GallowsGal

@gallowsgal.bsky.social

261 Followers 266 Following

| Your unfriendly, citywide, renaissance transsexual | Neo-romantic smut and hardcore chamber music peddler | 🔞🏳️‍⚧️🏳️‍🌈♾️✴️ | https://ko-fi.com/gallowsgal

“Impeccable.” The Major’s voice held a slight mocking edge that thrilled Kate in a way she didn’t know she could be thrilled, “Do you want to lick it, good girl?” “Yes ma’am, please?” Katlynn couldn’t think for herself if she wanted to, and she knew with absolute certainty that she didn’t want to. All she wanted was to be in this moment, and to do what she was told. “From the toe to the knee.” The order dripped like honey from Kettering’s mouth. Kate took a deep, shuddering breath, and ran her still dry tongue along the surface of the leather, starting at the toe box welt, and ending at the very edge of the high shaft. When she reached that zenith, a smooth hard hand looped fingers into her hair, pulling gently, pleasantly, until Katlyn was able to rise, and look Kettering in the face. The major’s lips were parted, and Katlynn was seized with a mad desire to kiss her, but before she could collect herself enough to do it, Kettering said something that completely undid her again, “You’ve done very well. Are you going to obey orders from now on?” “Yes—yes—yes, ma’am.” Kate stammered. Her heat pounded, her ears rang, and her stomach was full of butterflies. “That’s my good girl.”
Sister Jeanne is a hell of a machine, built from what was left of Cpt. Guthrie’s family Hunchback after her duel with Mama Bear. She packs a custom endo-steel frame, and a Great Father 210xl engine snagged from a slagged Puma. Firepower is provided by 2 Lb-x AC/5s, and a pair of ERMLs in the Hunch, another ERML on the head, and 2 ERSLs mounted to each arm. Salvaged clan double heatsinks keep her running cool and a quartet of jump jets give her the mobility necessary to match the rest of the command lance.
A magenta and purple Kodiak that has been through one hell of a deployment.
A silver, 2 Door Silverado, with the door badges painted in the colors of the Trans Pride flag. In place of the GM mark of excellence is a Lesbian Pride Flag shield emblem.
Catra stands hands on hips in front of a green BG, with a speech bubble that contains a tweet saying ‘Top 5 women’, Adora, blushing and looking uncomfortable replies with a pair of responses reading ‘Like in a row? Or do I get breaks?’.
An Adepta Sororitas Retributor commander, in black gold armor, with a deep green tabard, and a shit load of copper accents, wielding a chain sword and a book of scripture. (Front view)
A red headed trans femme cradles a purrito’d tabby kitten.
Denton Van Zandt, a 5th level American Barbarian with the paratrooper background makes a suicidal last stand against a dragon…it goes as one would expect.
Dove pink bar soap.
Pam Poovey from Archer. A thick, tough looking woman with blonde hair, wearing a white tank top and hand-wraps takes a fighting stance in preparation to beat another man to death with her bare hands. Afterwards she will add a tally mark to the count on her back.
A red headed trans femme in tortoise shell, cat eye glasses, sporting a severe side shave, and bathed in blue light smiles crookedly at the camera. Her violently ginger hair cascades over her left shoulder, and fans out across the breast of her dark green dress.
Pacha, a large, powerfully built Incan villager rhapsodizes about the way the sun hits the hill on which he lives early on a summer morning.
Miorine tackle hugs Sulletta in zero G.
A read headed trans femme with blue eyes smiles crookedly into the camera. Her glasses are on her forehead, and her left eye has a pretty nice looking mouse under it.
Hedy Lamarr smokes a cigarette and stands against a wall.
Lucille Ball, as Lucy Riccardo says, ‘Oh, I feel fine, but you know it’s hot in here’ while holding a dark colored bottle to her face.
Hedy Lamarr delivers the line ‘I detest cheap sentiment’
A chubby white man in a uniform inspired by the SS asks his CO ‘Hans, are we the Baddies?’
A pair of elvish shadow runners in Hestaby’s lair (I think??)
The Emblem of Clan Widowmaker, a black widow spider super imposed on a bronze sundial.
1 LIKE = 1 VIDEO GAME ANSWER 1 - Very first video game. 2 - Your favorite character. 3 - A game that is underrated. 4 - Your guilty pleasure game. 5 - Game character you feel you are most like (or wish you were). 6 - Most annoying character. 7 - Favorite game couple. 8 - Best soundtrack. 9 - Saddest game scene. 10 - Best gameplay. 11 - Gaming system of choice. 12 - A game everyone should play. 13 - A game you've played more than five times. 14 - Current (or most recent) gaming wallpaper. 15 - Post a screenshot from the game you're playing right now. 16 - Game with the best cut scenes. 17 - Favorite antagonist. 18 - Favorite protagonist. 19 - Picture of a game setting you wish you lived in. 20 - Favorite genre. 21 - Game with the best story. 22 - A game sequel which disappointed you. 23 - Game you think had the best graphics or art style. 24 - Favorite classic game. 25 - A game you plan on playing. 26 - Best voice acting. 27 - Most epic scene ever. 28 - Favorite game developer. 29 - A game you thought you wouldn't like, but ended up loving. 30 - Your favorite game of all time
Jamie Clayton as Maj. Kettering.
An anime dragon girl with blonde to red ombre hair, and orange eyes, who is wearing a maid’s uniform stares into the camera as her right eye twitches in unspeakable anger.
A battered old stuffed night fury holds a blue and orange can of Liquid Death ‘Orange Horror’ energy drink.
A red headed trans femme smiles crookedly at the camera.
In the Still of the Night Her voice is soft, sweet, and slightly smoky, like speyside scotch or the far off sound of a monsoon season storm gathering its strength to slake the sunbaked soil’s solipsistic supplications, desperate prayers spoken to wind spirits Ones who died long ago when the Nts'ósíkooh still flowed its own course spilling silty seed along slender canyons, and Tó Neinilii smiled more. Tonight there are 2161 miles and six states that hate us to their bones Between us but I can still feel my heart in my throat playing D beat and rolls on the slack skins of my stained glass soul While I speak with a tongue lent to me by Sappho And I swear I can feel her touch through goddamned phone
Charli, a gunmetal grey, 2007 Chevrolet Silverado 1500 W/T with a black grille and chrome six spoke wheels. She is a regular cab with a 6’7” bed, and manual EVERYTHING.
A black and white clip of a woman in furs tearfully saying ‘Leave me alone.’
There is a leaden something that hangs heavy in the air during the fading days of the Phoenix summer, threatening rain, and violence. A sort of wild magic that a body can feel crackling against the skin. 

