#metaphor for internal conflict!!!!!!!!!

[jup1tersparx]

I have the Rick Rounds brain rot. He’s silly, he’s horrid, he’s sad, his actions are inexcusable, he’s a jock, he’s a theatre kid, he’s filled with guilt and has gotten past being too proud to acknowledge it, he wants to get better, he believes himself to belong in hell, he’s learning, he literally died before he sought self-help, he’s dead and also puts the dead back in the ground, he’s got mummy issues, he’s got religious trauma and homoerotic tension with the devil, he has media literally, he’s cringe fail, he at one point summoned a sword despite having no clue how to use one, he somehow mistook Tiff for an angle, his black water effect is a straight up metaphor for character growth and he used it to hurt people, his black water effect is a straight up metaphor for character growth and it’s slowly consuming him, he has flowers that change colours based on his emotions, he’s gay, he’s prone to violence, he has no idea who he is anymore but he’s slowly building his life up again.

AHHHHHHHHHHHH YES SO TRUE I LOVE HIM SM :DDD HES SO UNDERRATED FR

ADDITIONALLY:

- he was so miserable he convinced himself he MUST be suffering for Divine Purposes and was gonna be a saint and the star of a new religious text (he was not)

- hallowing tends to pick up on who the hallow-ee Truly Is/desires to be and emphasises that (eg: lady ethel mallory spiderification, big mikey. yk. big and scary, person from episode 18 intro) and RICK'S hallowing made him bloom flowers and ivy. and it terrified him!!!!! direct quote: 'I'd rather die Rick Rounds than whoever these thorns are going to make me." !!!!!!!!!

- furthermore: he was SO good at self-repression and channeling every emotion into anger and violerce he somehow managed to end up the fucking poster boy for neo-conservative america. girl

[invinciblerodent]

never even thought i would ever have an opinion about solas sex and head game but i agree with you and i actually think he has non not bad at it not embarrassing nope just no game at all he doesnt go down on anyone like DJ khaled lol i think he would like rub it alittle then get to pounding which as sera ever so eloquently put it "Drop 'em and rebuild the empire" and im not a solas hater or anything i like him and his story but uuh yeah

Oh don't worry, I didn't think I'd ever have an opinion on this either until I read that lol, it was that post alone that made the "oh that is absolutely incorrect" switch click on in my head.

Like, I mean this in no offense of anyone who likes him or his romance, I think it's interesting to explore and he's a very complex and fascinating figure, one of the best antagonists I've ever seen in anything, but the way I imagine sex with Solas going is-

roughly 30 minutes to an hour of flirtatious philosophizing and reminiscence about the nature of spirits and analogies to desire, in which he uses very unclear, kind of misleading metaphors, and sounds like he's somehow attempting to explain sex to you in an attempt to get you going. this is the foreplay portion of the evening.

3-5 minutes of mediocre missionary. you come nowhere close to coming, but it's okay, it's not terrible.

another roughly 30 minutes to an hour of self-flagellation that sounds like he's concerned about the potential that he took advantage of you and requires reassurance for it, but in reality he's kind of cleverly saying-without-saying that he was hit by the whole internal conflict he has going on about whether modern elves are people, and what questioning that makes him for having had sex with one of them. Like was this exploitation, who did it technically exploit (the spirit or the mortal)(is he a spirit or a god or closer to a mortal)(he can't even say 'oh god' without it sparking another minor existential crisis moment)(post-nut clarity hit him like a sledgehammer), and whether consensual sex under pretenses this false with someone he isn't totally convinced is a fully realized person would qualify as assault, or a roundabout form of bestiality, or what. this makes continuation, or a second round, entirely unfeasible.

he either sneaks out when you fall asleep (a la what Weekes said at one point), or says something like "I thank you for this wonderful evening" and leaves without cuddling, but either way he's leaving you to rub one out on your own.

that's it, that's the entirety of how I imagine it going. (during the plot of the romance in Inquisition, of course.)

I'm sorry for all this, Anon.

[skitskatdacat63]

I wish I didn't get myself so deep into history lately, it makes me want to completely derail the path I'm on rn AAAGHHHHHHHHH

[lilacerull0]

do you ever think about the diagram of the door opening as a love confession because i am trying not to think about it and could really use some help

[niggadiffusion]

Boomerangs & Cathedrals

My words came jagged—

edges brittle like old glass.

But silence?

Silence cracked me down the middle.

Not ‘cause of you.

Because of me.

The echo didn’t leave—it unpacked.

Moved in.

Changed the locks.

Inside my throat,

a stage with no lights.

Curtains hiding

a truth that could’ve rerouted the plot.

But I blinked—

and the moment packed its bags

before I could stop it.

I smiled at the cookout.

Laughed at the jokes.

All while sipping lava

through a straw of composure.

No one noticed me choking

on all the things

I tried to mean

but never actually said.

Funny how silence

don’t even need words to cut.

It’s the ghosts of what ain’t get said

that build pressure in the chest.

Like a ribcage ain’t supposed

to hold this much nothing.

The day your eyes asked

and I just… blinked?

That’s the day I became

a building full of echoes.

Not abandoned—just never opened.

A temple for unfinished sentences

and dreams that got cold feet.

And the loudest sound I’ve ever heard

ain’t a scream or a gunshot—

It’s courage folding up

and crawling backwards down the spine.

It's the exhale

that never made it out.

Even now—

years later,

different clothes, different city—

I still hear that moment.

Still hear it bounce

between memory and almost.

Boomerang silence

with no off switch.

I swear, it etched hieroglyphs in my bones.

The kind only I can read.

Stories told in hesitation,

whole novels written in pauses.

Maybe that’s grace.

Maybe restraint

is its own kind of art.

Like digging through the wreckage

of a war I didn’t start

but still chose not to finish.

But still…

some nights I wonder—

did you hear it too?

That thunder rolling in after the look?

The storm that never rained

but broke the sky anyway?

