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shortnotsweet · 5 months

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[ “SOMEBODY TOLD ME”]:

BREAKING MY BACK JUST TO KNOW YOUR NAME. SEVENTEEN TRACKS AND I’VE HAD IT WITH THIS GAME. A BREAKIN’ MY BACK JUST TO KNOW YOUR NAME—BUT HEAVEN AIN’T CLOSE IN A PLACE LIKE THIS.

— The Killers, Hot Fuss (2004)

Princess Rhaenyra’s insolence is wearing her stepmother’s patience thin. Queen Alicent is not ten years her senior, but even during her own sixteenth year, she cannot recall herself behaving so brazenly. She would never burst into courtly discussions in nothing but gilded armor and the underskirts of her riding leathers, awash in blood. (She would never be spotted in blood that was not her own, anyway. Alicent has never picked up a sword, not one that belonged to her.) Nevermind that Rhaenyra is attending to diplomatic affairs with bared teeth and scales, no—the crux of the matter is just that, her affairs. Rhaenyra is the Realm’s Delight, a beauty incomparable to any fair maiden, Alicent included. She indulges herself with appetite of a spoiled child, the confidence of man, and the pickings befitting only to her royal blood. Criston Cole. Daemon Targaryen. Harwin Strong. Laena Velaryon. She’s full of love, isn’t she? That selfish, foolish girl. What does Rhaenyra Targaryen know of love, of duty? She is a child in so many ways—she thinks killing makes her a man, thinks the throne is hers despite being a woman, thinks she can have her knight and her uncle and her protector and Laena Velaryon in one fail swoop. She’s wrong. She doesn’t know herself half as well as Alicent does. Alicent, who sees her for what she truly is, who wants to see all of her and more of her and none of her. Alicent has been stolen into the Keep by her own father—both of their fathers—but Rhaenyra is the key to this place, is the window to everything barred. Rhaenyra Targaryen has a dragon. Rhaenyra can fly.

That’s what Rhaenyra had promised her once, with her lips pulled back in a grin, exposing the white of her teeth like the violently radiant creature she was. “Perhaps when you grow tired of plotting against me, we shall ride on dragonback together,” she had said. The tease.

Alicent had yanked her into an empty corridor by the silk of her sleeve, ready to chastise her for her ill behavior. Conversing with the lords and ladies of the court at a feast was one thing, but chattering about her bloody encounters in battle over the pudding tureen were another. The lord at her elbow was going green. Alicent’s own face was likely red; her heart raced whenever Rhaenyra got like this. Alicent had never seen the battlefield—only seen battered men in dented armor and the slumps of corpses lined along dirt roads in the aftermath of war—but her own imagination terrified her like nothing else.

(Rhaenyra is better with a sword than half of the knights in Westeros, and more lovely than the lot. Her reign has not yet begun, but already the commoners flock to her—lured in by tales of her beauty and fine hair—and soldiers would follow her into battle. Alicent would not follow, but she would watch and bite her nails down to the quick.

She thinks of the figure Rhaenyra cuts in full armor, the heat in her gaze underneath the slots of her helmet. Alicent remembers the weight of her own hand in Rhaenyra’s—which was gloved—when the princess rode up to the spectators box and grasped it in her own, bringing Alicent’s knuckles to her lips. She thinks of Rhaenyra murdered in the sky, skewered with another man’s sword, plummeting to the ground, torn in half, streaking crimson across the clouds. Alicent would scream, or cry. She might laugh. She would throw herself from the window of her tower. Rhaenyra’s bloody exploits terrified Alicent for reasons she could not identify, and excited her for reasons she refused to.)

“I’d sooner be confined to the castle for the rest of my days than get on the back of that bloody lizard,” Alicent scoffed. Rhaenyra only tucked her hand over Alicent’s, where it was resting on her forearm. She flexed her fingers, moving to release her grip on the dark fabric, but Rhaenyra intertwined their fingers and held them fast.

“You’re confined already. You are already accustomed to such a thing. I know you. But—”

“But you forget yourself. You think you’re invulnerable, Rhaenyra. You don’t know who you are.” Alicent intends for it to be a sneer, but instead it comes out quietly, and too gentle for disdain. She can’t know. Rhaenyra is as trapped as she is, but they’re trapped together. They belong together. She belongs with Alicent.