Lydia Thomas sat in her worn office chair, swirling ice around an empty glass. The room was filled with the rhythmic scratches of a record needle that had run its course and not much else. The office had been empty for two weeks, and it had begun to feel more like her second living room than a work space. 

According to the holy phonebook, Thomas investigations was open until 8:30pm, but lately she had taken to locking up around 6:00. 

Not tonite though. Tonite, something was going to jump off. 

She fixed herself a 7&7, and settled into the chair, slipping out of her worn in leather pumps, letting the b side of In a Silent Way meld with the dull vibrations of rush hour slowly fading on 7th Avenue, and the rising wind. 

Two drinks later, it happened. 

It was 8:35 when a sharp rap interrupted the flow of the music. Lydia was considering just ignoring the knock until she heard a voice that hadn’t graced her ears in nearly a decade.
A tweet reading ‘your stripper name is your favorite salad dressing and the thing about you that most disappoints your parents’
The cover of Shape Shift with Me, by Against Me!
Daphne, a glamorous red headed femme in a purple mod dress wraps her trademark green scarf around Velma’s neck as she straddles her and removes her oft lost glasses. Velma, a nerdy brunette in an open orange sweater, black bra, and red skirt reclines on a wooden desk holding a stack of books and a banker’s lamp.
In the Still of the Night Her voice is soft, sweet, and slightly smoky, like speyside scotch or the far off sound of a monsoon season storm gathering its strength to slake the sunbaked soil’s solipsistic supplications, desperate prayers spoken to wind spirits Ones who died long ago when the Nts'ósíkooh still flowed its own course spilling silty seed along slender canyons, and Tó Neinilii smiled more. Tonight there are 2161 miles and six states that hate us to their bones Between us but I can still feel my heart in my throat playing D beat and rolls on the slack skins of my stained glass soul While I speak with a tongue lent to me by Sappho And I swear I can feel her touch through goddamned phone
Mae West delivers the iconic line “When I’m good, I’m very good. When I’m bad, I’m better.” In ‘I’m no Angel’ (1933)
The cover of LOTR: The Two Towers for GBA (EA 2002).
The landing screen for Shadowrun: Dragonfall (Paradox 2014). Dietrich, Eiger, and Glory stand before a downed dragon.
The cover of Legend of Dragoon (Sony 1999) Three winged knights, aka Dragoons, are arrayed in front of the moon.
The cover of MechWarrior 2: Ghost Bear’s Legacy (Activision 1995). A Mad Dog OmniMech stands before a wall of ice.
The cover of Red Baron (Dynamax 1990). A Fokker Dr. I in Richthofen red, approaching a Sopwith Camel from behind.
Get to know my game taste. For every like, I will post one game I love.
Joan Crawford in her role as Crystal Allen (The Women 1939) addresses several other characters, saying, “There’s a name for you ladies but it isn’t used in high society…outside of a kennel”.
Hatsune Miku pilots a cat faced frankenmech on a black background, the text superimposed on the image says, Madcat or something…IDK, I don’t play BattleMech.
A redheaded trans femme in cat eye glasses smiles crookedly at the camera, looking absolutely knackered.
A Timber Wolf A in the parade colors of the 1st Rasalhague bears.
Fritz Rasp as The Thin Man, from Metropolis (1927).
A pair of Doms and what appears to be a high mobility Zaku II skimming across the desert outside Torrington base, followed by a flight of missiles.
“Second Lieutenant Devereaux, why did you allow the enemy to get the jump on you like that?” “Major, with due respect, I did not let them get the jump on me. They made an excellent tactical call. It’s the same one I would have made in their situation.” Kate tried hard to keep her voice even and calm, “Fireteam Alpha was working with an incomplete understanding of the defensive capabilities of the enemy. Had we been aware that there was a mecha fireteam attached to the encampment, we would have been on the lookout for just such a choke point.” “You fought in the Liberation, didn’t you, Second Lieutenant?” Kettering was after her now, “How often did you have a complete picture of enemy defenses?” “I did, that is correct Ma’am.” Katlynn steeled herself for what was to come, “During my two years in Appalachia we had good information maybe four times.” “So, what would make this exercise any different?” The Major asked the question with the same tone one might use when talking to a slightly dull child. Katlynn was struck temporarily mute, and felt her face color. Kettering pounced, “I would expect an experienced soldier to assume that there might be gaps in their intelligence, not sit here and complain about it…”
