Mistborn Hero

Maria | 18+ | Podfic | Gifs | Writing | Requests Open | MultiFandom | Multishiper | Send me an ask/message to talk

[mrsbartlesby]

Something about how on their wedding night, they stay up so late chatting with friends and family, dancing to Harris’ increasingly cheesy playlist, and just sitting and watching everyone they love… that when they go to bed they just can’t even muster the energy to fuck. They shower together and kiss and touch and grope and grind their bodies against each other, but by the time they’re toweling off they just tumble into bed and barely awake kiss and touch a little more but then they’re happily humming into each others mouths but the hums turn to deep breaths and then little snores and they’re dead asleep.

Sometime just before 5am, Ilya sits up with a start like he’s breaking out of a bad dream, gasping, as he realizes they did not fuck on their wedding night. Isn’t that bad luck? Or like some sort of curse? They cannot start off their marriage as a sexless one. That is not who they are. This cannot stand. Ilya has to remedy this before they are doomed.

The sun isn’t up yet so it’s still kind of the same night, right?

Ilya feels himself getting hard through the panic, and that animal part of his brain clicks on. This, this he knows how to do. Seducing Shane is his favorite pastime and he’s got to get to work.

He turns towards his sleeping husband (god, Ilya can’t actually believe that just yet), seeing that Shane he curled towards him, his hand on Ilya’s thigh, he’d hardly noticed in his panic.

Ilya gently lifts Shane’s arm so he can slide under it, lying down now facing Shane, grabbing his hip and pulling their bodies flush together. Shane sighs and his eyes flutter but he keeps sleeping.

Ilya peppers kisses over his eyelids, his freckles, the one ear he can reach. As he starts kissing down Shane’s neck he feels a small gasp against his shoulder, and Shane’s croaky sleep voice says, “Ilya, what are you up to?”

Ilya lightly bites Shane’s shoulder. “I’m trying to seduce my husband.”

Shane softly laughs and pulls his head back so he can see Ilya’s face. “What time is it?”

“It is still our wedding night.”

“Is it? Where’s my phone?” Shane tries to turn away to look for his phone and Ilya grabs his neck and pulls their naked bodies back together. He can tell the moment Shane feels Ilya hard on Shane’s thigh, because Shane rolls his hips a little and starts to harden too.

“Mmm. Fuck, Ilya, I was so tired I barely remember getting into bed.”

“Do you feel rested now?” Ilya nips up Shane’s neck and under his chin.

Shane runs his hands down Ilya’s bare back and grabs on to his ass, pulling himself harder against Ilya so they both can feel the friction.

“I am definitely less interested in sleep. Did you get so horny in your sleep it woke you up?”

“No, I was having nightmare that I didn’t fuck my husband on our wedding night. Was horrible.”

Shane laughs into Ilya’s neck, but is now rolling his hips, grinding himself on Ilya’s thigh. Both of their mouths roaming each others throats, faces, anywhere they can reach. “Ilya we fucked twice the day of our wedding. Once in the morning, once right before my parents arrived because you said you had to or you might throw me over your shoulder right after the ceremony.”

Ilya stops Shane with a long, deep, exploratory kiss. Shane chases his mouth after they break from the kiss, as Ilya says, “Yes, but we weren’t husbands yet.”

“But we are now.” Shane leans in for an awkward smiling kiss, where their lips don’t meet quite right and their teeth almost bump. He’d gotten used to these kisses over the years, and he loved them in all their awkward glory.

“So, we’re both awake and it’s still our wedding night. What are you going to do to me Mr. Hollander-Rozanov?”

Ilya growls as he finally rolls on top of Shane, nestling between his thick thighs. He grabs Shane’s wrists and locks them over his head with one hand, while the other gets to work opening Shane up.

“You should find something to hold on to, husband.”

(This just randomly came to mind and I’m tired so forgive the typos, grammar, etc. I’ll probably edit it in the morning.)

[hannibal-lecters-cock]

obsessed with the fact that hannibal is technically a horror show but half the fandom watches it like it’s a slowburn romcom with occasional cannibalism

[systlin]

In 38 years of life I have learned 1 thing;

If anyone is ever training you to replace them in a position and tells you 'its an easy job I don't do much' what this means is that you are about to spend six months to a year catching up on all the stuff they didn't do and sorting out the stuff they did poorly.

In related news I finally managed to finish un fucking my predecessor's lack of a filing system.

[hungrymilliek]

And if they start a sentence with "You're not supposed to do it this way but...", you're about to learn some shit to make OSHA go:

[systlin]

My job is literally in safety and emergency management and that phrase makes me break out in hives. Which is to say that you are entirely one million percent correct.