“I am Rhaenyra Targaryen, Heir to the Iron Throne and all of Westeros. I am a dragonrider. I am—I am your daughter. In a way. Your sister, too. Your enemy. Your sword, your shield.”

“And what am I?” What else is left for me? Alicent wonders.

“My Queen. For now.” Rhaenyra cocks her head, and the gleam in her eyes burns like fire raining down. “When I am Queen, you will be my lady.”

#rhaenicent #rhaenyra targaryen #alicent hightower #house of the dragon #hotd #rhaenyra x alicent #my art #a book show fusion where alicent is the wicked resentful older stepmother first and foremost but even so she and rhaenyra have a connection #burdened by envy and fixation and reluctant affection. in this universe rhaenyra is given more liberties and trains as a knight would #is given a sword and flies into battle frequently and wears extravagant clothes which endears her to the small folk and makes her a hot #topic amongst royalty for her strangeness and charisma. alicent is expression not only of her freedom and expression #but of the company she keeps. rhaenyra has so many lovers and so many who are willing to follow her and it’s just not fair ok. alicent #and rhaenyra understand each other and know each others misery like no other. those other flings and beloved friends are going to get #her killed w how much they indulge her and encourage her dangerous habits and alicent may be in a cage but she won’t live in it alone. with #out her stepdaughter to torment and be tormented by (she represses the urges rhaenyra inspires bc she is devout to the faith) then there is #no meaning to suffering. god she’s in love w her. she hates her so much she wants to be her she wants to be with her she needs to touch her #she need rhaenyra to stop looking at other people bc it’s killing alicent by the day

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haunted-plush · 17 days

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OH MY FUCKING GOD... LOOK AT THE TITLE FOR ONE OF THE SEASON 2 EPISODES

CHARPIM?? FOR REAL??? CANON??????

IN PRIDE MONTH????

#charpim shippers stay winning #massive w for us #to be fair its likely just going to make fun of it #but i dont care even the acknowledgement in itself is enough #smiling friends season 2 #smiling friends #charpim #charlie x pim #charlie dompler #pim pimling #sorry for the extra tags i just want folks to see this

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novelist-becca · 3 months

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Once again, I hate hate hate it when certain people that saw TOH judge Luz based ONLY on how in episode 1 she brought fireworks to school and let loose live snakes and spiders.

And just boil her down to that.

#they act like that’s her hobby #no it isn’t #pay attention #I saw a video of some guy claiming that Luz lacking self awareness and ‘common sense’ was bad writing #no it’s not she’s just neurodivergent #and she matured and learned from those mistakes/incidents #she’s FAR from a terrorist #he also pointed out the reasons those three folks were in the conformitorium and said it wasn’t fair to compare them to Luz #the owl house #toh #owl house #luz noceda #media literacy #you can have your opinions #but this was a wrong opinion

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babacontainsmultitudes · 4 months

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So it was established in the last episode that Taylor still believes in Santa (tbh I wouldn't be surprised if it's come up prior to this ep too but anyways-) so... Do you think (saint) Nicky been has portalling in every year since the betrayal to sneak in a gift for his son amongst the pile? That Cassandra doesn't even notice because it's just one among the many many presents she herself has bought and wrapped? But every year without fail... Taylor gets one gift that simply says "from: Nick" and well, obviously that has to mean it's from Santa (a conclusion which Nicky expects him to come to, and why he can sign his name at all, though he misses when he could just write "dad"). And one year when he's still quite young, a sleepy little Taylor actually catches Nicky in the act, and Nicky wishes more than anything that he could just *stay*, but instead he only softly tells Taylor to go back to bed, and Taylor thinks that Santa is a lot younger and a bit sadder than he expected, but what's he gonna do- not listen to Santa Claus? So he smiles meekly at the man he does not know to be his father, and hurriedly heads back to his room.

Also yes of course Nicky eats the fucking cookies left out of course he's not gonna pass up on free cookies (which are home-baked to top it off) come on that's a given.