[imastoryteller]

20 Ways to Show Anger in Your Writing

Here’s a list of 20 signs of anger that writers can use to show, rather than tell, a character’s emotions through physical, verbal, and internal reactions:

1. Facial Expressions

Clenched jaw or grinding teeth

Narrowed or glaring eyes

Lips pressed into a thin line or curled into a sneer

2. Body Language

Fists clenched tightly at their sides

Tense shoulders that rise or square up

Puffing out the chest or stepping closer to confront

3. Speech Patterns

Voice lowered to a dangerous, icy tone

Shouting or raising their voice suddenly

Speaking in short, clipped sentences

4. Breathing Changes

Heavy, rapid breathing (nostrils flaring)

Sharp inhales and audible exhales

Holding their breath as if trying to stay in control

5. Sudden Physical Movements

Slamming fists onto tables or walls

Pacing back and forth restlessly

Pointing a finger or jabbing the air during speech

6. Uncontrolled Gestures

Shoving objects off a desk or knocking over a glass

Finger tapping or knuckle cracking

Wrapping arms tightly around themselves

7. Temperature and Flushes

Red face, neck, or ears

Visible veins on the neck or forehead

Breaking into a sweat despite the situation

8. Eye Movements

Eyes darting or rolling sharply

Avoiding direct eye contact out of fury

Staring someone down with unblinking intensity

9. Words and Tone

Cursing, insults, or verbal jabs

Sarcasm sharpened to hurt others

Accusations thrown in frustration

10. Breaking Personal Space

Leaning in closer, looming over someone

Pointed steps toward another person to intimidate

Physically turning away to dismiss or avoid conflict

11. Physical Reactions

Throwing objects or breaking things in rage

Punching walls, doors, or inanimate objects

Shaking hands or trembling with pent-up anger

12. Posture Shifts

Back stiffening and chin lifting defiantly

Shoulders jerking or twitching

Rigid stance as though ready for confrontation

13. Inner Thoughts (for internal POV)

“I could feel the blood boiling in my veins.”

“The room seemed to close in on me.”

“My pulse thundered in my ears.”

14. Displacement of Anger

Kicking objects on the ground (chairs, trash bins)

Storming off abruptly or slamming doors

Snapping at someone unrelated to the cause of anger

15. Temperature Descriptions (metaphors/sensations)

Heat rushing to their face or spreading through their chest

A cold sensation washing over them, signaling restrained anger

Feeling fire “lick” at their insides or their temper “ignite”

16. Instinctive Responses

A growl or grunt escaping their lips

Baring their teeth as if instinctively defensive

Ripping or tearing something in their grip

17. Silence as a Weapon

Pausing dramatically before responding

Refusing to speak or meet someone’s eyes

The ominous quiet just before they explode

18. Physical Sensations

Muscles twitching or vibrating under the skin

Heart pounding visibly at their throat or chest

A bitter taste in their mouth or nausea from anger

19. Reactive Behaviors

Interrupting others to correct or attack

Dismissing concerns with a quick wave of the hand

Throwing out ultimatums like “Don’t push me!”

20. Lingering Aftermath

Hands trembling after the initial outburst

A headache, buzzing ears, or lingering tension

Regret or shame slowly replacing the heat of the anger

These signs can be layered together to create realistic and powerful depictions of anger, whether it’s smoldering beneath the surface or erupting violently.

[glossystardust]

maybe you are angry at me, for refusing to give in to you, or maybe you think it’s simply amusing. whether this is the situation or not, you and I both know how cowardly it is to aim for the back. to exploit weakness at the cost of others. so i’m here begging, wishing, hoping, that you’ll do yourself justice.

i’m not ashamed. it is not contradictory. i still have my beliefs, still feel secure in my position. and yet here i am, hoping, looking up, holding onto the last parts of me. does it sound hypocritical? i don’t think it is. because even if i don’t have belief or faith, i have hope, and that’s something ingrained in my soul. it doesn’t matter what is your name or whether you Are. it is all that is left of me, when we are face to face. you cannot take it from me.

i’ll fight and bite and scream and hold onto it with bloody hands and a fire in my chest so strong it makes my eyes tear up. i’ll hold onto it until the moment comes, and you make your move, and my throat seizes up, and my knees hit the ground either in relief, or in despair.

[voidfanatic]

BRO BRRO, ok I'm going to rant in tags becuzzzz (SORRY FOR BAD GRAMMAR I'M TRYING)

the strangeteens as the four horsemen of the apocalypse

(this was started as a joke and it ended up taking three days please have pity)

closer looks under the cut

Johnny is pestilence (the pale horse), Ripp is famine (the black horse)

Tank is war (the red horse), and Ophelia is death (the white horse)

[heritageposts]

Google-translated, posted October 8th

This piece Manoel wrote in 2020 should also be mandatory reading for all Western "leftists," especially now as the Western illusion of military invincibility is being shattered

[...] Another factor that is very common in the western left is to treat suffering and extreme poverty as elements of superiority. It is very common in Western leftist culture to support martyrs and suffering. Everyone today likes Salvador Allende. Why? Salvador Allende is a victim, a martyr. He was assassinated in Pinochet’s coup d’ etat.

And, on Western leftists support of Palestine (pre Al-Aqsa Flood — Manoel, writing in 2020, was clearly underestimating the military capabilities of the Gazan resistance)

Palestinians are a people who are deeply oppressed, in a situation of extreme poverty, that don’t have a national economy because they don’t have a national state. They don’t have an army or military or economic power. Therefore, Palestine is the total incarnation of the metaphor of David vs Goliath, except that this David doesn’t have a chance of beating Goliath in political and military conflict. Therefore, almost everyone in the international left likes Palestine. People become ecstatic looking at those images -- which I don’t think are very fantastic – of a child or teenager using a sling to launch a rock at a tank. Look, this is a clear example of heroism but it is also a symbol of barbarism. This is a people who do not have the capacity to defend themselves facing an imperialist colonial power that is armed to the teeth. They do not have an equal capacity of resistance, but this is romanticized. Western leftists like this situation of oppression, suffering and martyrdom.

If you're a Westerner, I think it's worth investigating to what extent this image Palestinians as 'defenseless' or 'defeated' (I've seen some of you talk about Palestine in the past tense) factors into your support of Palestine as it is now, under occupation.

