#{ so this happened }

[thysilus]

this year’s dyke day experience

[mardyart]

single father of two

[mrrecaswife]

In case I don't see you, good afternoon, good evening and good night.

(cw: mention of reader death, all in all general angst, presence of oc should you squint, talking about oc, do you guys want a full written character sheet about my two hsr ocs?? Also, did you get the reference? If you did, have a 🍪)

if the theory that Mr Reca is a cremator in the MemoKeepers is true, then he'd surely burn all the 'uninteresting' memories and only keep the 'good parts' for his works.

Except those including you. Especially those including you.

For some reason, especially if you have left him in any kind of way, he can't seem to even want to touch them, prefering to gaze solemnly at those fragments of your life. It's such a drastic change that his Assistant Director and everyone else around him cannot help but notice.

He can't touch them. It sickens him to his core to even think about it, as if he would have committed something unforgivable if he did.

So he doesn't. Instead, he puts those memories on repeat only for his eyes to see.

(He misses you. More than what anyone could imagine. Even that strange friend of yours, as much as he enjoys the company, cannot seem to tear him from them.

He sees the glimpse of an empathetic gaze, but doesn't comment on it nor budges. That girl probably considers this as part of her data to collect. (She doesn't, and he knows, but he can't get over the fact that you had to leave)

He really hates the fact that you had a mortal body that had to decay.)

[heart-wit-strength]

She got it from her wives that love her for just being kinda mid <3

Taglist: @hey-its-puddlesock @blightcedas @yourpersonaltimebomb @darcysd20 @lili250307 @amisplacedalphabet

[blummberg]

Today's magma

[accursedhex]

𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐄.

A/N: It was a moment of weakness. I am losing my mind at this very moment and I need another drink. And just Perhaps, just Maybe… I couldn’t stop thinking about Mingyu’s hands.

GENRE: Smut. [ MDNI ]

T/W: Fingering, body worship (I suppose), marking, unprotected sex (please for the love of god wrap your shit irl), penetrative intercourse; Mingyu is obsessed with you. No, like literally raging stalker level obsessed. Let me know if there’s anything I should I add, thanks.

SYNOPSIS: You’ve been Mingyu’s muse for quite some time now. Though, you didn’t realize just how deeply infatuated the two of you have become. I am unsure as to how, seeing as his studio is filled with nothing but pieces of You.

W/C: 1.2 K

♫ : primavera

His hand around your throat feels a lot like a tender caress. 

Your mouth gapes, eyes fluttering, breath stuttering. You do nothing to stop him as his mouth smashes itself upon yours. Lips pliant, eager even as your hands grasp desperately at his form. Fingers tangling in the fabric of his clothes as he presses you against the nearest wall.

Heat radiates from his frame as it easily crowds over you, enveloping you. You felt as though you were being swallowed whole, consumed by his presence.

“Isn’t that what we all crave?” He would whisper in your ear, deft fingers tracing over every curve and divot of your body.

“To consume,” his fingers root in your hair. “To be consumed,” his breath fans over your throat with every syllable. “To consume; is to be,” words barely even a whisper as he sinks his teeth into your skin.

A shudder travels up your spine, to the tips of your fingers and down to your toes. His tongue laving at every raw mark he leaves, with teeth and tongue no inch of you is left unscathed in his wake.

He’d mutter nonsense and you’d devour every word like it was your religion. A devout follower, diligent in your prayers— his name falling from the tip of your tongue like a forbidden sacrament. You weren’t sure when you got here, or even how— at his mercy, at his beholding.

Infatuation; your pulse roared in your ears. Obsession; your lungs threatened to burst with every kiss exchanged. Call it what you will, there was no taste like his on your palate. There was nothing like the sound of his name pouring from your tongue; “Mingyu,” breathy and heady.

His grasp was bruising, and yet, somehow, he held you as if you were a delicate flower. Centering the both of you, there was a pull neither of you could fight. The same way the moon encircles the earth, you were his world, spun it on its axis. As if together you had hung the stars in the sky and gave life to everything beneath.

“Again,” he urges, hands making easy work of your clothes.

“Mingyu,” you breathe, he was your air.

“Again.” A hand slips between your thighs and you let your head roll back with a sharp breath of air.

“Mingyu.”

Maybe there was a madness to it all, the way his eyes pierced you as you fell into pleasure. You were his muse, pushing him over the edge of insanity. To find himself; his breaking point. He’s told you as much as you had laid many a night sprawled upon silks as he drank in your form.

