#surprisingly poetic

[mx-giraffe]

When it’s been three hours since you started trying to go to sleep, and everything is so dark and so quiet it’s like there’s nothing else in the universe except you and the calm, silent stars watching from millions of light years away.

So you’ve given up on sleep now.

[orangepeelshortbreadcookies]

Marie exploding the appendage Rufus would have used to r*pe her in the beginning and then later blowing up Kate's hand as she was about to use it to mind-r*pe Jordan

[feddy-34]

inspired by this lovely tweet from @ohymnia have some brain rot

under the cut: dubcon/noncon, omegaverse, forced mating, mpeg mention, idk man

but anyway that one brock/nick fic on ao3 where brock's never had anyone to share his heat with before and so nick offers to help out cuz he has a moment where he sees brock being alone sitting by his locker and nick can smell the preheat on him and he's like "damn my qb is kinda pretty"

but!!! brock says no

and nick is not a person used to being told no (see above image) so he's pissed. who does brock think he is? rejecting a second overall pick, multi million dollar contract, top DE in the league alpha? he's the last overall pick, nobody wanted him anyway. and nick's getting more and more ratched up and his scent is getting stronger and stronger until brock feels like he's suffocating. he wants to leave but what can he do? everyone else has cleared out of the building already (brock took a long ass time in the showers) and nick's got him perfectly cornered.

plus brock's an omega going into preheat, nick's heavy ass pheromones are really starting to take a toll on him. he can feel his scent glands throbbing, knees getting weaker as the urge to submit takes over. and really, would it be so bad? finally having someone to ease the pain that roars through him setting every limb on fire? "i know you haven't had anyone to help you, but i'm here now," nick says, and isn't he? he's right there, a perfectly viable alpha. some part of brock's brain tells him to resist, to not give in, but that instinct is getting quieter and quieter as brock feels himself pulled towards nick.

and before he knows it, he's on his knees.

nick takes him home, cares for him through his heat, does an okay job, but he never leaves brock alone. every single moment he's there, presence and scent filling up every room of brock's house until he feels like he'll never be able to escape nick. he finally gets him out when his heat is clearly over, only convincing nick by promising that he'll come over after practice.

it's the first moment brock's had to himself in days. his mind feels numb, automatically dumping sheets and blankets into the washer, making himself a quick snack, mechanically scrubbing himself down. until he steps out of the shower and sees the marks. brock is absolutely covered in scratches, bruises, bites, and the more he looks the more he feels them start to sting and pulse. did nick really do this? brock doesn't remember feeling much pain, but he also doesn't really remember much at all. staring at the perfectly defined handprint-shaped bruises covering his hips and waist, his stomach starts to sink.

but nick is nice enough at practice and he sits next to brock on the plane a few times and he takes him out to dinner once or twice and doesn't hit him as hard during scramble drills. brock feels like he's moving in a slight haze until his next heat rolls around. and nick finds him in the locker room again.

this time there's no resistance, brock sliding silently to his knees as the instinct tugging at the back of his mind is silenced. he's quiet as nick drives him home, head leaning against the window. he presses his mouth shut as nick grabs his arm to drag him out of the car. he bites his lip as nick messes up his carefully crafted nest. this time his mind is clear. he can feel every bruising hold, every sharp scratch, every aching bite. but nick's helping him, isn't he? brock's heard that it's supposed to hurt, even when you're with an alpha.

and there is some relief, when nick pushes in, when he rocks his hips back and forth in a smooth continuous notion, when he lightly trails his fingertips all over brock's body. and when his knot finally pops, it's the most relief brock has felt all day.

but then. the bite.

sheer piercing agony radiating out from brock's neck to every part of his body. he feels like he's going to faint, ears ringing and vision blacked out.

and it's okay, it's fine. nick helps him clean out the bloody mess left on the front of his throat, nicely placed for the whole world to see. brock purdy, officially claimed omega. of course he hasn't bitten nick back yet but they'll do that nick's next rut. right? and brock didn't actually ask to be mated but nick's just helping him and looking out for him, the way a good alpha would. nick says it's a dangerous league, that they're aren't many alphas like himself who would be willing to help such a low status omega. brock should consider himself lucky.