Because there will be an after.

Everyone supported Viet Nam when it was under attack, being destroyed and bombed for over 30 years. Viet Nam beat Japan in WW2, then had to fight France, and then had to fight the United States. It passed 30 straight years without being able to build a damn school or hospital because a bomb would drop, first from France and then the United States, and destroy it. When the country was finally able to beat all of the colonial and neocolonial powers and have the opportunity to start planning, to build highways, electrical systems, schools and universities without having bombs land on them the next day and destroy everything that was being done, the country was abandoned by the majority of the left. It lost its charm, it lost its enchantment. There is a fetish for defeat in the western left. It is an idea that defeat is something majestic.

[pseudowho]

Nanami Kento was not a father; not strictly speaking. Not technically speaking. Not metaphorically speaking. The absence of paternity, however, did nothing to eschew him of the shackles he wore with pride, wearing them as a mantle; a medal of honour.

For one with such a black hole in his life, Itadori Yuuji would not notice Kento's absence unless something took Kento away from him, so natural was it that the void was filled.

Nanami Kento's priorities altered so dramatically, with such quiet consideration, that he had no real words to explain his situation to you when he first took you out for dinner. Or, when he took you out to the beach. Or, when you took him to that art gallery. Or, when you came over to his, tumbling through the door into stumbling kisses, all hands and groans and desperation.

For Nanami Kento was not a father. He ensured that his relationship with Yuuji did not overlap with his relationship with you, fearful that you would reject the burden of not-parenthood.

Kento was so introspective in his attempts to hide his not-parenthood, that he failed to see how blatantly-fucking-obvious he was. As if you wouldn't notice that dinner was always made for three, with a portion put aside or frozen for a hungry visitor. As if you wouldn't notice that Kento browsed the teenage boy sections in clothes stores, making note of what he would come back for later. As if you had not seen Kento listed as "I.C.E." on Yuuji's phone screen at school one day.

As if you were not a mother. As if you were not fully prepared to be.

+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+

Kento was stalking through the belly of the beast when he spotted two missed calls; one from Yuuji, and one from Shoko. His heart leapt into his mouth, his blade hanging dumbly by his side as he cursed internally at his lack of signal. Torn by conflicting responsibilities, he focused on the task at hand, but as a noticeably sloppier Sorcerer when worry gnawed at the bones of him.

An hour later, finally free, he jogged to his car, panting. He slipped into his seat, and called Yuuji-- no answer. He called Shoko-- no answer. He swore again, hurrying to start the car...and his phone buzzed.

He looked at the screen, and opened a message from you. He sat, staring at it, a cold trickle of worry down his spine. A photo; of Yuuji's characteristic shoes, beside your own, with the caption:

Picked up a wounded stray. He looks hungry. We'll be at yours soon!

Kento churned through emotions, trying to read your tone on the screen. Angry? Cheerful? Exasperated? Would you want to talk about his deceit later? Technically he hadn't lied. Or, he had. A lie by omission perhaps? She's angry. She's disappointed at least. Is that worse? That's worse.

Kento stewed, the whole drive home.

+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+

Kento continued to stew, when he arrived home to an empty house. He paced, and sat, and paced, and sat. He cursed himself for not maintaining tighter boundaries between Nanami-Kento-the-Boyfriend and Nanami-Kento-the-Not-Father. So deep was he in his self-flagellation, he jolted to hear the door open, and two familiar peals of laughter rolling through.

"--Ieiri-san told me I should have waited for Ino to arrive, but I just had to do something, y'know--"

"--not jump through a damn window, Yuuji, that's excessive--"

"--not stupid if it worked though--"

"--as your Not-Mother, I cannot condone this."

Kento stood, watching the scene unfold in wonder. You and Yuuji, bantering. You reaching for the grocery bags, and Yuuji insisting he carry them instead. You directing Yuuji to the bag with the snacks. Yuuji totally bypassing Kento, jogging past him to the kitchen.

As if this was his home. As if Kento was his home. As if you were his home.

Kento was still stunned into silence when you leaned up and pressed a quick kiss to his lips.

"Hey! Sorry we're late. Yuuji was hurt on a mission, so I picked him up, but I wanted to get ice cream, and I noticed we didn't have enough in for dinner for three, and--"

Your words cut off with a muffled "mmf!" as Kento leaned down, pulling you in by the back of the neck, and small of your back, silencing you with a kiss which tasted of all the gratitude for which he had no words. By the time he'd released your lips, his forehead pressed to yours, you felt the air rush back to the vacuum he'd left behind.

"...Kento, are you oka--"

"I love you."

The air rushed straight back out of you, leaving you light and giddy. Your lips puckered, threatening tears, so long had you been wondering if he'd ever confess the depths of his feelings.

"...you love me?"

"I love you. I love you. I absolutely love you. And I'm sorry I didn't--..."

"...didn't think I'd be happy with you looking after a boy with no parents, who needs some?"

You let your question hang, so Kento could soak in how much of a fool he'd been. He sighed, tense and looking over at Yuuji rustling through grocery bags in the kitchen.

"...I didn't want to assume that you'd accept it."

"Would you choose someone like that, though?" Kento looked unsure, and you clarified. "I mean, would you choose someone who felt jealous of you looking after an orphaned child?"

Kento's gears turned. "...no."

You smiled up at him, cupping his cheek in your palm. "Exactly. So, like I was saying...I put fresh sheets in his room. I'll go and make dinner. Yuuji will pick a movie. And you should have a word with him about jumping through plate glass windows to get to a Curse faster."

At that, Kento's head snapped up, fixing Yuuji with a frown that had Yuuji dropping bags of snacks on the floor.

"Yuuji."

"Shit, I'm sorry Nanamin, I--"

"Language."

"Shit, I'm sorry Nanami-san, I--"

You headed to the kitchen, pulling on an apron and stifling laughter at the Not-Father and Not-Son bickering in your wake.