“You’re perfect,” he voices his awe, thick fingers trailing against your core.

Your breath hitches as he collects your essence, sinking those digits into you.

Mingyu’s eyes are as dark as the midnight sky just outside, racing over your features. Looking everywhere the eye could see, tracing every line, every curve. From the arch of your brow, to the tremble of your lip, to the flutter of your lashes and the desire that clouded your eyes as he worked his fingers into you.

He had committed every bit of you to his memory. His paintings that flooded his apartment could attest to that, the sculptures that were eerily life like were tribute to you. 

“Can’t get enough of you.”

Your thighs spread, hips rocking forward against his hand. Fingers scissor and thrust into you, his mouth working a new piece of artwork upon the blank canvas on your skin. You could come undone upon his fingers alone any day, he made sure of that as he works you closer to your own edge. Nudging you, coaxing you, sweet words of encouragement stuck like honey.

“Always so fucking perfect,” his voice strained, much like his own clothed need as it prodded against your thigh.

He wished he could capture every sound in his work, it was the only thing his pieces were missing. Maybe that’s why it drove him mad whenever your voice bounced off the walls of his loft, with every gasp and pant of his name, every pitch and crack of your voice. The moans— “Fuck,” he grunts out at the way you squeeze around him and the moan that follows was icing on the cake.

“Close... so fucking close, don’t stop,” you labor out, praying your knees don’t give out as Mingyu continues to sandwich you between himself and the wall.

“That’s it baby,” he coaxes, nipping along your jaw. “Just like that, come on. Give it to me, mhm?”

With every slide, you could barely keep yourself together. His thumb coming to tease over your bundle of nerves, sending sparks up your spine, eyes rolling back as a plethora of noises fall from your lips unrestrained. It wasn’t long until you were tumbling over that edge, reaching that pinnacle you had so truly needed, the knot in your stomach snapping. Thighs quivering, knees trembling, you have to hold tight to him as not to collapse right there as pleasure ebbs the corners of your vision.

There’s a guttural noise that sounds from Mingyu before he’s all too easily handling you, spreading you upon his desk. It rocks, jostled by the abrupt force of two bodies bearing down upon it. He rids you of the tattered slip that had scantily covered you.

His hands are on you in an instant, from the swell of your chest, to the dip of your waist, and the curve of your hips. His hair mused, locks out of place, his shirt missing a few buttons as it hung from his broad frame. You could make out the rise and fall of his bare chest, the way every muscle rippled as he let his shaft spring loose, slapping against his abdomen as you follow down his happy trail.

You grab for him, fisting his shirt as your lips meld together. He finds you, still basking in the aftermath of euphoria but greedy enough for more. Your free hand wrapping around his length as it throbs under your touch, thumbing at the pearlescent substance that had gathered, smearing it upon the raging tip. He curses, your name on his lips.

“Please.”

“Please?”

“Mingyu.”

“As if I could deny you.”

The both of you let out a slew of swears, though, yours were perhaps a little less coherent as he bottoms out. He offers his condolences as he smatters your face in messy kisses, lips grazing the corners of your mouth as he loses himself in your heat. Your body bending and arching, tears springing into your eyes even despite the preparation.

He kisses the salt from the corners of your eyes, murmuring heartfelt apologies. Mumbled apologies, “I’m sorry,” followed by desperate words, “I can’t help myself.”

You weren’t sure who was more of a mess at the moment. Hips rutting against you with abandon, dark locks shadowing his gaze as he watches himself disappear inside you. You weren’t sure where he began and you ended, bodies molding together as you took the brunt of him.

“Fuck,” he exclaims hoarsely, “You were made for me.”

“Mingyu.”

“Again . . .”

“Again for me.”

“Please.”

“Mingyu . . .”

[stararch4ngelqueen]

Low-Rise Melancholy

—

Time written- 11:33 p.m (Pt.2)

Jason Todd/fem!reader angst

—

You found him curled up in bed, unmoving for quite some time.

He arrived home, but said nothing. He shuffled out of uniform, carelessly abandoning piece by piece of his gear on various surfaces, carelessly draping his jacket over the closest chair.

He had enough mind to at least settle his utility belt and weapons on the desk in your shared bedroom before shuffling to bed, climbing into the mattress with so much as a slow, heavy exhale.

You had witnessed this since the moment he came home, feeling the tension shroud your shoulders before he even as entered through the door. Along with his angry episodes, which he kept out of your way around ninety percent of the time, every once in a while, you’d be witness to a violent slip up.