and so he lives his little mated life, alphas steering clear of him, even ones he used to call friends. nick scares them away with his dark glare and bared teeth. but that's alright because he just needs nick. all he needed was a good alpha, and now look how well things are going. soon enough nick's going to put a baby in him and then he won't have to worry about football at all. brock won't have to worry about players hitting him on the field, even though he lives for the adrenaline rush. he won't have to deal with leading anyone, even though that's all he's ever wanted in life. he won't have to deal with alphas cornering him when he's vulnerable, although only nick ever does.

but he's an alpha, he can take what he wants. and brock is his. his to use, his to rule, his to discard when he gets bored. and so if brock jumps when he feels those hands close around his waist, so what? so what if the locker room hasn't emptied yet and brock can feel the weight of their stares on his shoulders? so what if he has to wear more and more layers to cover up the marks that nick always leaves? so what if the cleaning staff have tried to slip him notes, asking about his screams?

he won't have to worry about any of that soon, now that his life's been taken away.

[ramblingsfromthytruly]

i'm sorry

i'm sorry

for not feeling so sorry

looking at your

sorry state

i'm tired

of being tethered

my mind is tired

chipping away at your mind

it's slow work

slow fixing

but i'm not a mechanic

nor a therapist

never want to be

yours

never want to be yours

i'm dreaming

i hope you do well

i don't want to see you succeed

but i hope you succeed

[thekagepro24]

A comically tall tree that I could see out of my window across the street had recently gotten chopped down. I'd stared at it for a couple of years now and admired its unique shape, so its absence brings about an empty feeling in me. Yet for some reason, the more and more I glance out of my window and see the blank space the tree had always preoccupied, the more and more I start to think there wasn't any tree there to begin with. Even though I have photos of the tree, even though I can physically prove it was there, my memories feel like they're being overwritten with what I see today.

I have gotten used enough to its presence to miss it, and used enough to its absence to forget it, and that contradiction baffles me.

[crescent-cubed]

Face of a child,

Heart of a martyr,

Eyes of a dreamer,

Scars of a fighter,

Smile of a demon,

Tears of a coward,

Hands of a killer,

Heart of a lover,

Out front and center,

Chest ripped asunder,

Is what is found there

Just like the others'?

[cat-loving-elf]

"yapping with rhymes"

(vol. 1) (maybe there will be more volumes B] )

today we have a light drizzle

i'll sculpt rhymes with a chisel

those rhymes so fire you’ll sizzle

it has no meaning, but still i’ll bizzle

my sprite gonna fizzle

man i love sprite

darn sprite, drunk in the night

the fizzly feel on yo tongue

just as if there an opera sang

might, flight, light, kite, aight

lotta rhymes for sprite

one should not fight

cause not to rhyme - that’s not a right

so come on, spit fyre with your might

lines are great, no need to feel fright

i’m spitting those rhymes like a gun

but i don’t wanna run

i’m just chilling here

time? that’s no fear

i got some good gear

by that i mean my head

it’s like a rhyming shed

a shed o’ rhymes, if you will

on those lines will be executed: kill

cause im killing those rhymes and lines

my rhyme-o-meter at least inclines

where is it, where is it to find?

well, it’s all in my mind

[cassmouse]

Working on my new main original project atm and-

'I'm not gonna go overboard on the poetic romance'

'I'm NOT going to make this too much of a romance'

And then

Oh my god I am going overboard with the romance

[the-cormorant]

March productivity challenge - day 5

today the magnolias bloomed and we cut up a heart in school.

Do you have a favourite movie in particular or do you like them by genre? What's your favourite movie and/or genre?

well, i am generally a big fan of animation, especially the studio ghibli film Porco Rosso is special to me in a personal way. But i believe my all time favourite film is Perfect Days.

[xo-summer-tyme-xo]

To my future wife

I’m sorry I can’t give you my whole heart.

See, I gave a piece to my parents,

And they squeezed it a bit too tight.

I gave a slice to all my friends,

They took them when they said goodbye.

I gave a bite to my lovers before you,

It soured when they let it sit.

I need to keep half for myself,

I can’t feel your love without it.

So. I’m sorry I can’t give you more.

I just didn’t want to give you something

I’d already used before.