#at my conspiracy board like ''he sees you when you're sleeping... he knows when you're awake- just like Nicky watching Taylor from Hell!''#dndads #dungeons and daddies #nick foster #I'm sure I mustn't be the only person who's proposed a headcanon to this effect but anyways in light of recent events!#and Taylor asks Nicky what kind of cookies he likes and Nicky says ''oatmeal raisin'' and Taylor says ''gross''#but insists on putting those ones out next year and every year after that #nicky freeman #taylor swift dndads #highkey knowing Nicky and the dumbass shenanigans he gets wrapped up in he would do something to accidentally become the real santa claus #like he shows up to the wrong house one year and gets spotted #so then in his mind he has to show up to *both* houses next year #but then the kid from the other house tells all their friends #and what is he gonna do- not get gifts for all of them too? that wouldn't be fair.#you see where I'm going with this?#dndads holiday special starring Nicky in the tale of how he became saint nick #I won't lie to you folks the Closes and Swifts are basically the only reason I care at all about this holiday haha #(though happy holidays to all of you celebrating- whatever you're celebrating!)#''but you're hosting a holiday event!'' YEAH AND LOOK WHO IT'S FOR LOL #(back at my conspiracy board) santa... is just an anagram for satan... it all makes sense!

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inkblot22 · 3 months

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Truss

Woohoo Malleus woohoo! I'm making the trigger list a bit bigger because I keep thinking about how people will totally skip reading it if it's too small and then blame the writer for their own mistake. That shit is clown behavior but I don't want to be held responsible for someone else's case of stupid, so sorry to those of you who think this looks clunky. Line divider found here: @/cafekitsune. This is also a fic that is wildly self-indulgent, in that I mean that while writing I visualized my own physical form and quirks.

That being said, this fic is written with afab (assigned female at birth) readers in mind. No pronouns other than you are used for the reader, but the reader does possess a womb. Reader's chest is not described in the least, just the lower bits, and even then it's not at length. Malleus also refers to the reader as "beauty," but masculine people can be beautiful too so idk but here's a warning anyways.

This fic is DEAD DOVE, DO NOT EAT. TW for noncon, fae interaction rules used for said noncon, slight bullying if you squint, one (1) mention of blood (I'm beginning to think I have a problem.) Stay safe while reading. Possible OOC Malleus, I haven't read any of book 7 and if you spoil it I'll block you temporarily.

This is absolutely not your fault, and you don’t know what the fuck you’re doing. It’s awful. Crewel was for sure his namesake, because this whole thing was a steaming pile of-

Alright, from the top, just to organize your thoughts: you are the only non-magic student in a school of mages. The teachers are mages. Your best friend/roommate/monster friend is a mage. The plants here can do magic, but you? No. Thanks homeworld. Love the gift of nothing.

Thus, the faculty have seemingly created a game of “how to piss off and challenge the magicless student,” in which they give you various tasks to just make you lose sleep. Vargas had you running laps until your legs felt like jelly, doing pushups until your shoulders started sounding like glowsticks. Trein had you learning completely off the wall trivia, such as what type of fabric the Queen of Heart’s favorite bathrobe was made of and why it made her more powerful. That’s nothing, it’s easy because you apparently have so much free time in their eyes. But Crewel? Fuck that man.

When you got the assignment, it sounded fun and exciting. He gave you seeds for a fast-growing rose thing. Honestly you weren’t paying attention to the name of it, but you retained what you needed to know. The plant only grew in moonlight, so you needed to cover it before you went inside at night. It needed a minimum of two hours of moonlight to grow per night. If the basket was overturned and it was exposed to the sun, then the plants would die. Moderate watering, no fertilizer, the usual.

Once the plants bloomed, you were supposed to take the flowers and make some kind of glamour potion, so here you are, failing at doing so. You only had four flowers, and you’re down to the last one. You wasted three tries and you still have no idea what the hell you’re doing wrong and it’s due next alchemy class and you’re breaking curfew on top of all of it. You glare into your cauldron with your latest failed attempt and hunker down to shoulder against the side so you can dump it out and try again.

“Oh, it’s you.”

The voice makes you jump out of your skin. You turn around and you almost want to cry tears of joy, because if anyone can help you, it’s him.

“When I saw a little head duck down, I thought that something strange was happening. A crime, perhaps.” Malleus smiles, and it’s not a kind smile, but you’ll take anything remotely positive at this point, “What are you doing on the floor, child of man?”

“Oh, I have to empty the cauldron.” You puff out, still trying to throw your weight to push the cauldron. You did it twice earlier, so this must be the effects of mental and physical fatigue.

“Oh, that’s right. Allow me.” Rather than waving a hand or anything, Malleus strolls on over and uncrosses his arms, taking one hand and pressing his fingertips against the lip of the cauldron. The whole damn thing tips, the failed mixture pouring out into the nearby drain. With the same ease, he tilts it back and turns to you.