You followed behind the giant man like a scared puppy, stopping at the bedroom doorway just in time for him to turn on his side, his back now facing you.

He hasn’t moved for a fair hour, rendering you nervous rather than relieved he wasn’t angry. An hour full of checking up on him, wondering if he was ready to eat or talk. Anything.

He said nothing, as per usual, but answered your concerned question via raising his arm out, extending his hand out with an open palm. Would you like me to stay with you?

You settle your arms around him from behind as best you could once you slip into bed, enjoying the warmth that radiated off his back when you held him.

Just like before, Jason said nothing, broad shoulders rising and falling as his heavy lidded gaze nearly caged his eyes behind long lashes, vision long since unfocused after hours of reckless thoughts and dangerous intentions he’s always battled with after patrol.

His eyes close fully, a short, defeated exhale leaving his nose. Still, he doesn’t move, not even when he feels your soft, small hands cradle along his sides, caressing him in a largely limited embrace.

You’re always worried when he gets like this, but your options in soothing his pain were limited.

Your vigilante, your hero, your Red Hood, who refused to acknowledge your presence. Never intentionally.

You wanted nothing more than the man who stole your heart and gave it back but promised to hold it.

Jason Todd; your boyfriend, your big, red cuddly bear, your gentle giant sweetheart.

You wanted to be a strong shoulder for him to cry on, but in this case, you blamed your tensed up morning shortly followed by a series of severely unlucky events.

A short tremor of his shoulders caught you by surprise, making your head raise in question after settling behind Jason for nearly eight minutes. After a moment of waiting, to your dismay, you hear a small shudder from the exhausted man you held in your arms.

It broke your heart once you pinpointed those signs all together, realizing what Jason had been doing this entire time since he arrived home.

A ball of tension grew hotter in your throat, your eyes flushed so full with tears.

His teary, glistening eyes opened upon hearing your tiny hiccup, his head shifting up from its concave perch along your pillow to meet your gaze. His own heart ripped into two at the pitiful little attempt to stop yourself from crying, but you couldn’t help it.

“I-I’m sorry,” you whimper, small fingers involuntarily clasping along the hem of his grey shirt for a second or two.

When Jason approached the border of tears, his mouth didn’t curl with a strong lip quiver. Instead, his brows furrowed, his eyes nearly squinting in a pitiful attempt to make the tears halt and retreat.

All will to fight left him once he got home, himself included.

Now, all that flooded his heart was an overwhelming, bitter guilt, forcing him out of his melancholy to register the woman who’s bed he laid on for nearly two hours.

He shifts completely, encasing you in his warm, heavy arms, stroking back wisps of stray hair to peer down at you with worried, furrowed expression.

Were you scared? Were you scared of him getting angry and violent? Images of your terrified face after such an episode were burned into his mind, and a face full of tears was at the top of that crude list.

“No, no,” Jason insists as he puts up a battle once more, fighting back what tears he could. “Don’t say you’re sorry. Don’t.. I— Shit, I didn’t mean to—“

His voice fails, his tone trembling in seconds. His own attempt at rebuilding his crumbled walls failed, leaving cascades of fluttery dust over piles of pebbles.

“M’sorry,” Jason mutters to you, sniffling noses brushing against each other. “Didn’t mean to make you sad. Don’t.. Don’t cry, babygirl. It’s not your fault.”

“It’s not yours either,” your whimpering tone persists, feeling his fingers cradle the back of your head, smoothing down your hair while yours cling to his shirt collar, insisting that you could handle his pain, shoulder it with him.

His mood swings were never his fault. His death was never his fault. His moments where he shut down entirely, leaving you completely powerless to aid him from the shadows, any of it, all of it, wasn’t his pain to shoulder in general.

You wished you could take it all away, but you believed you could only do so much.

“I don’t know how to help you,” you tremble as you admit to him, watching his brows curl downwards in further distress to your confession, your eyes glassy with grief bordering on defeat.

“I want to help you, Jason. I do. Please, tell me how.”

You only knew what he shared with you in the past, so you understood enough. His complications with himself, the curse of hyper individualism rendering him towards a plethora of self doubt, no matter how much he wanted to defy it. He just didn’t know how.

You wanted to be strong for him, but feared you weren’t as tough as you wanted to be.

Jason didn’t want strong, even though he knew you were. he wanted permanence, superglued stability on both of your behalf.

