#☤ ・ musings

[houndofhellskitchen]

kurt: the quickest way to a man’s heart is . .

morrigan: through the third or fourth rib

kurt: . . .

kurt: his stomach

morrigan: that’s the stupid shit I’ve ever heard

[fishymedic]

It's my turn to be sappy on the dash, sorry not sorry.

Just want to say I'm so grateful for all our interactions so far, antics and future ones too. (Even if we haven't really written this is to you too) Thanks for the following, threads and interest- I honestly was so anxious about writing him & have been so glad that I decided to do so. *annoyed that I cannot follow people back as a sideblog but like, i also feel comfortable enough that ooc is actually not so draining on me (which like please know i'm always down for ooc goofing off, if you are somebody who thrives off sending tiktoks or whatever like 'our muses' or 'do we think j.ayce would invent h.extech heart shaped sunglasses' i am so down to hear you think about hcs or rambles)

<3

[leighiche]

how are you color coded ?

BLUE CODED blue, a study in wisdom, belief, and knowing when enough is enough. you know yourself best, but you know the way the world works even more. you've been wandering in this world a little too long, and maybe that's the problem. you're a wanderer, a vagabond, an oracle, and a prophet all the same. who are you when the curtain call drops the last encore on you? do you dance behind the scenes for a job well done or are you already planning your next show? take a breather, for a moment. enjoy what you've done, enjoy what you have, enjoy the world that you've been wandering for so long. this world is so much better when you realize that some of it is worth living for.

tagged by: @timerevolt

tagging: @bridgeirton @covrroucer @frser @giftsight @ircnwrought @medicbled @mysticwrit @oakthcrn

[mollythepathologist]

When she was young, she and her father would decorate the Christmas tree.

She would breathe on the frosted glass and draw snowmen in the fog while he brewed them orange cinnamon tea, christmas carols playing faintly from the record player.

The house would smell warm, and she'd half-heartedly tidy up the mess of their preperations. Piling tinsel strands and stray popcorn kernals into small heaps.

When the last ornament was hung, they would rush to turn off all the lights, plunging the room into complete darkness. They would stand there, Molly's heart beating with anticipation, the cold winter night seeming to flood in on them for just a moment, till her father hit the switch for the tree - blinding them both with shimmering lights.

She loved that moment, the warmth that rushed through and settled down into her bones, the smile and laughter that almost hurt, and most of all - how the light hit her dad's face. How each wrinkle in his fave was softened.

Then they would sit in front of the tree with their tea and play cards - go fish, old maid, and the like. Eventually, she'd fall asleep, and he'd carry her to bed - till she got too big for that, and he had to needle her awake instead.

It was the night she and so many other children looked forward to most each year.

When he died, Molly spent that first Christmas in the dark. The tree was decorated, the tea steaming, but she just couldn't bring herself to plug it in. She cried and cried, the tea went cold and her eyes, swollen as they were, adjusted to the darkness of her flat. Enough that she could see the small reflections bouncing from her tree. Charging cables, outlets, and all those other miscellaneous lights caught in the branches.

And that, for some strange reason, gave her comfort.

Now, she spends those nights bathed in the warm lights, drinking her tea and dragging tinsel for Toby, and while it is not the same, it's enough.

[duplicitousdoctor]

tag drop !

[senzume]

tags.

[juiceboxezz]

Hermes I'm so sorry :P

Aftermath of Ithaca saga. This isn't exaaaactly an AU buuuut it's based on the character personalities and some events (cough six hundred strike cough) are mentioned

“And then I came in,” Hermes declared with a grin, his British accent ringing clear, materializing out of thin air in the middle of Odysseus’ room. He leaned casually against a pillar, as though his sudden arrival were the most natural thing in the world.

The King of Ithaca flinched, the man’s grip around his wife’s shoulders visibly tightening, his eyes darting to the Messenger God. He let out a loud sigh.

“Hermes,” he muttered, the god’s name laced with annoyance, yet a smile tugged at Odysseus’ lips. “A warning would be nice.”

“Now, where’s the fun in that, dawling?” Hermes replied, brushing the complaint off with a wave of his hand. Then, the god’s eyes landed on Penelope, and he raised an eyebrow.

“Why, hello there—”

Odysseus glared at him.

Hermes recoiled, raising his palms in mock-surrender. He let out a laugh, finding his friend’s glare more amusing than anything… well, a bit intimidating. Considering what he did to Poseidon.

“I was simply saying hello, dawling, don’t go ‘round stabbing me with a fork, now,” Hermes spoke, another giggle escaping his lips.

“How is Poseidon faring?”