When he looks at you, it’s… weird. You know he’s lizard-like, as dragons evidently are, but even Sebek’s eyes aren’t this jarring. They aren’t soulless or cold or unfeeling, but it feels like he is looking through you. His emotions don’t reflect in his eyes properly. That’s what it feels like. They reflect, but it’s wrong. Fractured. His lips quirk into a smile and you blink.

“Uh… wait, what are you doing out here, Tsunotaro?” You ask, turning to gather more materials, following the transcript of your recording from class.

His smile grows, “Just on a walk. Will you tell me what you’re trying to make?”

“Uh, yeah. This glamour potion? I don’t know. Remember how I was growing those flowers?”

“Of course. And what happened to the rest?”

“I… uh… I messed up the other potions. I don’t know what I’m doing wrong here.”

“No?”

“No. Do… do you think you could maybe… help me?”

“Of course.” Malleus plucks the flower up, twirling it thoughtfully, “Why don’t you gather the other ingredients?”

That was simple enough. Petals from your tediously grown blooms, some kind of floral oil with tiny white flowers inked on the label, a ball of clay no bigger than a pea, something that really resembled a severed finger, something that was hopefully just someone’s baby tooth, a handful of crystals in a rainbow of colors, and water. Lots of water. Malleus watches as you put all your ingredients on the nearby table and hums thoughtfully before dimming the lights and turning back to you.

“And where did you hear that you needed these things?” He asks. It’s not something that he says with any indication that you’re right or wrong. The tone is bland but the words say enough.

He has essentially told you before that he believes you inept, a babe in the woods when it comes to this sort of thing, but it doesn’t stop you from looking as hurt as you feel, “The headmage visited class and gave me some pointers?”

“You personally or the entire class? I don’t personally recall concocting anything like this when I was in your grade.” He says.

You suppose you’re grateful that he’s so blunt, but his flat tone makes the sting of your failure that much sharper. You thought he’d be nicer, since you two are sort of friends, and Lilia has told you that Malleus is fond of you, but it also makes just as much sense for him to refrain from easing up in his flatness because he supposedly thinks so much of you. He thinks you’re an idiot, but he’s not willing to treat you as such.

“The whole class. And no one else in my grade is doing this.” You mutter, staring at your assortment of items on the table.

He approaches the table and plucks up the beaker of water, twisting it in his hand, “Did you distill this?”

“What?”

“Tap water often has various minerals in it. If you haven’t been using distilled water, you’ve been adding an extra ingredient. Typically, most potions are much more forgiving and you can use tap water with little issue, but this particular potion is known to be disagreeable.” He murmurs, crossing the room with your beaker of water and setting it up to distill with a practiced ease. “That’s why it’s typically saved for fourth year students’ aptitude testing.”

The revelation hit you like a ton of bricks. You’d like to protest but it unfortunately makes sense. Malleus looks over at you, somewhat blandly, then turns around to face you, looking half concerned.

You answer his question before he can ask, “I didn’t… know that. I guess it’s my fault for being from a different world…”

His lips twitch into a smile, and for a moment you can see amusement in his eyes, fractured with the underlying coldness, “Oh, it isn’t. It may be your fault for failing to ask questions, but having someone who is unused to this type of work take on an advanced project is cruel.”

“You think so?” You ask, voice lilting with hope.

“Of course I do. Why you’re expected to make a potion of this caliber is beyond me.” Malleus states blankly.

“Uh, yeah. I- I don’t know either. But thank you for helping me!”

His expression flinches. It lasts for less than a second before it smooths into an odd grin. You’re not quite sure what that means, but you’re too happy to stop and think about it. The water finishes distilling and you carefully begin crafting, using the tips Malleus occasionally mumbles towards you. Don’t put that ingredient in yet, stir clockwise, you need to grind that up with the oil, don’t rush you have time, et cetera, et cetera, and then you have a gorgeous violet mixture, glimmering with a pearlescent golden sheen.

Your jaw drops. Somehow the few ingredients you threw together is enough to fill several bottles. Malleus is making a smug face as you rush to the shelves of empty bottles and choose several fluted bottles, quickly using a ladle to deposit the final, successful potion into the bottles. You’re so giddy with your success that you hardly notice as Malleus walks towards the door and locks it. But only hardly.