[bisquid]

Alternatively by 'an easy job where they don't do much' what they mean is that they've got so much unwritten knowledge and experience stored up in their heads that they *genuinely believe* it's an easy low effort job and then leave you with a learning curve like a rocket launch and frantically spawning spreadsheets of all the shit they know off by heart

[sharp-tender-shock-deactivated2]

This is a comment someone appended to a photo of two men apparently having sex in a very fancy room, but it’s also kind of an amazing two-line poem? “His Wife has filled his house with chintz” is a really elegant and beautiful counterbalancing of h, f, and s sounds, and “chintz” is a perfect word choice here—sonically pleasing and good at evoking nouveau riche tackiness. And then “to keep it real I fuck him on the floor” collapses that whole mood with short percussive sounds—but it’s still a perfect iambic pentameter line, robust and a lovely obscene contrast with the chintz in the first line. Well done, tumblr user jjbang8

[headspace-hotel]

I hate that my aesthetic sense agrees with this but everything you just said was correct

[headspace-hotel]

I went back to dig up this post because I was thinking about poetry.

This is one of those non-poem things that are among my favorite poems.

As the OP stated, the use of alliterative consonants is aesthetically just great, especially the placement of the strongest use at the end: “fuck him on the floor.” The use of “chintz” is indeed great word choice.

Because I’m insane, decided to scan the poem:

Not only is the second sentence, indeed, perfect iambic pentameter, the entire poem is perfectly metered, though the first sentence has four iambs rather than five.

There are further things I love about this poem, though: I like the casual connotations of “keep it real” juxtaposed with “chintz.” It causes me to interpret the “chintz” more strongly as meaning something fake, a facade. There is also of course the coarseness of “fuck,” which is a contrast with “chintz” but a different kind of contrast, gutsy and carnal where “chintz” is flimsy and inanimate.

And then there is the storytelling: there is SO MUCH storytelling in just these two lines. To break it down: The speaker is having sex with a married man, in the house he shares with his wife, which is “filled with chintz”—something that here connotes fakeness, in contrast with “keep it real.”

The illicit encounter in the poem takes place within a house filled with facade, the flimsy construction of the wife’s marriage and domestic sphere, but the encounter itself is a taste of something “real.” That’s a story, and it’s just two lines.

This is EIGHTEEN SYLLABLES, y’all. The amount of meaning condensed into these eighteen syllables is stunning, and it is so elegantly done.

From a technical standpoint (and ive taken 300- and 400-level poetry classes so I can say this) this is damn near flawless as a poem.

[agent-octopus]

Kept thinking about this ever since I saw it and had to do something

[headspace-hotel]

there's art now

[jetlaggingbehind]

[questions-within-questions]

Ah dang to go further; the floor is framed as a refuge. As if there is literally no other space in this house that hasn't been populated by his wife with flimsy inanimate fakery. There is no space for this man in this house save for the floor. There is no space for him on the sofa, oon the counter tops, and most notably, no space for him in the marital bed.

[normal-horoscopes]

I’d also like to point out the use of the word “has.” The wife has filled the house with chintz. She isn’t filling the house with chintz. She doesn’t fill the house with chintz. She has filled the house with chintz. Use of the past-tense makes the wife a subtly removed element in the story, someone whose presence we see in the environment, but who is blissfully distant during the actors throes of passion. There is an element of physical as well as emotional separation from the wife that is catalyzed by being fucked on the floor. Use of the past tense is an end to the wife presence in the actors life, a carnal catharsis amid cold fragility and emotional distance.

[stargazing-enby]

This is my new favourite post in the world

[astronomical-bagel]

everyone cheer for the one (1) time tumblr had reading comprehension

[trekkiesagainstchastity]

And, predictably, it's because it was about gay sex

[willgrahamscock]

HANNIBAL + Text Posts 16/∞

[calebwittebane]

person typing into google search bar: obfuscate meaning

google ai overview: Understood! From now on, all meaning will be hidden from you, and you'll be forced to wade through the dreary vastness. Whether it's things you've always held dear, or new ideas you've yet to discover, nothing will make sense or appear to have any real value. This could be the beginning of a fascinating journey!

[felix]

whenever i complete chores i get an achievement banner pop up in my head dark souls style

[felix]

[courtofthevampireking]

[killer-arcade]

[courtofthevampireking]

[dankxsinatra]

[cryptidfuckery]

Hey so like omen wise how are we doing. Are we doing okay

[greatmountainfloofsquatch]

Could mean good things!

[mina-logan]

They are 2 cool 4 me

Bonus with no text:

[lesbianrozanov]

toddler shane refusing to talk after his hockey team lose a game. yuna & david are trying to be encouraging like “bud!! you played so good!!” and shane is ignoring them while climbing into his car seat where he’s going to angrily drink his juice box and then chew on the straw.