“What did you do to Poseidon?” Telemachus chimed in from his perch at the edge of the bed. 

“I was getting there,” Odysseus replied. He shot another half-hearted glare at Hermes, who grinned and once more raised his palms in mock defense.

“Anyways, I came in,” Hermes continued, taking a step forward, the wings atop his helmet and on his talaria fluttering. “And I—”

Someone cleared their throat in the doorway.

Hermes let out an exaggerated groan as he turned around, complaining under his breath, “This is my story—” His eyes widened as they landed on the goddess.

His brown eyes lit up, sparkling with mischief as they took in the goddess before him. Despite himself, his gaze lingered momentarily on the scar cutting down her eye, suppressing a wince.

“Athena!” He exclaimed excitedly, before clearing his throat and crossing his arms. “We’re talking about me, not you, dawling,” he spoke, his words dripping with disdain, though a wide grin spread across his face.

The Goddess of Wisdom nodded to her two mentees behind Hermes, before smiling to him faintly, but it fell just as quickly as it appeared, something akin to… worry, flashing in her eyes?

“Hermes…” she spoke gently, which already set off every alarm bell in the Messenger God’s head. “Er… you might want to come with me.”

“But my story—”

“Not your story,” Odysseus interjected unhelpfully.

Hermes stuck his tongue out at the King of Ithaca, looking more like a tantruming child rather than a major Olympian.

“Hermes, I’m serious,” Athena muttered.

“You’re always serious, dawling—” Hermes began with a lazy grin, but his words cut short as Athena’s voice raised.

“Hermes.”

The Messenger God flinched ever so slightly, his instinct to shrink back overriding his bravado. He swallowed hard and nodded, his words tumbling out in a quick, muttered rush. “Yeah, okay, okay.”

Hermes glanced over his shoulder, his mischief returning briefly. He winked at the King of Ithaca, a crooked smile playing at his lips. “Don’t continue without me, dawling,” he said with a soft giggle, before turning to Athena. “Lead the way, Athena, dawling.”

⊹ ☤ ⋆˙⟡ ˙⋆☤⊹

Kyllene.

Hermes’ birthplace.

His mother’s home.

“Why… are we here, dawling?” Hermes asked, his usual playful tone faltering. He felt a pit slowly growing in his gut, every instinct telling him something was wrong. Terribly wrong.

No, no, no, he thought, trying to quell the unease. Nothing was wrong. There couldn’t possibly anything wrong...

Athena, walking a few paces ahead, glanced over her shoulder. Sunlight reflected off her silver helmet, as her eyes swept the golden farmfields beyond. Hermes followed her gaze.

Demeter would like this place, Hermes mused absently, the thought a very welcome distraction. He pushed it aside as Athena’s voice broke through his reverie.

“Go in,” she ordered, gesturing with her head to the entrance of the cave.

Hermes frowned, his brows knitting together as his wings gave an uneasy twitch. The pit in his gut widened, clawing its way into his chest.

“Why…?” He asked uneasily.

It wasn’t often he ever got nervous, but Athena’s earlier outburst still rang in his ears. There had been something in her voice—something he couldn’t ignore. Worry. And now, standing here, in front of his mother’s home, the pit in his stomach deepened.

Athena didn’t answer.

Thank you, Hermes thought.

He slowly walked into his birthplace, wings continuing to flutter and puff up in a nervous rhythm. He dropped down into the cave, darkness enveloping him.

He landed with a soft thud, brown eyes darting around the place. The pit in his gut grew larger, if that was even possible.

No no no, he repeated over and over in his head, trying to drown out the sinking dread.

“…Mother?” He called out quietly, the word bouncing off the walls of the cave. Where was she?

“Mother,” he calls out again, louder this time.

Nothing.

The silence was deafening. Hermes swallowed hard, his throat dry, and took a step further inside. The sunrays filtering through the entrance overhead cast long, uneven streaks of light across the cave—

“No…” he whispered.

That’s why his mother’s star shone so brightly the night prior.

Hermes felt his hands shake, his wings stilling—they never stilled. A choked sound escaped his lips as he forced himself to stagger forward.

The whole world seemed to fall apart around him, leaving him in the shadows that engulfed him and the unmoving form of Maia.

“Mother,” he murmured, falling to his knees next to her. He gently reached his gloved hand out to touch her face, but hesitated. Hermes watched his fingers tremble.

“Mother, answer me,” he spoke a bit louder, a bit more desperate.

After what felt like an eternity, Hermes slowly placed his hand on her cheek. Cold, was his first thought.

The pit in his gut reached Tartarus.