“What was that for?” You ask, not actually caring. You’re too happy to be worried.

“Oh, we’ll need privacy.” He responds.

That part confuses you enough into caring. You turn around from where you’ve safely wrapped the bottles and slipped them into your bag and shoot Malleus a frown, “Privacy? For what?”

Malleus doesn’t say anything. He walks over to the table and you feel your body stand up, void of your control, and stagger over to stand in front of him. If you were concerned before, you’re frightened now. Malleus looks down at you with his strange gaze and folds his arms.

“Wh-what’s happening?! Why can’t I move?”

“You really don’t know?” He asks. Something about his tone sounds mocking, but you’re certain he doesn’t mean it to be. It’s his version of sarcasm, he’s spoken to you like this before.

Your body hops up on the table, taking a seat, and Malleus turns to stand before you, looking down at you with a soft smile. You shift your hips- what the fuck is going on- and Malleus very gently hooks his hands in the pants of your dorm uniform.

Your dorm uniform is legit whatever the hell you want it to be, so it would change on the daily. Today it was a pair of jeans and a hooded jacket. He kneels to remove your shoes and stands back up, leaning close as he tilts your chin up. His breath fans over your lips.

“You didn’t tell me that you were so lovely beneath your clothes.” His hand on your chin shifted to your cheek, and his other hand laid flat on the table. “And… your smell is much stronger. Are you aroused?”

“You can’t just ask me that! I don’t know what you did but you’ve got to let me go.”

“I didn’t do anything. This is your doing.” He retorts, pecking your lips very chastely.

“What are you talking about?” When he didn’t respond, instead pressing the tips of his hand that was on the table against your exposed sex, your heart jumps but your body doesn’t move. You can’t, “Don’t do that!”

“Lilia informed me that making someone climax is similar to binding someone to you.” He mumbles, kissing you again as his fingers slowly slip inside. “It makes them fall in love with you. Isn’t that the most binding contract of all?”

You don’t know why he isn’t listening, but even less than that, you don’t know why he thought you could handle two fingers, much larger than your own, penetrating you. You squeal, but your body is incapable of tensing. Malleus pulls back, looking at you in a soft confusion.

“What’s the matter with you?”

“With me? What’s wrong with you? That’s too many- it’s uncomfortable!”

He blinks at you and withdraws a finger, which feels much better. You sigh. If you’re going to be forced to do this, you may as well not get hurt in the process. You close your eyes and Malleus hums.

“Is this better? You’ll have to forgive me. I haven’t had a dalliance with a human before.”

“I- I don’t think I’ll be able to… to forgive you for this.”

“No?” You can hear his smirk and the squelching noise as he pumps his finger gets louder. He slips the second finger in again and the burn isn’t so bad as last time, “Well, maybe you can decide that for certain after the wedding.”

“The wedd-” You have to bite your tongue to keep from moaning. Your body leans back, laying on the table, and your gentle assailant curls his fingers, leaning forward to mouth at your neck, “There’s not gonna be a motherfucking wedding. You’re-”

You can hear his horn scraping against the table, “Hmm. I didn’t think you were so entitled. You’re squeezing around my fingers. Are you close?”

“No!” You’re a liar. A ragged gasp leaves your throat and you feel the drop in the pit of your stomach, the burst of euphoria traveling up your spine as his thumb presses against your clit.

Malleus laughs, then leans up off of you. The sound of clothing hitting the ground is the first and only warning you get, but you can’t move, so it might as well have been silent. You feel something on your stomach, coming up about a half inch below your belly button. It’s… almost cool to the touch. You would think it would be warmer, but it’s not. Your eyes round as you stare at the ceiling, and Malleus’s face leans into view, his eyes boring into yours as though he’s reading your thoughts.

“You’re very warm. I’ve always thought this. You must be boiling inside.”

“I- what?”

He doesn’t respond, leaning back up. You feel the velvety head of his cock press against your entrance and as much as you want to jolt away, you can’t move your body. You can’t even look down to see what he’s doing. Your lashes flutter as the stretch sets in, the pressure worse than his two fingers. It burns, especially along the bottom, where his weight lays heavy thanks to gravity. You’re capable of wincing and letting out a whine, but nothing else.

“H-hey, that- that hurts.” You babble.

