differentfrequency - Tumblr blog

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My husband does a nirnroot impression. How does a man do an impression of a magical plant, you ask? This. This is how.

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i redrew @99corentine 's miraak with extra tentacles

thank you for the beautiful man and his fucked up face we love him dearly

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My name is Helga Sinclair. I’m acting on behalf of my employer, who has a most intriguing proposition for you. Are you interested?

ATLANTIS: THE LOST EMPIRE (2001)

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Outfits for Jack and the Ladies Pitchiner ☆

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I feel like with the advent of the whole debate surrounding how fiction affects reality and whether shipping xyz makes you a bad person, there have been two shifts; treating fictional characters like they're real people capable of feelings and wants, and, on the flipside, treating real people like they're fictional characters.

The first shift has been talked about... honestly a lot, so I won't repeat it. However I feel like the second shift has been on the rise too, and I haven't seen much on it, so I want to talk about it here.

As you may well know, I'm an author. A transgressive author, I guess, if you want to give what I do a name. I write about topics that aren't socially acceptable, like rape, incest, violence, grooming, et cetera. I'm aware a lot of people don't like what I do, and thankfully so far those people have left me mostly alone.

There are a lot of people, however, who do like what I do, and do appreciate the stuff I write. And those are the people, it seems, who often forget that I'm a real person too.

Over the past year I've gotten multiple messages from people who enjoy my fics, especially the darker ones, who take the subject matter of my stories as a carte blanche to tell me whatever. I've been told, unprompted, about childhood trauma, recent trauma, explicit sexual fantasies and more, and on one particularly nauseating occasion, someone decided it'd be fine to tell me they wished they'd been raped as a child.

I would like to remind all of you that I am a human being.

I'm not your therapist, I'm not your parent, I'm not your partner, and for the majority of you, I am not your friend. I may be closer and more accessible than a traditional author because I have a Tumblr and a discord server and the like, but that does not make me your buddy. Even my close friends cannot just tell me anything they'd like unprompted without my permission, because I am a human being too, not a therapy chatbot.

I have boundaries, and I would like them to be respected.

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No one has painted me in over 400 years.

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I love the idea of Achilles looking slightly uncanny, bc he is the closest a mortal can ever be to a god

he doesn't rly tan nor burn, but the sun seems to reflect on his skin like on a golden plate.

he's so pretty it actually is unsettling. It's like if 10 years of war didn't affect him at all. He still looks like a young prince, cherished by his mother.

when he walks or even runs on the sand, he leaves little to no footprints.

His sweat naturally smells like sea/iode. The more he sweats (ex during training or battles), the more he reminds of his nereid heritage.

His teeth are slightly too sharp. Not enough to look inhuman, but enough to make you feel uncomfortable when he smiles or bare his teeth at you.

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Super random but aren’t Lucerys girlies also Edmund Pevensie girlies?

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My freshly printed postcards)) Available in Russia only:

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Since You've Been Gone

Explicit | WIP | 31.6k

Summary: When Harry Potter comes home to find Tom Riddle in bed with Bellatrix Black, he knows one thing: he will never allow himself to go through a pain like that again. He packs his things, says his piece, and vanishes into the cool night air, leaving Tom Riddle to pick up the pieces of his life and continue his path to be the youngest Prime Minister in Britain's history by himself. Of course, when Tom Riddle sees Harry on the arm of the Duke of Sussex and most beloved man in Britain in the paper five years later, he is not ashamed to admit that perhaps he made a mistake. And truly, Tom is not one to leave any loose threads hanging. Imagine Harry's surprise when his cheating, good for nothing, manipulative bastard of an ex shows up at the palace not a week later, determined to rip Harry from his new life and new fiancé with two hands. Unfortunately for Tom, Harry has no intention of going down without a fight.

Start from Beginning

The way I am so nervous to update this after so long 😭

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My morning glory doesn’t like the wind chime

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please baby come back I promise I won't transmit horrific images into your mind via our psychic bond anymore

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For the angst list! #1 with either pairing or both of you wanna! OwO

ooooo this one was extra spicy drama. still need to edit it but here you go:

-

1 : “Don’t touch me, you lost that privilege when you let her into our bed.”

When he saw the spirit leaving Pitch’s cave, Jack’s mind went blank. His eyes darted, analyzing, processing the image of Pitch leaning over to place a kiss on the other being’s hand.

Her, Jack thought as the spirit turned.  Unbidden arose the memory of Pitch having a child. A marriage. A wife.

The spirit was draped in black like Pitch, dark hair flowing in three thick braids over her back. She smiled, and Pitch smiled back. With a sharp, agonizing pain to his chest, Jack had the thought that they looked good together.