His hand cradled your head against his shoulder, taking in the sweetness of your hair, the warmth of your body dressed in one of his loose fitting shirts, curtesy of you stealing his clothes every evening.

The echo of your heartbeat keeping you alive long enough for you to adore him, to cherish him, to love him like no other he had ever felt before. This returns him towards his quiet tears, but unlike before, he allows himself the freedom to express himself more.

Grief included.

“You just being here… helps, okay?” Jason whispers, cradling your face in his warm palm. “That’s it. That’s all you need to do. Just… don’t leave. Please.”

Please, don’t leave me alone.

Your fingers instantly trail up towards his cheeks, catching his tears in the cradle of your palms. For a moment, your guilty, defeated expression shifted towards one he recognized instantly.

Strong, filled with a temporary determination he recognized many times before when you refused to give up. You refused to give him up.

Those were the eyes he fell in love with, belonging to the woman who desired to help him. His sore heart ached at your persistence, craving that just as much as your eagerly awaiting love.

His shoulders shake, his breathing grows raggedy, shortly cut and uneven. A few of his tears caught along the strands of your hair, the rest seeping down onto the very same pillowcase that harbored most of tonight’s anger and frustration.

His head settled against your chest, relying on your strong heartbeat to keep him submerged in pure sleep. His heavily scarred hands remained stagnant around your waist, thumbs lightly swirling along bare skin while yours settled to comb through his inky, tussled locks.

For the next hour or so, you held one another, cradling each other as the tears long since run dry, leaving two tender bodies submerged in a thin veil of slumber.

Crying together was the last thing on both of your minds tonight, but it’s the most Jason had ever felt accidentally understood, especially now as he refuses to let go of his anchor.

Seen, heard, recognized, loved.

Alive.

[corvus-divum]

Felt down and decided to doodle something before reaching out to people again once I can talk (The other dude is my OC: Resound. I posted about him a couple of days back)

[martinhug]

john sees

[thirstykateyes]

I'm not projecting, YOU'RE projecting!! Sorry it looks like trash-

I was compelled to scribble this, I think Soap is insecure about over talking so he always tries stopping himself, but Ghost loves his rambles and patiently listens every time :,))

[thysilus]

went to dyke day w my very recently self-realized lesbian godsister

[chronologically-challenged]

Actual conversation between my friends and I about giving spoilers about ISAT.

[zephyrine-gale]

took an ss during my playthru why he built like a square lmao

[fictionadventurer]

When Emma stepped through the shining door in her palace's library, there was a blaze of light, a roar of wind, and then she landed on her hands and knees on the wooden floor of a suburban bedroom. She recognized the horse pictures on the wall, the stuffed animals on the bed, the yellow curtains fluttering in the window. She was smaller, thinner, lighter, and felt as though a world's weight had been lifted from her shoulders.

A woman's face appeared in the open doorway; every curl of her short hairstyle was familiar. "There you are, Emma!" she said cheerfully. "I've got your dressed washed for church tomorrow. Now come on downstairs. It's almost time for supper."

Behind Emma, the doorway had become an ordinary closet, cluttered with clothes and toys. The clock read twenty minutes past five. She'd been away only ten minutes.

A moment ago, she'd been the powerful queen of a vast realm whose rule had brought a golden age of prosperity and peace. Now she was twelve years old again, in her familiar old bedroom, safe with a mother that she hadn't seen in thirty years.

Emma wept for joy.

*

Emma's bookshelf contained one new volume--an exquisitely-bound brown leather book, with a tooled and embossed cover, containing a beautifully illustrated account of all the tales of Emma's reign. Her cousin Tessa--as good as a sister--was enchanted by it, and believed Emma without question when she told her that the stories were true.

"Don't you miss it?" Tessa asked, one night a few months after her return.

"Sometimes," Emma said. "But I'm glad to be home."

"You like it here?"

"Why not? We have chocolate here. And giraffes. And shooting stars. Our world is just as amazing as Athelor."

"In Athelor, you were a queen."

"Here, I'm not," Emma said. "Do you know how nice it is to wake up in the morning and do things that don't affect the fate of an entire nation?"

"But isn't it disappointing? In Athelor, you knew you were important."

"Who says I'm not important now?"

*

Emma told her mom about Athelor often. Mom thought Emma was just making up wonderful stories.

That was all right. Because the stories were wonderful.

