My Oxygen

i was looking for gifs of the animations of clippy from windows 98 and i couldn’t find any, so i made this ones! 

(part 1)

i changed the background to gray because the white was hurting my eyes

[On the exploration of homo-sapiens' obsession with vaginal intercourse.]

A short drabble I wrote about Coeus' disappointing first time (bad enough not to try again for almost 20 years lol). It finishes a bit abruptly but I do like most of it enough to share.

cw: body dysmorphia, overly medical language, explicit description of bad sex, kinda cringe superiority complex

He squeezed his nearly non-existent breasts, nascent mounds looking almost out of place on a body stripped of every last gram of baby fat; sharp bones jutting from taut looking-skin as if it was simply pulled over the frame of his skeleton. No hips, no ass, only the ever so slight amount of fatty tissue under his navel could hint at the sex he was thrusted into; nature trying her best to shield what society deemed to be the fair gender’s most valuable asset. She had yet to lose against him then, his distaste for everything brought by a simple assessment at birth over some parts failling to migrate or develops not yet linked to his biology; the discomfort with having his pitiful chest fondled like this simply chalked up to a shame he didn’t really feel about their size. Surely, the gesture would feel less silly, less thoughtlessly pornographic had they been bigger, even though he had never wished so before despite being likened to an ironing board a few time as an attempt to rouse something -humor, or perhaps inferiority- out of the cold, flippant teenager who had joined the university. No worries, surely they’d come in, had they say as if to wash themselves of any eventual hurt they might have caused with this teasing remarks, as if it wasn’t the reason they were cast in the first place. To humble him, shoot this bratty little girl down a peg.

He hoped they didn’t. He had started bleeding long ago, though infrequently: surely his body would not go through a sudden spurt and finally give him the womanly figure expected of his chromosomes.

If it was going to, it hadn’t decided to kick in as he dipped his toes into his twenties, finding them no different from his adolescence save from a newfound curiosity that arose with older colleagues talking amongst them, looking almost startled when remembering his presence in the lab. Apologetic. Embarrassed. As if, despite his now long gangly limbs, he remained a teenage girl, not to be spoilt by crude topics; enough for a few to reject him, perhaps finding in the age difference a good excuse to avoid fucking the ugly chick. He was no stranger to the idea that he was far from the feminine ideal of beauty, with the beak-like nose standing in the middle of his gaunt face, framed by a wild, unbrushed mess of hair that had been seldom cut in his life. His older sister made sure he knew, admitting defeat early as he was, in her own words, a lost case. He had no hint of elegance, no wish to please and appease those around him and not even much interest in personal hygiene.

It’s also possible that his propositioning was at fault for the awkward refusals. Even the one who was attempting, still, to find something to grab on his chest, had shuddered at his request; not one of arousal, but more a full body cringe at the blunt, cold wording. In spite of the subject, there was nothing exciting in the language he had used, his nonchalance tasting more of ennui than of a casual, no fuss attitude towards sex: his virginity held no sex-appeal offered this way, not even with the burden of silly feelings that some men seemed so afraid might bloom behind his ribcage rendered null by the clear scientific curiosity itching to be relieved.

Perhaps men, even men of science, were more romantic than they thought. It seemed so in the way his partner for this experiment insisted kissing would help get in the mood, cheesily knitting his fingers in his before he inserted himself into him. Did his heart flutter when he reflexively squeezed his hand as his entire body fought the intrusion, hissing through teeth as he tried to do as he was told and relax in a shaky breath, assured that it would start feeling good soon in between whispers of how tight he was ? Oh he could feel it, painfully so, a startled sob managing to crawl it’s way out of his thinly pressed lips, his breath stolen by the pain tearing him in half. It was no lie that this had nothing to do with the scant fingers that had explored his insides before, finding a little discomfort at first too but easing in the strange if unfulfilling sensation, tentatively curling digits brushing a sensitive spot; the one he thought would bring him over the edge if only he didn’t have to split his focus on both his hands and the coiling feeling pooling into his guts. But it seemed like the appendage was ramming into him in all the wrong places, hitting the back of his cervix without ever grazing that spot. The more it went on, the more his mind tried wandering away from the pounding pain and the growing irritation of his tender flesh, sharpening his focus on every other detail. The squelching sound, the labored off-puttingly warm breath above him, the mingling of perspiration, uncomfortably wet skin on skin contact, the long strands of hair clinging everywhere trapped between his back and the rapidly moistening bedsheets, pulled ever so irritatingly with each thrust, that fucking hand still kneading the surplus of fatty tissue surrounding useless mammary glands and the rapidly cooling path of the tears that had spilled over, tickling his tragus, a mess of fluids and grunts and too many thoughts. He could not fathom that this was it, the thing that made society go round under all the pretense of virtue: even the pain had become a boring thud in the back on his mind, barely registered if not for the soreness of his clenched jaw.

He was spared putting an end to the experiment, something he had yet to ever do, the data put above all else, even suffering, even boredom, even disappointment. His volunteer stopped suddenly, quivery, a strange pitiful whine escaping him as his fingers dug into the pale skin of his breast, riding the very last wave of what must have been the famed big orgasm he was still waiting for; one that surely had to surpass any shaky climax he could ever bring himself to justify the rave around coitus. He was as relieved as he was confused to feel the offending member slip out of himself, condom ever so slightly stained pink quickly removed, tied and discarded into a tissue: that guy had always been a bit of a clean freak, even outside of the lab. He couldn’t understand how he justified the mess of bodily fluids integral to the act to his near germophobic obsession with cleanliness, so much so that when he laid back next to him, he couldn’t help his perplexity. “That’s it ?” was the offending statement, one that made the older man huff and lose his words for a minute, having not even regained his breath yet, before claiming that this was as good as it got, annoyance clearly souring his afterglow.

Despite this affirmation, the wound in his ego was deep enough for him to request a transfer almost as quickly as it took for the slightly bruised crescents to fade from his chest.

Proper scientific method would require more data before forming a conclusion, but he wasn’t keen on putting himself through this waste of time again; his leading hypothesis was that perhaps his higher intellect yet again barred him from finding enjoyment in something his lesser peers were infatuated with, his brain needing more stimulation than the average person and thus being better suited for quick relief to quench his needs when they arised. Perhaps his body was ill-shaped to accomodate for a phallus, a little mistake in his biological engineering, yet another natural rejection of his sex, born not to be penetrated or bear children but to pursue matters of the mind. Call it pelvic floor dysfunction or something else, he found no will to remedy his failing as a woman; if anything he leaned into it, getting rid of the puny, pointless breasts only a couple of year later, not regretting one second that they had been fondled by someone else only once, bar his surgeon’s much less displeasing palpation during his first appointment. The smooth expanse of his chest interrupted only by the still sore scar running across felt much less out of place, devoid of any superficial details. One step removed from the other mammals he failed to understand.

they should make more small pathetic guys that are cute when beat up

twitter / redbubble

Red room day 10 whip

bray teaming up art ideas. I like to portray hoody as a stoic person and barely smile if he with his friends (if you see him smile just assume that he did that on purpose to piss you off)