He waited until the spirit left, and Pitch had returned inside. And then he waited a while longer, to calm his breathing and formulate what he was going to say. Snow fell in thick clumps, despite the early warmth of spring pervading the air.

By the time he was floating down into the dark cavern, he still had no plan. He couldn’t even pin down exactly what was getting him so worked up over this.

Pitch greeted him as he always did - his smile softening, his eyes gleaming with a little more gold. Jack tried to respond with a similar air of normalcy, but he was distracted wondering if Pitch’s expression had softened for her, too.

He visited twice more before Jack decided he couldn’t take not knowing anymore. But on his third arrival to Pitch’s lair, he found it eerie and empty.

So of course, he began searching. Rifling through books. Scouring over and under every walkway and bridge. Finding nothing, until he came upon Pitch’s bedroom.

It was sparse, filled with more shadows than furniture or decor. Jack’s staff glowed to illuminate a small portion of the space as he peered around. His stomach did a somersault as he approached the bed, remembering the handful of times Pitch had gathered him close on those dark sheets, showering him with affection.

When he reached out to drag his fingers over the bed, he realized the fabric on top wasn’t just sheets. As he lifted it up, he thought it might be one of Pitch’s robes, but this one was a different material. It was lighter, with sheer layers. It was familiar.

The garment slipped through his fingers. It was hers.

A noise echoed down the corridor behind him.

Jack snatched up his staff. The winds whisked him from the room, carrying him out of the nearest opening to the outside world and far, far away.

.

“Where are you, Jack?”

“Huh?”

Jack focused himself, looking up at Pitch. They were sat across from each other on one of the walkways, perched on opposite railings. Pitch had crossed his arms and his brow was furrowed. Two weeks had passed since Jack found the robe on his bed.

“You haven’t heard a word I’ve said, and you’re turning my cave into an ice sculpture.” Pitch gestured to Jack’s feet, where frost was spreading rapidly over the stone. “Not to mention the palpable fear I can feel all around you. So, what is it?”

“Nothing,” Jack insisted, gaze dropping to his feet where they were crossed beneath him. “Don’t worry about it.”

“And yet whatever it is worries you a great deal.”

Pitch stood, stepping closer. Jack’s throat constricted.

“If my fear is such a bother to you, I should just go.”

There was a noise of amusement from above him, his only warning before grey fingers were reaching for his chin.

“Really, Jack, you know how delicious your fear is to -”

The fingers brushed Jack’s skin, and he lurched away. Spirals of ice shot out from the tip of his staff.

“Don’t touch me!” Jack shouted. His voice filled the cavern all the way to its darkest depths. Pitch’s eyes went wide, but Jack’s fury hadn’t finished boiling over. “You lost that privilege when you let her into our bed!”

The words were already out there by the time Jack realized what he’d said. Pitch gasped in a soft breath, hands going limp at his sides.

“Jack -”

“Why don’t you shut up, too,” Jack snapped, “just for good measure.”

Our bed. He’d never called it that before.

It wasn’t. It was Pitch’s. This was his cave, his bedroom, his bed. Jack was just a visitor. That much was obvious now.

“You’re drawing ridiculous conclusions from nothing,” Pitch snapped, hands curling at his sides.

“What I saw wasn’t nothing,” Jack shot back. He floated beside the walkway, ice crystals forming in the air all around him.

“I know exactly what you saw.”

Shadows lurched up the walls, writhing over stone as they swallowed up several shafts of light.

“Did you think you were being discreet when you ransacked my home? Because whatever effort you took to hide it was adorably pathetic.”

“Shut up.”

“I was planning to let it slide. But now you come here to yell at me like a child, and accuse me of - what, exactly? Tell me, Jack. I’m so eager to know what kind of relationship you think we have, that makes you feel you have the right to act this way.”

Jack’s heart dropped to his stomach, cold and cracked. Winds swirled around him, fast enough to rip at his hoodie and Pitch’s robe. Everything was wrong. But there was no taking back what either of them had said.

“Fuck you, Pitch.”

The winds gathered under him and shot him towards the only skylight not yet covered in darkness. Shadows raced over the ceiling, but he was faster. He burst out into the daylight and didn’t stop until he was in the clouds.

Snow filled each cloud that he passed through, droplets of ice scraping down his cheeks. As he flew, his mind grew empty until all that remained was the sickening image of grey lips pressed to a hand that wasn’t his own.

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pitch in outfits ♡♡

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he's just a little emo 😔

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Oh dreadful, fallow heart // Part 12

January 28th, 2023