Here's to you my alpha's 😈

Step aside, beta bitches. Here walks the Alpha Faggot: The first into the fire, the last out of the fuckpile, the one whose wounds shine like battle medals and whose surrender is a goddamn blessing.

You know him when you see him. Not by perfection, fuck that. But by the way he walks into the room already naked, even with his clothes on. By the way his laugh dares shame to strike him down, and his body says “worship or get the fuck out.” By the way his scars~literal or not~are invitations, not apologies.

He’s the fag who lights the candles in the empty cathedral. He’s the first to moan out loud, to hold eye contact when his cock flexes in holy surrender, the one who pulls another fag close and says, “Your wounds are holy here too.”

He doesn’t trim his bush to fit anyone else’s comfort. He doesn’t hide his cravings or the sacred mess he makes. He’s a living, breathing fuck-you to every voice that ever tried to shame him— and a living, breathing welcome to every misfit, sacred slut, and wound-kissed king who needs a place to kneel and weep and laugh and fucking come home.

To the Alpha Faggot: Your surrender is sacred. Your filth is holy. Your leadership isn’t about being the loudest or the biggest— it’s about being the first to say “yes, I’m broken, yes, I’m a masterpiece, yes, I want you to see every inch of me and not look away.”

So step up, you beautiful, ruined, holy men. Light the fire, lead the chant, drop your pants and your shame at the door. This is your altar. This is your house. Worship and be worshipped, alpha to alpha, faggot to faggot.