[estrellogy]

Astro Notes Pt. 2

- IN DEFENSE OF LIBRAS. I often hear people say that Libras are pick-mes, but that’s only the underdeveloped ones. I think Libras do get along with the opposite sex really well. The mature ones genuinely connect with the other side because they’re a good balance of both masculine and feminine energies.

- However, I do see SOME Libra men take advantage of this ability and be quite promiscuous. Libra SUN in particular since it comes so naturally to them. Libra Venus men, on the other side, prefer to be monogamous and just pour all their romantic energy into one person. If they have grounding placements like Venus/Saturn positive aspects or earth placements, they’re definitely the type to look for THE ONE™️

- Scorpio and Capricorn placements humor is so under appreciated. People often see these placements as intense alpha males who never show emotions like they’re just 😐. Mfs have perfected dry humor and comedic timing.

- Aries Sun have an easier time maturing than Aries Moon. Since the Moon is such a primal and sensitive place for Aries to be in, the impulsive side of Aries is amplified. Meanwhile, Aries Suns can channel its aggressive fire energy more consciously.

- Leo Suns with 12th house moons can create a lot of internal conflicts. The natural inclination to shine versus the need to completely hide your nature and be intensely introspective.

- Mars in 6th house people really benefit from incorporating exercise into your routine. Everyone does, but Mars in 6th house people in particular can accumulate a lot of stress and tensions so they need to move their bodies often to avoid burn out (speaking from personal experience 😭)

- Scorpio placements are lusted after, but CANCER placements are often desired both physically and emotionally. People want to have a taste of Scorpio placements but often become overwhelmed by their intense nature. Cancers, on the other hand, seem more gentle even though they’re equally insane intense. That’s why Scorpio is often associated with seductresses/siren archetype while Cancer is the “wife”/divine feminine.

- Again, Cancer placements are underrated because the moon energy seems more familiar compared to the mysterious and ethereal nature of outer planets like Neptune and Pluto. But the moon quite literally controls water and has the most direct impact (night vs day) on the actual functions of Earth. Plus, the moon is also a symbol of mystique, beauty, and literally the ‘dark side of the moon’ as a metaphor for human psyche. I can do a whole post about why Cancer placements are really the beauty indicator/archetype in astrology if you guys want 😭

Thank you for reading! Let me know if you guys enjoy these notes and I’ll do more 🤍

[unknown7s]

Can I just say that I really fucking HATE how the majority of the Arcane fandom praising Season 2 is deeply in the mindset of Piltover in reality? Like, it's not even funny, and I don't know where to begin.

I'll just start with Silco because he's this huge metaphorical character who is clearly written as the embodiment of a long list of sociopolitical agendas in the real world. And before I start, pardon my English, since it's not my first language.

I know y'all in the Anglo-American sphere tend to focus more on classism, inequality and police brutality theme. But the way I see it, THAT and every single dialogue plus the specific word choice of Silco & Sevika literally SCREAMS of postcolonial discourse (I guess F. Fanon is most well-known to y'all) and even some part of M. Foucault's philosophy, etc. I'm writing "etc." because the list will go on forever if I describe all these creepy historical parallels between the depiction of Zaun's internal conflict and what real countries that have been (or still are) colonies went through, and what real colonizer propaganda looked like during that time—like how those characters who fight for the nation's independence are the big bad villain and psychotic monsters who need "redemption arc" therapy, while those who cooperate with the oppressors are the good-hearted familial heroes of this story.

So upon reflection, if this fandom were to be a collective intelligence, we should have asked ourselves, "Is this show truly not problematic for portraying such a character as villainous?" and thus, "Is this show thematically implying far-right propaganda?" even before Season 2 presented us with this insane plot that glamorized the militaristic fascist aristocrat proclaiming martial law as a 'romantic revenge arc'.

But what did the majority of the fandom do since 2022? They were so busy shitting on this dead villain, claiming he has done so much wrong that he doesn't even deserve to be praised as a character. So instead of trying to understand where this character's point of view is coming from, they blindly hate him to the point where they are now fabricating a list of crimes that he didn't even commit, editing false information on the fandom wiki profile.

What's more frustrating to me is that I thought the problem was media illiteracy all along, but oh no, I was being way more optimistic than the reality. Now that I’ve read all these interviews from the showrunner and main writer—Linke and Overton—I get the sense of why Season 2 turned out like that. The more they babble on about this show, the clearer it becomes that they don't even acknowledge how messed up their political views are, which are so far-right. Taking the seemingly-centrist line doesn't make you fair, you're just passively siding with the oppressors. And lesbian sex scene doesn't make this show "progressive", in fact, hiding oppressor fantasy behind a rainbow flag makes it even more treacherous.

So yeah, I think critical voices should be much louder than this, but watching the majority of this fandom neglacting problems only to praise the show? I think my hope for humanity kind of get lost more and more as time passes, lol.

[wonderhorror-sys]

a lot of my issue with plural rep is that a lot of it is literally just ignored. people make it about anything else ever. and while i think specific stories can be about multiple things at once and often are using plurality as a metaphor for something else (like gender or internal conflict or whatever), the plural part tends to get ignored. and it ends up feeling almost like being pushed out of those stories for me - the plural reading is very clear and aknowledging it wouldnt negate anything else in most cases, but most people still get... frusturated? when its brought up, like they dont want it to be about us, even a little.

[qinche-cvmslvt]

Forbidden

Content Warning: SMUT, ACTUAL SMUT THIS CHAPTER 🤭, NSFW, MDNI. Professor Sylus, masterbation, P in V. Cunnilingus.

Tag list: @ikesimpleton @roselynviee @harutogfr @daddysyluslittlekitten @mcdepressed290 @floofycookie @aneertawrites @nchant6dkitty @aikonecrosis

A/N: What happens when you sit on his desk and he watches? Let’s find out.

Chapter 4: Fantasy

Monday morning crawled in under grey skies, thick with humidity and tension. Outside, clouds pressed heavy against the windows, dimming the fluorescent light into something harsher, colder. The overheads buzzed with a low, persistent drone, an artificial brightness that only made the air feel more hollow.