When ‘25 rolled around I was so anxious that I had started having paranoid delusions, with a lovely religious bent, thanks to a life of being prepared for the end times. It felt like the brief periods of normalcy were mania. I considered ECT, and intensive inpatient treatment. I was not refilling my estrogen prescription for months at a time. It was the nadir of my life. Recovery looks different for everyone, and it is so non linear that it seems nonsensical. For nearly a decade, I had been in med management and therapy. It felt like I would make a teeny bit of progress, then some upset would force me retreat back into the torment nexus, and everything would get worse. Then one day, like a switch got flipped, I woke up feeling not just better, but truly good. I had reconnected with some friends, and it proved to me that I was missed, and that I was not easily forgotten. I was cooking on Nirn, and I was working on new fiction for the first time in a year. I’d spent years in a prison of my own making, and I finally remembered that I had the key the whole damned time. Not being someone to look a gift horse in the mouth, I decided that I was gonna ride that feeling until the wheels fell off. I started reclaiming my life, and my identity.
She unloaded a burst of auto cannon fire at the AAA station that was making it difficult to close range and was rewarded with a brief cessation of fire. Her triumph was damped by the fusion signature alert chiming. Two enemy heavies were inbound at 7, and 4 o’clock high. Judith dove as the crackling purple lightning storm of a scattering particle cannon lanced across the void. She took advantage of the silent AAA to get in close to the hull of the Ma Rulong but her pursuers didn’t seem to care. Missile warnings blared and Judith spun around, unleashing the Vulcan cannons in the shoulders of the crusader, letting her inertia keep her skimming along the hull. She hit a few of the missiles, blowing their fuel stores and triggering the warheads, which blew the majority of the salvo off target. Several struck the armored hull, damaging the paint but not much else.
Two dinner glasses, one with ~3 fingers of good whiskey, and the other a lemonade back—with a lil bit of triple sec.
Judge Judy tapping her watch, and slapping her desk.
“Try that again mother fucker!” Katlynn shrilled. The autocannon thundered and the offending Gemini collapsed at the knee, she unleashed another salvo of SRMs, which the damaged Gemini was powerless to stop. The reactor signature ceased to register on the hud, “Now stay down!” Fuck, she was sexy when she was angry. “Last bogey, Devereaux.” Kettering hollered. She could use the comm, but knew from experience that the modulated tones wouldn’t get anyone’s attention after an exchange like that, “Make me proud!” “Yes, ma’am!” The 2nd Lieutenant screamed back. She squared the Gemini up to the last enemy machine, and leveled the left arm mounted cannon. There was a dull, metallic thud. A misfire. There was no easy way to clear that in the field, especially not during an active firefight. A wordless scream of frustration echoed around the cockpit. The armor damage alarm shrieked, and the laser array went offline as return fire raked the fighter. The last salvo of missiles had left Devereaux with an empty ammo bin. Kettering opened her mouth to tell Katlynn to retreat, but it was too late. The jump jets fired again, propelling the Gemini at its opposite number, feet skimming just above the churned up ground. The plasma lance was a risky option, but she had seen Devereaux put down opponents with it, so she held her tongue for the moment.