“Does it? You are squeezing me like a vice. I’ll stay still for a moment so you can relax some. Let me know when it stops hurting.” It’s very peculiar. Although he speaks with an animated tone, his voice is often detached. You would think he’d have more emotion since he’s inside of you.

You blink rapidly and decide that now is as good a time as any to ask, “What the hell is happening?”

“Must you tease me so?” He responds, his voice tense.

“What? I’m not teasing you. I can’t move!”

“Of course you can’t. You only just bound yourself to my will.”

“I what?” You shout.

“What, did you think I enslaved you? I could have, when we first met. You’re too free, giving people your name, thanking them, taking gifts freely… it drives me mad.” You feel a flash of heat, something warm rolling against your skin, like standing too close to a gas stove, “And now I find that you didn’t even know? I didn’t think you were such a fool.”

“That’s just called being polite!” You protest. “Oh my god-”

“I suppose I can’t blame you, really. Relax, lest I harm you.” He murmurs, rolling his hips further as though he can slide in deeper.

You squeak, “N-no, that’s-”

“Too much, yes. Tell me, in your world, do faefolk exist?”

“I- I mean, if they do, most people don’t believe in them.” The oddity of the situation felt like a blanket. Having a semi-conversation while your friend- not after this- used you as a dick holster. It was almost comforting. “I don’t- I don’t understand.”

His voice was deeper than normal, an underlying rasp to his voice, as though it was coming from somewhere deep in his throat, “I will explain. I’ll tell you anything you’d like to know. But after I explain, I will begin to move.”

“H-hey, no-”

His voice sounded choked, half strangled as he stifled a groan, “I apologize for not being clear earlier. Among the fae, verbal contracts are common and binding. You do not give someone your name. You wonder why I never directly gave you mine? It is a way to bind someone to your will. You do not accept gifts. Invitations are fine, but a gift is a sign that you owe someone something. My help- a boon- is a gift. Typically it is repaid with another kind turn. And, most importantly, you do not thank someone without the sufficient power to break their hold.”

You felt him draw back, that wave of heat rolling over you again, and then he slammed forward. The slick noise and dull smack were muffled by your squeal, his cockhead punching your cervix like it stole from him.

“Foolish little thing. I suppose it makes you cute.” He sneers, and your body sits up, arms wrapping around his shoulders.

The angle makes his motion a bit less painful. He’s no longer bumping against your cervix, thank the Seven, but the stretch remains. Your eyes flinch shut and Malleus tilts your chin up to kiss you again.

“St-stop- stop!” You whimper, “You’re hurting me!”

“If you would relax, beauty, that would not be a problem.” His chuckle is dark, the squelching from your coupling making a wicked duet that makes you feel dizzy, “And you said it to me so easily as well. Thank me again.”

“Wh-” One of his hands slipped under your hips, holding your bottom just under the split in your cheeks, and nipped your neck as a flat thumping echoed from where your bodies met, your legs bouncing with the motion. His member had gone back to bullying your cervix, and you wailed in the hopes that he would stop, “Thank you!”

“Heh… it escapes your lips so freely. Tell me, beauty-” He cut himself off with a grunt, panting against the column of your throat. “Tell me, what is it that you’d like? I would give you the world on a platter, should you want it.”

“I- ow! Y-you’re hurting me!”

There was a possibility that he was getting off on the pain he was causing you, just as much as there was a possibility of him not understanding that he was hurting you. With every motion of his hips against yours, despite the wicked pain, you felt that ever evil tug in your gut, like a stone growing heavier and heavier.

You tried again, because if this had to happen, if you were under his control now, you may as well not get injured. You would not be pissing blood if you could help it, “It’s too deep!”

He listened. It was odd, but he listened, his voice warming as he slid back a bit and continued ramming into you, but no longer beating the hell out of your internal organs.

“I didn’t realize. Is that better?” His voice sounded warmer, echoey against your shoulder. His teeth grazed over your skin again when you didn’t respond. He choked out your name and you sort of came back to yourself.

“U-uh- I guess?”

“Wonderful.” He mumbled, his free hand reaching between your bodies and slicked with your sweat, to tweak your clit.

It should be embarrassing, how quickly you reached your height. Whoever he had been with in the past couldn’t have been so sensitive, since you felt his body jerk against you, an uncontrolled undercurrent to his motions. You let out a quiet, squealing moan and barely even felt the break when Malleus bit you to muffle his own groan. You didn’t feel him climaxing inside of you. You felt the control return to your body and flopped backward onto the table, your hoodie damp with sweat. Malleus took a step back, then carefully redressed you, then himself. You looked up at him and saw nothing but adoration in his eyes, not the fractured appearance of such. It was like he was actually looking at you.