-JA

9/3/2022

[sovamurka]

author: nikogonelubly_

Peter and Demian - the unlucky priest and his beloved Antichrist ☦️💔

[cavefairy]

i am cringe and i am free but holy shit put me back in 2015

[zezacle]

I wanna take you on a rollercoaster

I wanna tell ya that I'm feeling closer

I wanna push it right over the line

I wanna push ya right over the line

The line that you draw when you draw me near

The line that you draw when you draw me near

I WANT- I WANT- I WANT- I WANT-

I WANNA LEAVE YOU FAR BEHIND

[match-your-steps]

I visited what I thought was the sun

(but there was ice inside)

and everything there was in boxes

with prices I could afford

but I was not allowed to see the boxes,

and so I could not buy them

and I flew back home instead.

[suguann]

✎. he tells you they’re the problem and leaves it at that before sliding a plate of eggs and toast in front of you.

tags. fem!reader, mild dubcon, possessive and obsessive behavior, but he's also kinda sweet?? [18+ only]

You like your new roommate.

Simon’s surprisingly better to have around than the last person who lived with you—a girl you knew from college who had an affinity for stealing your clothes and conveniently never had money for rent. He’s the type to make you soup when you’re sick, acknowledge you if you’re in the same room, water your flowers while he rolls his cigarettes on the fire escape, and carry your groceries up the four flights of stairs to your floor. 

He’s attractive, too, in the not-so-conventional sense, but in a disarming way, all small smiles and knowing looks and soft hair you know he doesn’t put much effort into—that sometimes curls around his ears when he lets it get too long—yet it still manages to look better than yours on the best days. 

He never tells you what he does for work, and you’re too polite to ask. But you have a feeling he makes enough to afford a place on the less crime-infested side of town—somewhere nicer than your cramped apartment with its outdated appliances, leaky faucets, and the bright neon sign atop the building across the street that shines through your windows all times of the day—but he says he’s not ready to live alone.

Something tells you there’s more to it than him being a lonely bachelor, but again, you don’t pry.

“Does this place have wi-fi?” is all he’d said the first time you meet, in a voice so smooth and only slightly broken up by his accent, clad in a shirt that looked two sizes too small around his arms and clutching a duffle bag in one big hand. 

Your brain was this shaken-up box of words and syllables that when you answered him, it came out in a nervous stutter. “Y-yeah, I’ll, er…I’ll give it to you—the password, I mean—once you've moved in. If that’s okay.”

He’d dropped his duffle bag in front of the room that would be his. “Consider me moved in.”

The smile he gave you, crinkling eyes and chuckling lightly, only made the stutter worse. 

You let his charm roll off you; you always figured it came naturally to him, a characteristic that comes with being attractive and good.

A handful of months later—of finding a routine around each other and lazy smiles in the morning—something changes the night you go out with a guy Mary from work eagerly sets you up with. 

His name’s Robb, he’s a doctor, and you both love cats; he has a house in Spain. Did I mention he's my cousin?

(A dull no way concealed behind your teeth.

If you hadn’t said yes, you feared your entire lunch break would consist of her waxing poetic over a man you're unsure about meeting.)

For a flicker of a moment, there’s an unreadable expression on Simon’s face as he watches you touch up your makeup in the hallway mirror and slip your hand into the crook of your date’s elbow at the door. There’s a slight glint of something uncharacteristically cold behind the mask of indifference before a small smile replaces it.

“Have a nice night,” you throw over your shoulder, except you don’t notice that he never says it back.

You mope around the apartment when Robb—who surprisingly exceeded your expectations of mediocre dates, not that you ever plan on admitting that to Mary—doesn’t reach out to you for three days. Then a week. You’re at that age to understand when people get busy, and a nice night doesn’t always mean it’s mutually reciprocated. But you liked him, and it felt promising after he’d kissed you goodnight against your front door. 

It had to have been the kiss that turned him off. Maybe he realized it was too much too soon.

When Simon finds you curled up in a ball under your comforter, one thumb gently wiping away your tears, he doesn’t even bring up your date. Instead, he orders your favorite take-out and puts on a sitcom you’d mentioned to him once—somewhat surprised that he remembers—the dreamy doctor who’d ghosted you blissfully forgotten with greasy food and a warm, comforting chest to rest your head on.

Simon’s there again—sweets in hand and a soft voice to soothe you—when another date (Rin from finance on your floor) a month later is a no-show, and a few weeks after that when Rin tells you without context that he can’t see you anymore. 

The third time of let downs feels worse. It’s worse because maybe there’s something wrong with you, and when you ask Simon, he’s too nice to rub salt in your wounds. He tells you they’re the problem and leaves it at that before sliding a plate of eggs and toast in front of you.