His grandfather Mort had taught him how to shoot, and fight to defend himself against just this sort of thing. Grandpa Mort had been born in a Pomeranian Shtetl, and had fought against a mob of angry men from another village when he was a teenager, and then again in The Spanish American war. He would always remind Eddy, when he took him out shooting, that the preservation of life is the most important law of human society. Taking that life away from someone else is a grievous thing, and here Eddy was, sitting next to a man that he had killed. He sat there for a long moment, ruminating on what he had done. Then he came to his senses. Running a still was a two man operation, and the deadman’s partner was sure to be along sometime in the near future. Eddy grabbed the rifle and took a moment to search the camp. He found a paper box of .45-70 ammunition with a few rounds left in it, a camp shovel, and an old canvas sea bag. He returned to the gunman’s body, and spoke a few words of mourning and apology. Then he set about digging the sapling out. It took only a few moments, and he stowed it, and the rifle in the sea bag. The dryad had claimed to know everything that went on in the forest, and he hadn’t warned Eddy. Eddy wanted answers. At least then he’d make for a good gang busters episode.
Salty, bitter kisses pass pursed lips, finding parched tongues praying that the paper sack of Cisco holds out longer than the weed, truth be it’s our twelfth one night stand. I’m no great shakes at commitment and his wife is having their third kid, but for the moment I truly, truly love him, in the bed of a faded red Tacoma. His sweat scents the midsummer midnight and i bury my face in his damp chest hair where I can still smell the sex In the dying light of the afterglow I can see it curling cruel fingers of regret around his throat and I know that I’m the one that will be taking myself home so I dial a cab to meet me at the circle k The driver asks why a kid my age is out so late, and I say trouble with my carburetor before he can think too hard. He has his radio blaring ranchera, and wants to be in his own world quite as much as I want to be in mine, Twin universe roiling and revolving around each other at 15 over the speed limit. Skimming the wild current of dreams filling the dry river bed in a traveler barge painted the most lurid shade of green that you have ever seen in your life Feeling the tension of a teeming flow throwing itself against the sun baked banks ‘til they break and spill the silent dayglo torrent over onto the floodplain, setting it free to paint psychedelic backdrops for the desert spirits and fae boys meeting men twice their age
“At least he gave his life for the glory of God.” Harris said piously, only to hit the deck as Dogmeat drove their fist into the young officer’s jaw. They stood over her, chest heaving and eyes afire. “I can’t believe you.” Dogmeat said, “The man just lost his fucking brother and you give him some bullshit platitude?” “Fuck you, that’s what we’re here for, to fight and die for God!” Tex said, scrambling back and bouncing to her feet, ready to fight. “Both of you, shut the hell up!” Judith’s voice rang off the lockers as she looked from Figueroa to Harris and back again. “We don’t need another casualty Dogmeat. We’ve already lost two Armors, and one damned fine pilot. Harris, you say something like that to a comrade again and I’ll do worse than slug you…”
Judith swung into the cockpit of her massive Crusader. She forgot the litany, forgot about Chaplain Richard, forgot everything that wasn’t necessary to the deadly ballet of Armored combat. The flesh around her neural link itched as she slotted the connector and became one with her machine. The process wasn’t exactly painful—there was a certain ecstasy in the agony of becoming a 15 meter tall war machine. Judith rode the expected sensory overload that came with slotting the neural connector and blinked as her vision merged with the 360 degree view offered by cameras mounted in heavily plated recesses all over the Armor. The cooling system kicked in and chilled alcohol surged through her pilot suit. She flexed fingers fashioned of spun steel and began weapons systems checks.
A white, 60’s era Rolls Royce sedan sinking into a swimming pool.