“No, no, no,” Hermes muttered again. He placed his hands on his mother’s shoulders, gently shaking her but—

No movement.

No sound.

Nothing.

Hermes’ eyes stung harshly, hot liquid running down his cheeks as another choked sob escaped his lips. He wrapped his arms around his mother’s shoulders, holding her close to his chest.

“Please,” he pleaded with gods knows who. “Please, please, don’t—” He didn’t want to say the word.

“You’re not supposed to— no!”

Hot tears continued to run down his cheeks, his sobs only growing louder as his mother’s arms remained limp, not returning the hug.

“Answer me!” He yelled.

Silence.

Hermes screamed. The world was dead silent, as if every being from the Underworld all the way to Olympus were holding their breath, listening to the screams of Hermes.

Mischievous, sassy, cocky Hermes.

Screaming his lungs out.

Gone was the Messenger God at that moment. Gone was the arrogant being. Gone was the trickster. Just a little boy, wailing and crying, wanting his mother back.

His throat hurt, it hurt so bad. But he couldn’t seem to stop. Pleas and screams continued to escape his lips.

He barely registered Athena’s voice behind him, merely shaking his head and holding his mother tighter against his chest.

Only one word went through his mind, Zeus.

Hermes wailed louder, continuing to cradle his mother. Tears soaked his mother’s dress, but he didn’t care. A wave of anger coursed through him.

Zeus had done this?

His wings fluttered harshly. His eyes were clenched shut. His throat was raw. Why… why did his father do this? Hermes screamed louder.

Hera had spared her!

She was amazing!

A kind, caring mother!

Why?!

Not once did his cries stop, no matter how much pain he was in—physically and mentally. Not once did his screams cease. Not once did he even move.

For hours.

Days.

Weeks.

When Hermes felt a hand on his shoulder. Gentle, warm—literally—pitying.

He knew who it was. He didn’t need to face the Sun God.

“Go away, Apollo!” Hermes yelled, his voice hoarse and raspy.

“Hermes…” He murmured, his voice uncharacteristically soft, and gentle.

Hermes felt his half-brother’s presence slowly kneel down beside him. A small, insignificant part of him wanted to stop crying, force a smile on his face, and push all of Apollo’s buttons, not wanting to look this weak…

But it was easily drowned out by the suffocating grief, and sadness, and anger, and a whole bunch of negative emotions he would rather not be feeling.

“Go away!” He screamed once more.

“I’m not going anywhere.”

He wasn’t sure what came over him, but Hermes leaned into his brother, his grip on his mother’s lifeless body impossibly tightening.

He felt Apollo’s arms wrap around him, and he continued to cry. Though, his screams had considerably quieted in the past week, watering down to sobs and cries.

“What do you want for her?” Apollo asked quietly, continuing to hold Hermes close. “Father will humor you.”

“Screw Father,” Hermes spat.

Thunder rumbled in the distance.

“Let’s not say that,” Apollo spoke.

Tears continued to stream down his face, he couldn’t stop them. He hated this. He hated his mother dying. He hated his father. He hated how weak he looked. He hated everyone and everything that was alive. He hated how he couldn’t protect her. He hated how he couldn’t do anything.

“A statue…” Hermes murmured.

“Alright.” Apollo nodded.

⊹ ☤ ⋆˙⟡ ˙⋆☤⊹

Hermes sat in the grass, knees tucked closely to his chest. His cries and wails had ceased completely by now, but his throat  and lungs felt like they were on fire.

He looked up at the statue of his mother, his incredible, gentle, loving mother. Knowing he would never feel her touch again, never hear her voice again, never see her smile again…

Gods damn his father.

I'm sorry Hermes my boyyy

[mochazai]

『☕』 Official Cafe 13 Menu 『☕』

☤𝐿𝓊𝓀𝑒 𝒞𝒶𝓈𝓉𝑒𝓁𝓁𝒶𝓃☤

The Problems Of Prophesy (Luke castellan x apollo!reader) [angsty]

When your slight gift of prophesy shows you an ugly future you’re faced with an impossible choice;kill the man you love or watch your world burn. Which will you choose.

Abduction and Obsession (Luke Castellan x Hypnos!reader) [angst,fluff ]

when you're taken by your former lover, he turns into your only lifeline. Soon hate turns to love and you find yourself needing him like air. But will you put your morals aside and join him in his quest? Or will you rebel and stay true to your friends at camp?