[rabbittush]

He’s had a rough day…

[penandinkprincess]

cackling about the idea of the ottawa team doing challenges for social media because shane's first question would be, "how many did rozanov get?" and ilya's first question would be, "how many did my husband get?" because they want to beat anyone, but they ESPECIALLY want to beat each other

which means that over time, new challenges for each of them get prefaced with, "and your husband has not gone yet" or "your husband got X" because it is a GIVEN that they're going to want to know how the other did so they can try to beat him

and it's really just another point of evidence that at NO POINT did either of them ever consider letting the other person win ANYTHING

you think the motherfuckers locking the FUCK in to catch the most ping pong balls blindfolded are going to let the other win a deciding match for the cup?? be SO fucking for real

[penandinkprincess]

cackling about the idea of shane and ilya getting separated on the bench from time to time and the public thinks "oooh, trouble in paradise? the rivalry rearing its head again?? hollander getting fed up with rozanov??"

and the truth is that the team was playing against someone ilya and/or shane ESPECIALLY hates, which means shane was dropping the most vicious, lethal reads known to man and making ilya crack tf up to the point that they were attracting attention and the coach was just afraid of someone reading lips and getting them all in trouble

and signficantly, the three person buffer between them just keeps shane from SAYING his comments

he and ilya are still leaning forward and backward to look at each other and exchange "mhm" "mhm" looks that still make it clear they're still communicating their thoughts perfectly fine

[northstareclipse]

As someone who has overcome substance abuse, I find this decade’s framing of addiction incredibly insulting.

Somewhere along the line, we decided that any repeated behavior, any source of pleasure, any coping mechanism, any habit that isn’t monk-like and productivity-optimized must be labeled an addiction. You like scrolling art before you create? Addiction. You watch comfort shows after work? Addiction. You check your phone in line at the grocery store? Addiction. You drink coffee with breakfast? Addiction. The word has been stretched so thin it barely means anything anymore, except “a behavior I personally disapprove of.”

Addiction is not “I enjoy stimulation.” It is not “I have habits.” It is not “I seek input before I produce output.” Addiction is a specific, devastating pattern of compulsion, harm, loss of control, and often self-destruction. It dismantles relationships. It corrodes trust. It hijacks the reward system so thoroughly that survival itself becomes secondary. It is not equivalent to liking Pinterest boards or needing music to focus.

When everything becomes addiction, nothing is. The language gets diluted, and with it, the gravity of what actual addiction is. People who have clawed their way out of substance abuse know the difference between compulsion and preference, between destructive dependence and deliberate engagement. Collapsing those distinctions into a trendy moral panic about “dopamine” is not enlightened. It’s sloppy.

There’s also something deeply puritanical about it. The 2020s seem obsessed with pathologizing pleasure. If something feels good, it must be suspect. If it captures your attention, it must be hijacking your brain. If it isn’t explicitly productive, it must be rot. We’ve replaced older moral frameworks with neuroscience-flavored shame, but the tone is the same: you are wrong for enjoying things.

What bothers me most is how casually the word is thrown around in creative spaces. If you gather inspiration through music, images, movement, conversation, suddenly you’re “stimulus addicted.” If you can’t brute-force a novel in a silent white room with no input, you lack discipline. Never mind that many artists throughout history have relied on immersion, community, environment, and cross-media inspiration. Now it’s framed as weakness, as though the only legitimate art is produced under self-imposed sensory austerity.

This framing flattens nuance. There is a difference between avoidance and incubation. There is a difference between doomscrolling to numb out and deliberately engaging with material that fuels your imagination. There is a difference between compulsively chasing a hit and consciously choosing input that enriches your work. But nuance doesn’t trend. Alarmism does.

There’s also a strange individualizing move happening here. Instead of asking why people are exhausted, overstimulated, underpaid, isolated, or burnt out, we zoom in on their coping mechanisms and label them addictions. Instead of examining structural monotony, economic precarity, and social fragmentation, we scold individuals for having “bad dopamine habits.” It’s easier to diagnose people’s scrolling than to confront the conditions that make endless scrolling appealing.

Calling everything an addiction also erases agency. It suggests that people are perpetually hijacked by their brains, incapable of intentional choice unless they purge all sources of easy stimulation. That’s not empowering. It’s infantilizing. Adults are capable of enjoying things without being enslaved by them. Adults can have rituals, comforts, and creative processes without it being pathology.

When I hear the word “addiction” tossed around to describe normal human behavior, it doesn’t sound like insight. It sounds like moral grandstanding dressed up in pop psychology. And for those of us who have actually lived through the wreckage of substance abuse and fought to reclaim control, it feels like watching something serious get turned into a meme.

We deserve better language. We deserve distinctions. We deserve a culture that can tell the difference between compulsion and preference, between harm and habit, between numbing out and nourishing ourselves. Not everything that holds our attention is a disorder. Not everything pleasurable is a vice. And not everything repetitive is an addiction.

[nessa007]

y’all know it’s okay to reblog gifs, right? don’t be scared

[pnwnativeplants]

[pastrypuppy]

Here is the source! Comic by Damian Castellini.

[ID: A short comic with three people. In the first panel a person with a red beard crouches by a cluster of baby plants and says, "I'm planting native saplings." Second, a person with an afro looks past their laptop and stack of books and says, "I'm learning about wildlife." Third, a blond person with a tiny desktop plant types at a keyboard cheerfully and says "I'm blasting people's efforts online." From these three panels, a large arrow directs you to see Some Years Later. The first two people have grey in their hair and are standing happily in a forest full of birds and frogs. The third person is still typing at their desk, balding and with a dead deskop plant, and saying, "Bah! Nothing ever changes." /End ID.]

[russianblush]

Best Lead Performer, Drama Series is....Hudson Williams!