You've been Simon's roommate for a year, and he doesn't take it well when you tell him you're looking for a new place.

It’s after he comes home from a three-month work trip. The shadow that crosses over his face should’ve been your first hint that something is wrong.

Had you noticed the signs sooner, you wonder if you’d be less like prey caught by the softness of your underbelly, kept in place by the scruff, and sharp teeth at your neck.

"Beg me. Beg me not to cum in you."

"S-Simon," you whimper wetly, "don't cum in—ah—me."

His fingers hold your chin with an unyielding grip, ensuring your gaze doesn’t stray from his in the cracked mirror. You’re embarrassed by what you see, how spread open you are to his dark, inkwell eyes hungrily watching as you twitch when his other hand slides between your thighs.

"Don’t stop begging, love,” he growls, squeezing you tighter, “or I might forget."

There’s that dark look again, the one that sends a shivery feeling up your spine, possessive almost with how he traces every inch of you as if burning the image of you into his memory, the softness washed away by something more sinister. 

A little voice in the back of your head tells you to flee, but another knows he'd find joy in catching you. 

No one would ever think your sweet, attractive roommate would be the same man staring at you now—everything you thought you knew about him stripped away to reveal a new canvas, bare for splashes of paint to fill in the cracks—teeth marks imprinted along the curve of your jaw, on the inside of your thighs.

He hides it well. His humble personality doing the trick of being the impenetrable mask for what he’s concealing underneath: a raw obsession, an addict finally getting his hands on his favorite drug, someone who can’t recognize defeat and knows how to take.

“What do they have that I don’t? Hm? Must be a desperate little thing. My pretty slut,” Simon’s voice rumbles low against your ear, shy of unhinged. “They won’t treat you as good as I do. Don’t I treat you good?”

You whimper when his grip grows tighter, but he doesn’t seem to notice—like he’s not fully here with you. No trace of the soft, gentle man who keeps the freezer full of your favorite ice cream, who runs to the store when you run out of tampons and comes back with chocolate and a new pair of fuzzy socks. A few words have turned him into someone you don’t know. Perhaps you never did.

“Answer me.”

An indiscernible  squeak is the only sound you make. 

He chuckles darkly, his head dipping down to rest his lips against the fluttering pulse in your neck, a finger slipping through the alarming amount of wetness between your thighs where his cock rends you down the middle, and begins rubbing firm, tight circles over your clit, pulling a moan from your throat. 

“It’s okay, love,” he mumbles, words barely audible above your heartbeat swimming in your ears. “I’ll be everything for you. Everything you need. I’ll show you why I’m better.”

[underground-secret]

Chappell Roan at the VMAs was everything. People keep confusing her outfit with Joan of Arc but she was actually Julie D’aubigny, which is so much more impactful. Let me explain.

In simple terms she was very good at fencing and she even did opera singing. But what really connects her to what Chappell did is her love story. Julie was a queer woman, she often dressed in men’s clothing but did not attempt to come off as a man.

At some point she had a relationship with a woman, yes a romantic one. Unfortunately, but not surprisingly, the girl was shipped off to a convent to prevent the two from being in contact. And to frame it simply Julie followed after her, snuck in pretending to be apart of the whole thing, created this whole elaborate plan to sneak her lover out which included getting a dead nuns body and placing it in the girls bed followed by burning the building down, therefore faking the girls death.

They ran away together. But, a couple months later the girl went back to her family. Julie’s plan was found out and she was charged as a man on a variety of crimes, she was sentenced to death by burning.

Now let’s put this all together.

1. Chappell was consistently using swords

2. In the performance she looked back and shot a flaming arrow at a building burning it down which goes back to the burning of the convent.

3. The song performed was Good Luck, Babe! And Julie’s lover going back to her family is so Good Luck, Babe! coded. Like literally ur lover followed you to a conversion thing, setting up this whole thing so that you can run away together and love freely and then you go back home to ur family and she dies at the stake. Although not surprising for the time period it’s still so crazy and soooo poetic.

4. Julie d'Aubigny has this whole tragic queer story and Chappells music centers around that sort of thing, and what’s more impactful than a literal gay performer dressing as a gay performer who was killed for being gay?

Do you guys see what I mean??? So, while I love the edits I’m seeing please keep in mind that it is not Joan of Arc. In fact, I think it’s super important that this is corrected considering how real and tragic Julie’s story was.