🧻 𝒟𝒶𝓏𝒶𝒾 🧻

His Muse (Writer!Dazai x Barista!Reader) [ yandere , fluff {~} , miniseries ]

An aspiring author with a dark past to overwrite, finds himself addicted to a different kind of poison

[dimensionalspades]

DIMENSIONALSPADES ;; a selective indie multimuse featuring Dr. Julian Bashir of Star Trek: Deep space 9, as well as a variety of muses from video games and sci fi media. ☤ about ☤ rules ☤ muses ☤ interest tracker ☤

[houndofhellskitchen]

morrigan: I have beef with one catholic man

kurt wagner: is it me ?

morrigan: no it’s not you-

matt murdock: is it me?

morrigan: . . well it’s not kurt

[fishymedic]

a little twist of a starter call

-multi para, iconless -will be from my stash of 'i think these plots would be neat for our muses' -open to everybody, just specify your muse as needed

[leighiche]

.

[mollythepathologist]

Aunt Jane was the first person in Molly's life that she didn't understand.

All the other adults said and did adult things. They talked about the neighborhood or food or their boring adult jobs or, worst of all, they talked to her in that adult way.

"Wow! You've gotten so big!" "Do you remember me? I used to hold you as a baby."What subject in school do you like the most?"What do you wanna do when you grow up?"

And then they'd stop talking to her and go on and on about how they missed being her age.

But Aunt Jane wasn't like that.

She got down in the dirt with her. Helped her dig up bugs and laughed when the centipede scuttled away. She snuck her sweets and built blanket forts with her where they played pretend and drank cocoa. She wore bright clothes, and her glasses were sparkly, held around her neck with beads that made a pleasant sound against the rings on her hands.

At first, she thought that maybe Aunt Jane was just a big kid. Like her but taller with wrinkles, but Aunt Jane still talked to the adults about adult things. She still drank the smelly juice that the adults drank - more of it even. She still went to her boring adult job and got to do all the grown-up chores.

It wasn't until she was much older that she realized that the adults didn't quite understand Aunt Jane either.

Well, everyone except her father. It seemed like they were the only two people in the world that understood each other so completely- which of course meant that they argued more than anyone else she knew.

Molly always wished she'd had a sister of her own, or at the very least, a brother to torment.

[fereldensheroesa]

@fatesown asked:

☤: Blood Magic - for helena!

Muse Opinions (Dragon Age)

Helena's views on blood magic are complicated. She would never use it, herself. She will tolerate it, if it's being used responsibility. She's seen it used for far more bad than good and is incredibly wary of it.

[flowers-that-sing]

"baby, if it feels good, then it can't be bad"

(a post s3 steve harrington songfic based on Gibson Girl by Ethel Cain)

TWs// sexual content, dubious consent to put it lightly but it's more implied to be sexual assault, past csa, grooming, it's not super detailed (the csa much less so, and told through memories where steve doesn't even exactly know what's happening), but like. you know. it's pretty bad. referenced physical abuse. referenced past incestual sexual abuse. alcohol consumption, smoking. lightly implied drugging.

also, disclaimer: this is all told through steve's eyes—the way he sees things is very warped, his relationship with sex is unhealthy to say the least, and just because he's saying he feels good does not mean that anything that happens in this is good. it isn't. nothing about this is good or healthy at all.

She approached him in the dark behind the bar, where Steve was half-considering lighting up in spite of his promise of quitting to Robin. He had drank enough that it didn't seem to matter. She had leather pants on, and sunglasses, despite the dark. 

"Corey Hart fan?" he asked lightly. She didn't bother to answer. 

"Just saw you leave the bar. I'm glad you stuck around."

Steve didn't recognize her, and she didn't seem to recognize him either. She was dragging her eyes across his body, and Steve was suddenly all-too conscious of his scars on display, his sweat-melted hair wax. 

He was sick of it, he was sick of feeling ugly, and this girl had desire in her eyes. Steve was craving desire. 

And he was craving thrill. His thoughts had been rapid all week, his body more fidgety, his stomach constantly filled with bees and his energy so high he hadn't needed more than a couple hours of sleep a night. He had so much time in every day, but nothing to fill it with besides the monotony of work, and he needed adrenaline. There weren't any monsters to fight now, and there weren't any basketball games to play since high school, and he needed the feeling. The melting, excruciating, nauseating excitement, racing heart, the feeling of something about to happen, the fear, the risk. 

"You came alone to me—from however far away," he mused, lighting his cigarette, delicately placing it between his lips, exhaling into her face. 

"How'd you know?" she asked with a grin. 

You're all the same. 

Steve shrugged. "Lucky guess." 

She stepped in, so he could feel her breath on his face. "You gonna buy me a drink?" 