*

After school, sometimes Mom would take Emma out for pizza. Emma would climb into a carriage that moved with a heart of fire, to a room bathed in enough light to make the night as bright as day, where she ate the cuisine of a far-off realm, and then rode home singing along with minstrels whose voices had been captured long ago and far away.

Emma always marveled that she lived in a world with such magic.

*

Emma grew. And matured. It came with different milestones here, and happened slower, but it had its share of struggles.

On nights when she felt small, helpless and afraid, she remembered that she'd once led a host of warriors--human, animal, and elfin--into battle with a horde of monsters and come out victorious.

She might not be in Athelor, but she was still a queen.

She could fill out a college application.

*

Emma was leaving the campus library with an armload of books when a sparrow spoke to her from a branch above her head. Emma looked up and saw at once it was an Athelorian sparrow.

"Iprit!" Emma cried. The sparrow had been the most devoted of the queen's messengers. "How glad I am to see you!"

"My queen," Iprit said, bowing her head. "I have found you at last."

"Is Athelor in danger?" Emma asked, suddenly fearful.

"She is well and at peace. Berna rules well in your stead."

"As I knew she would," Emma said with a smile. Emma had spent years choosing her successor. Her elfin advisor, though young, was bright and brave and loved Athelor with all her heart.

"But she rules as regent only. She would not take the crown until she knew what had become of you."

"Now you see that I am well," Emma said. "Alive and well and happy."

"Will you not come home to us, my queen?" Iprit asked. "The door stands open to you. Take up the crown and rule your people once more."

For a moment, Emma's heart yearned for it. Athelor called to her, a bright, beautiful dream, a wondrous adventure.

A gust of wind swirled in the branches over her head, sending a crimson shower of leaves down upon her. She gazed out across the campus, at a world she loved. She thought of her mother, Tessa, her classmates, her studies, her friendships, and the future she was building here.

Where was her duty? Here or Athelor?

Another wind came, gentle yet brisk, and Emma knew it for the wind that had taken her to Athelor and brought her home. It lifted her spirits and cleared her mind so she could hear the voice that had never led her wrong in her years as queen.

Emma met Iprit's gaze. "Berna may take up the crown with my blessing. I have done what I must for Athelor. Another world needs me now."

Iprit bowed in a bird-like way, spreading out one wing. "As you wish, my queen. But what shall I tell the scribes? How ends the reign of Queen Emma the Wise?"

"As all good stories should," Emma said. She shifted her voice into the melodic cadence of the best of the palace storytellers. "After many years of good and faithful service, the queen found her way home, where she lived happily all the rest of her days."

[stararch4ngelqueen]

something so sexy about being so in the moment and have your partner (jason not even a question fictional man idgaf) pulling your clothes off with so much idek lust? passion? just sexy as hell

Anon oh my goooooood, the post-patrol adrenaline. But it’s a risky patrol/mission/outlaw gang related type stuff. I don’t believe it’ll differentiate between a successful run or a losing battle.

This man is soooo happy to be home, crawling through the window or walking through the front door, slamming it shut.

You weren’t sure what mood as he slams you up against the nearest surface. Not body slamming, not enough to rip the air from your lungs. An entrapment via the wall and his body, his suit reeking of his natural musk and cologne.

He’ll keep you there for a good moment, chest heaving in relief and satisfaction to see your pretty face. First thing he rips off is his own helmet, going in for a brutish kiss on your lips.

His dirty, gloved hands grasp along your hips, hoisting you up around his thick waist. Dirty boots may trail bits of dirt along the floor, but he’ll eventually help you clean it.

The kisses hardly halt; merely for gasps of air. He’s relentless, taking your bottom lip in his teeth, abusing your tender, supple flesh. He’s breathing heavily, an air of anxiousness clouding his senses, intercepting his better judgement before he sets you on the bed.

Those dirty, gunpowder scented gloves overpower the smell of detergent, hooking along both the hem of your sleep shorts and underwear. He yanks them down, making your hips lift off the bed for a split second before collapsing. Your gasp muffled against his tongue as those greedy hands hoist your hips up against his waist, thumbs pressing in between your supple thighs.

He wasn’t going to touch you just yet. He knew better.

Any second thought on your shirt was nearly nonexistent as he grasps the collar. It was old, but comfortable to sleep in. Cheap cotton submits to his will as he rips it from the sewed seams, baring you completely for the Hood’s entire pleasure.

It feels so good to be home.

[thevoidmeows]

The Arrival of Henry Clerval