lifelong feminist campaigner Germaine Greer for her perfectly sensible, if rather brash comment about biological sex and essential difference:

“Just because you lop off your dick and then wear a dress doesn’t make you a fucking woman.”

The troubling aspect of this is that the university response to Germaine Greer’s argument - that being a women is more than merely being a castrated male with a dress on - was to zero platform her, therefore putting her in the same category as the far-right fascists and religious bigots who probably want transgender people murdered for being crimes against God and nature.

This, to me, is an expression of precisely what is wrong with the terms of the debate itself. If the choice is between blind acceptance, or being pilloried and labelled “transphobic” for wishing to explore the nuances of this debate, then there is something seriously wrong with the way the debate is being argued.