Students trickled into the classroom with the usual chaos of teenage momentum. Backpacks thudded against desks. Chairs scraped. Laughter bounced off the walls, too loud, too bright. The scent of cheap cologne, vending machine coffee, and lip gloss hung thick in the air.

And at the front of the room, Sylus stood still—shoulders squared, jaw clenched tight, fingers curled around a stack of ungraded essays like they were the only thing anchoring him to the moment.

It was the start of a new week.

But nothing felt new. Not when he could already feel your absence like a missing limb. Not when his body braced for you before you even arrived, shoulders tight, breath shallow, spine taut with anticipation and dread. He placed the papers on his desk with slow, deliberate care and reached for the marker. The sharp click of plastic echoed too loud in the room. He didn’t flinch. It was petty, maybe, that sound. But it was his only rebellion. The only control he had left.

He turned to the board.

Monday, 17 February.

He stared at the date after he wrote it, the marker hovering just a second too long in the air. Three days. Three days since he pressed his forehead to yours. Since your breath ghosted across his lips like a promise waiting to be broken. Since you said “Then do it,” and he didn’t.

Three days since he failed to be the man he thought he was and almost became the man he’d always feared.

His chest tightened. He lowered the marker and then the door opened. You walked in and everything around him went quiet. You didn’t do anything special. You weren’t looking at him. Your shoulders were relaxed, your eyes scanning the room like you were just another student in another class on another unremarkable day.

But he felt you. Like a shift in gravity. Like something holy desecrating sacred ground. You weren’t wearing the bow either and somehow, that made it worse. The absence of it was like a void he couldn’t stop staring at. Like you were daring him to imagine you undone without the invitation of red silk. Like you knew he would. Suddenly, your gaze found him, brief, unreadable and devastating. You didn’t smile or look away too fast. You held his stare for a heartbeat too long and then you moved to your seat with a quiet elegance that made the hem of your skirt look like sin.

Sylus forced himself to breathe. A deep slow exhale.

“Good morning,” he said to the class, his voice clipped and perfectly even.

A few muttered responses followed. A gum pop. A lazy beat tapped out against a desk. Someone yawned too loudly. He didn’t care. It all sounded like static in his ears. He turned back to the board and underlined the date. Twice. Hard.

“We’ll be continuing our discussion on internal conflict in narrative form,” he said. The irony of it scraped at the inside of his throat like broken glass. Internal conflict. Fucking perfect. He could’ve chosen anything; allegory, setting, foreshadowing—but no. He picked this. Like he needed to bleed in public. Like he wanted you to watch him suffer.

“Open to page 147,” he said, forcing his voice steady. “The excerpt from The Seafarer. I want you to analyze the metaphors used to convey longing, isolation, and—” He faltered. His eyes had drifted. Of course they had and you were already looking at him. Not innocently. Not by accident.

Like you knew he’d look. Like you had waited for it. Your gazes locked, quiet and dangerous. It felt like being touched without permission. Like the softest drag of nails across skin you hadn’t exposed. His voice barely held. “—and restraint.” The word hung there. Too loud. Too honest. You blinked and tilted your head just slightly, the gesture slow and feline. Your fingers moved across the page, looping your pen with a grace that made the act look erotic. He watched you underline something. Then circle it. Twice.

Eventually, Sylus couldn’t help himself. He walked the rows. Checked on student progress. Asked questions he didn’t hear the answers to. His body moved on autopilot, his mind trailing a step behind, still lost in the ache that had been gnawing at him for three fucking days.

He reached your desk. He shouldn’t stop but he did anyway. “Anything unclear?” he asked. The words were bland. Safe. But they cracked on the edge of something darker.

You looked up slowly. Those eyes again. Calm and knowing. “No,” you said, voice soft and full of quiet teeth. “I understand perfectly.”

Of course you did. His eyes dropped to your notebook. Neat. Organized. Beautiful, like everything you did. Two words were circled.

Emotional restraint.

His breath hitched. You followed his gaze, then lifted your chin just slightly. Your lips curled. Not a smile. No, something crueler. Something intimate and he stepped back before he did something reckless.

When the bell rang, you stood with the same practiced grace. Bag slung over your shoulder. Posture perfect. Eyes forward. A model student. But you didn’t look back. You didn’t need to. You knew. And Sylus? He watched you go, jaw clenched, throat dry, hands shaking so subtly that only he could feel the tremor crawling under his skin like guilt. He didn’t move until the classroom was empty. Until the door had swung shut behind you and the air turned still. Only then did he let himself breathe.

Only then did he feel just how much of himself he left in your wake.

~

The school was quiet. Not the soft quiet of a library or an early morning. This was the silence of everything left behind. Desks abandoned. Lockers closed. Hallways dim. The kind of silence that pressed down like a weight, like a secret, like the hush after something has broken but before the sound of it reaches your ears.

Sylus closed the door to his office behind him, the soft click of the lock sliding into place like a gun being cocked. The only light came from the small lamp on his desk. Amber, low and warm in color but not in comfort. It cast long shadows across the walls, shadows that reached like hands, soft at first, but growing darker as they stretched.

He didn’t turn on the overheads.

Didn’t need to. He was already burning. His coat was already off. Slung over the back of the chair like a surrender. His tie hung loose around his neck. The top buttons of his shirt undone, skin exposed, throat bare and jaw tense.

He sat down. Slow. Controlled. The chair creaked beneath him, a quiet groan that echoed like guilt. His elbows rested on the desk. Fingers threaded together. And for a long moment he did nothing. Just breathed. Slow. Tight. Each inhale a war. Each exhale a concession. Because you were still here. Not in the room but in him.

In the smell of the air you passed through hours ago. In the imprint your voice left on his spine. In the memory of your thighs pressed together in class, of your voice murmuring, “I understand perfectly,” like you were dragging the blade across his throat and he’d bled for you. Quietly. Constantly. He leaned forward, pressing his fingertips to his temple, dragging them in slow circles like it might help him hold onto reason. It didn’t. Because you were already in the fantasy. There, on his desk.