When he spoke to you, leaning forward to cup your cheek, his voice was warm, warmer than ever, “Now, let’s start planning for the wedding, my beauty.”

#twisted wonderland #tw: dark content #disney twst #tw: dark themes #tw: yandere #twst #malleus draconia #yandere malleus draconia x reader #tw noncon #tw bullying #fair folk #tw blood #dead dove fic #dead dove do not eat #yandere male x reader #cervix bruising #you cannot convince me that getting your cervix penetrated doesn't hurt like hell #Because getting it touched is just about the worst feeling i can think of next to getting stabbed #equal pain my friend

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good--merits-accumulated · 2 months

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Sometimes I think of Charlie being the first to needle Neil about his father and the first to take on the burden of breaking the news to Todd. And I am fine and normal about it all👍

#[breaks down in tears]#they're a triumvirate guys i promise. i prommy. (whips out the full fair folk au) here's my thesis #AUGH....... this was not brought upon by anything in particular........ just proofreading the knight/bard au #and really enjoying the heavy charlie presence in there #i just like writing him. he's such a nice counterweight to everyone else #AND OF COURSE. [BLOWING ON A BIG TRUMPET] PLATONIC INTIMACY IS KING FOLKS #dead poets society #charlie dalton #dps #neil perry

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mikesbasementbeets · 7 months

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byler in every episode -> 1.02. the weirdo on maple street

#folks. i did not love coloring this one #i miss s4...... s1 is harder to color. by which i mean s4 byler is lit like a road trip rom com and s1 like an 80s horror #and i mean s4 also has its horribly lit moments to be fair. but ykwim #anyway not much actual byler in this one. what with. you know #byler #mike wheeler #will byers #mikesbasementgifs #byler in every episode

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designernishiki · 10 months

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ladies and gentlemen. we got em

#this is so fucking FUNNY dude banxbsnanxb #STRAIGHT PEOPLE ON REDDIT ARE SO MAD AND IM JUST SITTING HERE. GRINNING. PLEASED #that’s 700x more in character than the alternative and I’m just praying this is true/legit (cause I couldn’t find the exact interview this #is from- but I didn’t see anyone saying it was fake on Twitter/Reddit so idk)#to be fair I could only scroll through comments on reddit for like a minute before it started giving me brain damage so #but yeah bdbxsbscshxjdj YOKOYAMA. MAYBE IVE BEEN GIVING YOU TOO LITTLE CREDIT.#I absolutely love seeing all these basic ass straight folks getting so pissy about him not settling down with a nuclear biological family #and a wife and all that and dying at the ripe old age of his fucking mid-50s #like no shit???? what games have you been playing bro the whole fucking Point of his idea of family is unconventional #he’s literally a fucking orphan who didn’t grow up with any biological family are you fucking fr #dgagdhdhd ANYWAY yeah I’m seriously hoping to high heaven that this is legit #rambling #kiryu #yakuza #rgg #rgg8

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aro-culture-is · 5 months

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aro culture is getting so fucking tired of people using the fact that there's a queer romance in something as a reason you should watch it. like haven't allos had enough of romance? queer or otherwise? I'm not saying queer representation is bad, of course, I'm just fed up with asking what a book is about and in response all I get is "oh it has queer people in it" cool! what is it about? having queer representation is not the be all end all of media can we please have ONE thing without romance in it. please.

#electroniccollectiondonut #aro culture is #aro #aromantic #actually aro #actually aromantic #ask #mod phoenix #yeah... it's like. this is a bad metaphor but it's all i got right now:#i'm vegetarian. it's not uncommon that if an event is hosted 'with food' that every single main dish contains a fair amount of meat #and most of the side dishes too #maybe the salad has chicken. the soup is a meat broth soup. the main course is steak. i literally cannot tell you how often this happens.#and if you're lucky there's like... bread rolls and butter. sometimes there's the Cheap Salad that's just tossed lettuce #and i promise you from experience: if i ask beforehand i am always told there will be something for me to eat #but like. believe it or not 1) that's not filling 2) it's usually the two poorest quality items on the line 3) i prefer salads as SIDES #i see similar stuff on the occasion i'm told there's any sort of 'rep' for aro folks #it's like... okay but the vast majority of the media is still very romance focused and the elements that aren't are usually... hm #not comparably interesting in how they're executed?#or it's like. kids media. which can be good - but i'd like to be allowed to have content that can be both for an adult audience #and NOT romance