Your skirt hitched up. Your shirt unbuttoned just enough to show skin that wasn’t his to see. That fucking look in your eyes. That knowing smile. That cruelty you wore like a second skin.

“Do you ever think about it?” You asked in his mind, voice smooth and low, like it’s only meant for him. He doesn’t answer. Because in this version? He’s already between your thighs. His hands are on your hips. His mouth is against your inner thigh, warm breath dragging across the delicate skin just above your stockings. You taste like surrender and sin. You moan softly, quiet, eager, ready.

He pushes your knees wider, palms firm, thumbs bruising gently into flesh that twitches under his touch. You watch him. Not shy. Hungry.

“You’re not going to stop me?” he whispers. And in that soft, perfect tone that wrecks him every time, you answer: “I’ve been waiting for you to lose control.”

He does. He yanks you forward and lowers his mouth to your core and takes his time.

In reality, he’s still in the chair, fists clenched, eyes open and wild, sweat blooming across the back of his neck. But in the fantasy? He starts slow, one broad, heavy stroke of his tongue over your slit, deliberate. Unhurried. Like he wants to taste every second of your unraveling. The first gasp that breaks from your lips is quiet but the second? Wrecked. Your fingers dive into his hair, fisting tight, pulling, not out of control but out of need. Desperate.

You feel the vibration of his low groan against your core when you say his name, soft at first then again, louder. Like it’s the only thing you still remember how to say.

“Sylus…”

He growls and that’s when it changes. His grip tightens, fingers digging into your thighs hard enough to leave reminders. His mouth devours you now. Messy. Unrelenting. His tongue flicks, swirls, fucks you open. You arch off the desk, thighs shaking. You writhe beneath him, breath stuttering, body trembling like every nerve is lit. Your moans grow frantic. Your grip in his hair turns savage and just when you feel like you’re about to fall. He stops. He rises slowly. Mouth glistening. Eyes dark.

You’re panting. Flushed, Soaked and Ruined. He doesn’t say a word. He grabs you by the hips and turns you. You don’t resist. You can’t. Sylus bends you over the desk in one smooth motion, your chest pressed flat to the wood, arms stretched forward, his hand sliding up your spine as he spreads your legs wider. Your skirt stays bunched around your waist, wrinkled, twisted, clinging to your hips like a flag of surrender. It doesn’t fall. It doesn’t need to.

You gave up control the second you said his name like a prayer. Your panties? Yanked to the side, no tenderness, no pause, the seam tearing with a sound that echoes like a warning. You feel it snap. You hear it fall. And you know. Decency’s gone.

His breath is rough behind you. Low. Tight. Unforgiving. Then the sound of his zipper. The sharp rustle of fabric and suddenly, he’s free and gripping the base of his cock with one furious fist, thick, hard, leaking. Not slick with want. With wrath. This isn’t gentle arousal. This is rage, shaped like need. This is I warned you. This is mine. He drags the head through your folds once nice and slow. Deliberate and you feel it in your throat. He groans dark and ragged and the way he grips your hips? It’s not just hunger. It’s a sentence.

And then He thrusts into you in one savage, unrelenting stroke. No warning. No easing in. Just the sudden, shocking fullness of him slamming into you so deep, so violent, your cry isn’t a moan, It’s a shatter. Your hands scramble for purchase on the desk, nails dragging, back arched, lungs burning as his cock drives into you like a weapon forged from need and fury. The growl that rips from his chest isn’t human. It’s feral. Possessive. Like he’s waited too long for this. And when he bottoms out, his hips flush against yours, his grip bruising your waist, it’s not just sex. It’s conquest. It’s violence dressed as worship. It’s I told you what I’d do to you, and now you’re feeling it.

And you do. You feel every inch of him, every pulse, every inch of stretch, like your body was made to be split open by him.

The office, the space where he once lectured, once led, once hid, becomes something else entirely. Not sanctuary. Not a grave. But a cathedral and you are the altar he desecrates.

“This is what you wanted?” he snarls in your ear, one hand tangled in your hair, the other gripping your hip hard enough to bruise. “You like playing games with fire?” Your moan is the only answer he needs.

He slams into you again and again each thrust a brutal, fevered descent into madness. The rhythm is punishing. Relentless. His hips crash against yours with obscene force, the sound of skin on skin echoing through the room like a war drum. Every inch he drives into you feels deeper, harder, like he’s trying to crawl inside you, claim you from the inside out. There’s nothing soft in it, just hunger and fury, lust twisted with something feral. His breath is ragged against your ear, his grip bruising on your hips, dragging you back onto him like your body belongs to him and only him. And you? You take it.

You take him. Every savage thrust. Every shattered moan. Every inch of him that pounds into your core until you’re nothing but sensation, stretched open and shaking, lost in the heat of him wrecking you without apology.

“Say it,” he demands. “Say you like it when I’m like this.”

You whimper, fragile, breathless and barely holding on. “I like it,” you gasp, voice catching like it hurts to speak. “I… I like you like this.” Another moan slips out, choked and helpless. “Rough. Out of control and gone.”

You’re not just saying it. You’re admitting it. Like a secret torn from your throat while he’s still inside you, unraveling every part of who you were before him.

“You want me to lose control?” he growls, teeth at her neck.

“Yes.”

And he breaks.

In the chair, in reality, his knuckles have gone white from gripping the edge of the desk. He hasn’t moved. Not really. His cock aches beneath his slacks. Every beat of his heart throbs against the inside of his zipper like punishment. Like penance. But he still doesn’t touch himself. Because this isn’t about finding his release. It’s about you. It’s about how you’re under his skin. How you haunt him even now. How the fantasy isn’t enough because you’ll never look at him like that in real life.

Or maybe you will and that thought is the most dangerous one of all. He exhales, long and ragged, head tipping back. His mouth moves with a sound. Your name.

Only your name.

~

The room is still, too still and silent. The kind of silence that makes sound ring louder with every shift of the sheets, every uneven breath, every restless movement like a confession against the walls. You lie on your back, legs parted slightly beneath twisted sheets. Your skin is flushed and damp, your body bare except for a thin scrap of black lace hugging your hips. The moonlight crawls across your thighs like cold hands, painting you in silver and shadow. Your chest rises and falls, uneven. Breathless and wanting.

You haven’t moved in minutes but your mind won’t stop. It’s filled with him. Sylus. Not just how he looked today, stern, unreadable, all buttoned-up self-control and clipped sentences. No. It’s worse than that. You’re thinking about the way his voice dropped when he said “restraint.” About how his eyes snapped to yours like a gun cocked, how his throat bobbed when he saw what you’d written, emotional restraint. About how he stepped back like distance was his only armor. God, how badly you’d wanted him to fail. You turn your head against the pillow, exhale slow and tight. One hand rests low on your stomach, fingers twitching with a tension that refuses to fade.

Your body is warm. Too warm. Your thighs slick where they press together, your skin hypersensitive, tingling from nothing at all. From memory. You close your eyes and let the scene replay. Him, looming. His voice, low and wrecked. His forehead pressed to yours, whispering “If I kiss you now, I won’t stop.”

Your breath hitches. Your hand slides lower. You hesitate and then you let go. Your fingers skim the waistband of your underwear. Tug it down. Just enough. Just far enough. The fabric drags across your skin, slow and obscene. Your knees part. Your other hand grips the sheets. Your pulse pounds in your throat like a warning.

You touch yourself, just barely. Just enough to make your breath catch in your throat. You’re already soaked. Pathetic. You circle your clit once. Then again. Slow and teasing. Like you’re trying to ease yourself in but there’s no easing anything. Not when the thing inside you wants to tear its way out. You bite your lip hard, until it stings. Not enough to bleed. Just enough to remind you you’re still holding something back. Your hips shift, slow at first, grinding into your own touch with a rhythm that makes your breath catch in your throat. Your fingers move faster now, slippery, practiced, trembling as heat coils tighter in your core. But it isn’t your hand that makes you moan.

It’s him.

Not sweet. Not soft. Just there. In your mind, he’s sitting at the edge of the bed. Legs spread wide. Tie loose around his neck, one end draped down his chest like an afterthought. The top buttons of his shirt undone just enough to expose the sculpted cut of his collarbone, the dark dip where throat meets chest.

He’s not touching you. He’s not saying much. Just watching. Like he owns the air you’re breathing and then, that voice. Low, velvet-drenched in command. A rasp that slithers straight into your bloodstream and curls low in your gut.

“Go on, Sweetie…” A pause. A smirk you feel more than see. “Show me what I do to you.”

You gasp, a sharp, broken sound that catches in your throat. Your back arches, just slightly, chasing something just out of reach. Fingers move faster now, frantic, trembling, slick with want. But it’s not enough. It never is. Not deep enough. Not hard enough. Not him. You press harder, hips rocking, fingers sliding in again, curling just right, but still empty. Your thighs begin to quiver, muscles tightening with the effort, the ache, the strain of chasing something your own hands can’t quite reach.

Your breath comes out in shallow, shaky gasps. Your lips part. Your eyes flutter. But he’s still there. Sitting at the edge of the bed like temptation incarnate. Legs spread. Tie gone. Shirt unbuttoned to mid-chest, sleeves rolled, forearms flexing as his hands rest on his knees. And those eyes, sharp, crimson and hungry. They don’t blink. He watches you fall apart on your own fingers like he planned this, like this is exactly where he wants you. Wanting. Desperate. Needy.

“You look so pretty when you’re frustrated, Sweetheart,” he murmurs, voice a dark purr that wraps around your spine. You whimper, hips bucking harder.

He leans forward slightly. “Is it not enough?” His tone drips with mock sympathy. “Poor thing…” A pause. Then a crooked smile. “You’re trying so hard to replace me, aren’t you?”

Your jaw clenches. Your fingers pump faster, sloppy now, too shallow, too furious.

He watches. “You want it deeper?” His voice drops lower. “You want to be stretched, filled, wrecked, the way only I can do it?”

Another soft, broken moan tears from your throat and he groans, just watching you squirm. In your mind, he rises slow and deliberate, the kind of movement that makes your breath catch before he even touches you. He steps between your knees like he belongs there, like he’s claimed the space and you with it. Then his hand wraps around your wrist firmly, unshaking. He pushes it down, pinning it beside you. Not harsh. Not tender. Just… certain. Like there was never another option. Like your body was always meant to obey that grip.

It’s not violence. It’s not mercy. It’s control and you melt under it. And then, his voice, again. Low and controlled. Breaking. “Let me.”

You imagine the weight of his body settling over yours. The way his mouth would move against your skin, not just kissing, but consuming. The way his voice would sound when it fell apart in your ear.

“You wanted me to lose control? Then take it.”

Your legs tremble helplessly, frantic, as if they’re begging before your mouth can. The pressure builds like a storm beneath your skin, heat curling tight in your belly, winding tighter… tighter… Everything inside you pulls taut, muscles clenched, breath shattered, nerves lit like fire along a fuse. You’re there. Right there. Perched on that sharp, aching precipice of almost so close it feels cruel. So close it hurts.

You think about his hand braced against the wall. The way he leaned over you like he might break. The sound of his breath catching on the word restraint. Your fingers work faster. Deeper. Harder. You’re gasping now with each breath a whisper of his name. Not loud. Not bold. But broken.

“…Sylus…”

“Come for me, kitten,” he growled low, rough, and thick with heat. Not a request. A command wrapped in velvet and sin, meant to tear you apart from the inside out.

You don’t come. You detonate. Your body bows off the mattress, jaw slack, muscles clenching around nothing. You whine, low and quiet, his name still caught on your tongue like a curse you can’t undo. It crashes through you in waves. Hot. Violent and inescapable. Your fingers don’t stop right away. They keep moving, chasing every last drop of sensation, every flicker of heat that clings to you like punishment.

When you finally slow, your body drops back against the bed like you’ve been wrung dry. Your hand falls away. Your chest rises and falls, trembling and aching. The sweat cools on your stomach. The silence returns but you don’t feel satisfied. You feel empty. Because it wasn’t him. No voice in the dark. No weight above you. No wreckage in his kiss.