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sadie-wolfdawn · 7 months

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wait ssoblr what are ur most listened to spotify artists for the month. as a personality test. (mine are the white stripes, emma ruth rundle, poppy, and hozier)

#im shocked chelsea wolfe didnt earn a spot on that list i shant lie #ssoblr #idk i wanna know like. what yall listen to. what the vibes are.#if u dont use spotify just like. guess. sdjksfhkhf #but yeah mine are. 50/50 sad indie and alt rock. although theres a smidgen of noise and screamo and goth etc #so ig it would be more fair to say 50/50 indie folk and rock just in general

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jojotier · 7 months

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i'll be real with you nothing has radicalized me quite like the experience of seeing les mis live. and not bc of the themes of the show or anything, because like, les mis is an excellent show don't get me wrong, but just metanarratively.

because walking to my cheap ass seat in the theatre i was jostled by assholes in full tuxedos, heard derisive sniffs from ladies with pearls around their necks, overheard a dozen conversations about what new overpriced restaurant just opened up in the city. I'm only lucky that the cheap seats were filled with people like me- younger, not necessarily white and not necessarily ultra-wealthy- who could ease the atmosphere.

the show itself was beautiful. i dont think i'll ever forget that particular Valjean's rendition of 'bring me home'- it was the highest, most perfectly angelic version i've ever known. the rebels at the barricades touched my heart because there I could see in them myself and those i knew- artists and dreamers, who still wanted to do better, to make sure everyone up top did better.

the end always rubs me a bit the wrong way. Marius just gets to go back to living in relative wealth and prosperity while all his lower-class friends are dead and gone; perhaps he'll do good beyond the end of the show, but we'll never see it. in terms of the show itself, it rubs me the wrong way, but i don't hold it against the show either- it's likely a result of the source material and the time in which the show was written.

but even so, despite that, as i stood with the rest of the crowd for a standing ovation, it was impossible to ignore how that effected the audience. because as i filed my way out of the theatre, those same rich patrons from the best seats with their furs around their necks and drink laden in their voices, were wiping teary eyes and gushing about how wonderfully brave those rebels were, how tragic their deaths, how it was simply the most marvelous show.

all the while, keeping a mistrustful eye on the poor tranny in somewhat ill-fitting clothes, dressed sunday best but no better. wondering in whispers whether they just let anybody in. because certainly, they loved every character on stage. they felt enjorlas' death as though their own damned child's. but the moment Marius can go back his life of refinement, so can they- they can dust off their gloves and gossip about the newest Manolo Blannik collection. they were more than happy to leave the barricade behind.

i don't have that luxury. the barricade lives within the walls of this house, lucky as i am to live in one. it only takes one fire. one hail of shrapnel. it takes one storm to blow everything i am trying to one day have away. if only i were some abstract concept, maybe they could spare an ounce of pity; if they had no choice but to watch me from beyond the veil. but i dared to occupy the same space as they, and it was an injustice that easily outweighed their cursory sympathy.

never before had it been cemented just how much of a different world the truly rich live in. it took me months of saving for a lone ticket and nothing else; for them, it would have merely been a drop in the bucket to have the best seats, the best wine, the best clothes, all to make a spectacle of watching poor people die.

and isn't that the greatest irony? les miserables is a story about poor men trying to either cheat the system which is rigged against them or abolish it for something for everyone, and yet, it attracts the wealthiest as flies to honey. never once do they question themselves. never once do they question the system. if they had that introspection, they still wouldn't do a damn thing about it.

after all- what's more entertaining to the rich than watching the unworthy masses struggle to matter in a system oiled only by their blood?

#les miserables #theatre #sorry for this post out of nowhere but i just cant stop thinking about the irony #of les mis being the play du jour for the wealthiest while at the same time having such an active fanbase of normal people #like i understand why this was the musical mentioned so often in american psycho #like #i didnt even have this experience when i saw hadestown and that also attracted a fair few wealthy folks from what i remember #there's just something about les mis that drove the wealthy in the crowd to some kind of height of pretentiousness

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