Just you. You and the memory of what almost was. You drag the sheet up your body, bury your face in the pillow, breathe in cotton and skin and regret and you know. Next time you see him, you’ll burn all over again.

[quartzteph]

bro what are they yapping about

bonus rambling + art stuff under the cut :3

for clarity’s sake this is metaphorical, re!jekyll doesn’t actually see or hear a tiny jekangel or hydevil on his shoulder, but this silly little visual popped in my head and i just really felt like drawing it. this was partially an excuse to draw re!jekyll going through it, and partially an excuse to make a little “erm, actually” jekyll, cause i love when he’s a punchable little nerd :)

this is kind of a continuation of that one concept i mentioned in my first re!jekyll post, where intense emotions or internal conflict can trigger green goop. in this case, it’s the latter (as represented by the shoulder angel and devil, a classic visual representation of internal conflict). i ended up keeping the goop subtle here, with it just showing up as sweat, but do know that it can (and will) get worse in more intense situations.

the best (and dumbest) way i can think to describe re!jekyll’s characterization is as follows: jekyll would never bite someone because he is a gentleman, and biting people is extremely improper. hyde would eagerly bite someone with zero hesitation or remorse. re!jekyll would bite someone in the heat of the moment, then instantly feel guilty and start apologizing profusely. duality.

here’s the initial sketch + the final piece without the mini jekyll & hyde fellas

side note: this drawing has made me realize that my steven universe era might have had a slight lasting impact on the way i draw. oops.

[just-some-random-blogger]

Snow Angel

Aemond's Version

I'll angel in the snow until I'm worthy but if it kills me, I tried.

Gwyane's Version ❄ Daemon's Version ❄ Aegon's Version ❄ Aemond's Version ❄ Jacaerys' Version ❄ Cregan's Version ❄ Criston's Version

Aemond Targaryen x Targaryen!Reader | 800< | cw: fem!reader, twin!reader, targcest, canon divergence, angst, violence, blood, war, death, typos, etc.

A/N: renee rapp my beloved. aemond and jacaerys' version go hand in hand

You were the blood in his veins. You were the half of him that shined. You were everything good about the him. He despised you for it.

You were the understanding he never got, the confidence he wished he had. You were the inspiration of laughter and the admiration of all. While in the womb, you robbed him of all the characteristics he wished he had, and he never forgave you for doing so.

So, when tensions were high, and the call of war was nigh, he knew it was his moment to prove himself, to everyone, to himself, to the council... to you.

He'd long forgotten when, was it when he saw you laughing with those bastard Strong boys, or was it when he'd been mockingly gifted a pig by his own brother, but he'd convinced himself that he would have to slay dragons in order to have you. It was no longer a metaphor but something that very well happen, something real and life threatening.

He'd held himself into an impossible standard, along the way, unknowingly done the same to you.

While he was so wrapped up in his self-mandated torment, he gazed upon you only with his missing eye, unable to see how much you wished to free him from his internal conflict. Yet every time you reached a hand out to him, he met you with scorn, taking out his anger on you. You felt the only way you could ever get through to him was to make yourself useful.

You did not care for politics. You did not care to make the Iron Throne your seat at the table. You wanted nothing to do with the burden your festered father left. But you did want to avoid war, as you saw how it hurt your sister, your mother, your people. Aemond saw the way you influenced your brother away from war as a sign of weakness, seven hells, as another slight against him. You were choosing to spare the enemy because of his wretched nephew, Jacaerys, who had always held your affections.

And when you walked in on him and Criston during their late night conspiring, you only further stoked his ire.

Dare you come to his quarters in nothing but a nightgown and a robe?

"Princess," Criston stands to attention.

You cross your arms. It makes Aemond clench his jaw.

"I need to speak with my brother in private."

Aemond stares at you. Cristion turns to him, expecting some sort of response. He gets none, and so he decides to simply nod and leave, "of course."

Once he is gone, the prince finally speaks, "have you come to whore yourself out to me?"

You ignore his insult, "I've come to speak to you. This is the only hour you'll speak to me."

"Wrong," he snaps, "even now, I do not wish to. Leave me."

"Aemond," you mutter, "I only wish to help-"

"And who told you I need help from a woman?"

This is your final straw.

His eye widens at the way you fall apart in your hands. You sob, tears spilling into your palms. It had been long since he saw sorrow cloud your face, the last time being when Jacaerys and his family left King's Landing, Jacaerys, who you chose to speak your woes to instead of him.

He stands and cautiously walks towards you.

"I will never be good enough for you, will I?"

His face falls, "what?"

You shake your head and step back, "no matter what I can think of, it will not be worthy of your attention because I thought of it."

He is unable to speak, unable to move as you flee him.

His mind is heavy with your words as he flies on Vhagar the next day. He was told a dragon was spotted pressing close to King's Landing and took it upon himself to patrol the area.

You can imagine his surprise, no, his delight, when he saw the creature, when he recognized the dragon Vermax, saddled by his rider.

He did not hesitate. He commanded Vhagar to scorch him, gritting his teeth when they escaped.

He pursued them, eager to seek rid himself of his sole competitor.

But then a loud screech was heard from behind and Vhagar's tail was knocked, making her flight unsteady.

Two dragons? An organized attack. Fine, Vhagar is large enough to take two dragonlings at once.

Aemond ascends, looking for his opponents from the height. He spots Vermax' green scales from afar. He hears the second dragon before seeing it come closer. He gives the command and Vhagar breathes fire before Aemond even identified who she attacked.

But then that creature makes a sound, and his mouth parts at the familiar screech. You circle around him, screaming something he cannot make out.

You choose the bastard over him?

He turns to Jacaerys. Vhagar flies over to attack.

He doesn't remember what happened after he gave the order. He was so single minded in his fury that the only thing that snapped him out of his trance was the sound of your scream and the sight of your dragon attempting to escape Vhagar's clamped jaw.

It was too late when he made Vhagar let go. You fell from the height and he could only watch. Not even Vermax coming to your aid could save you.