Steve put the cig out on his thigh. He didn't feel the burn. "I was just about to ask." 

If I'm still walking straight, I need another drink anyway. 

They went inside together, sat back at the bar. Steve opened a new tab. 

By the time he had a glass of whiskey in his hand, she had a hand on his thigh. She didn't even pretend to drink the vodka she'd ordered, and he was still downing his last gulp of whiskey when she pushed it into his hand with a little half-smile. He drank it. 

The lights were bleeding all over him. 

He felt a hand in his back pocket, and when he looked up, she was pulling cash out of his wallet. 

You wanna love me right now? 

"You wanna get alone with me?" Steve asked. Her eyes were bright, and she nodded, pulling him to his feet and all but dragging him out of the bar. He wasn't exactly sure when he'd gotten there, but he was in the trunk of a car, the backseats folded down to make room. "You wanna get my clothes off and hurt me?" 

He hadn't meant to say 'hurt.' But she just laughed and grinned, and ripped his clothes off.

☤

"Baby, if it feels good, then it can't be bad," Lynn says. Steve's eight now, beginning to question if it was wrong. He's remembering his Sunday school teacher talking about how nakedness was wrong, or something. And a new word, he doesn't know what it means. 'Chastity.' 

Lynn's touching him, she says it's to make him feel good. He doesn't really know how he feels. It reminds him a little of his grandfather, but Lynn's a woman, and she's not family, so it's different. It's better. If he closes his eyes and lets himself sink into it, he likes it. Is he supposed to like it? Lynn says he's supposed to like it. 

He tells her he does, and opens his eyes when she's done, and she's smiling. She promises him a new teddy bear. But for right now, it's his turn to make her feel good.

☤

Steve likes to think he's a good person now, but he knows he's still a whore, and he can't deny the high that comes with being immoral in a stranger's lap. He's kissing over her chest and grinding down onto her leather pants, and she's digging her nails into his back. He still doesn't even know her name. She doesn't know his. Maybe it's better that way. 

She hasn't taken off more than her shirt still, but he's fully naked. It's dark, the only light coming from a dim greenish streetlamp outside the car, and he thinks maybe she can't see his scars, but she's running her hands over the scar on his chest, from where the Russian guards had cut him open. She looks at it with something he can't quite decipher. It almost looks like fascination, but he knows that isn't it. Her eyes are wide, her pupils dilated. 

Ah. Desire. 

"You know, I was serious about hurting me. You wanna add some more?" 

☤

"I'm in love with your body. That's why I'm fucking it up." Steve listens to Lynn's voice from where she sits on the back of his legs. He is on his stomach, face turned to the side so he can breathe. He can’t see her. He sees his disorientingly patterned wall. He smells rosewater and orange zest, and his head feels fuzzy. Something hurts. Everything hurts. He doesn’t think about it too much. He just focuses on the warmth, the heat from the points of contact between him and his babysitter, the sweat in the backs of his knees, on his upper lip. The bedsheets are damp. It’s itchy. 

☤

Steve tasted his own blood on her teeth as she bit his upper lip. He was starting to see colors in the spaces where she'd been after she moved. And then his face was between her thighs, and when had her pants even come off at all? His heart was racing, exactly like he'd wanted, and his body was wracked with tremors. He listened to the music coming from her lips, the moans rising from her chest, and his heart leapt. I did that. I'm making her feel good. 

His arms felt a bit numb as he reached up to rub his thumbs into her hips. She was panting hard, and he was giddy. 

"Oh, fuck—you really are special, baby," she hissed. 

Steve's eyes widened, watered, and he whimpered against her. 

I'm special. She said I'm special. 

Steve was going to ride this high for at least a week. He was desirable, wanted, special. He basked in her attention, even if he knew he wouldn't see her again after tonight. 

He felt like he was being shown something he could never have. Something he'd searched for all his life. For a second, he could pretend it was love. Love for his brain and his scars and his body. Him taking all of her attention and giving back anything she wanted in return. Just to feel special. He'd do anything. 

Because that's what love was, right? Love, want, attention, specialness, was just tied to sex. Maybe his parents didn't love him since they couldn't fuck him. His grandfather loved him, his babysitter loved him, and for one night at a time, anyone could love him. And growing up, it was the only way he was really touched, with affection, at least. In ways other than a beating. 

He knew that wasn't right, because him and Robin loved each other. He loved the kids—never in that way, ever, and he still loved them. It was a different kind of love. But then, it was another different kind he was looking for, anyway. Maybe he was ungrateful. But he was hungry for attention, for someone to call him special, to want him around, he was starving for it. 

His thoughts weren't making much sense anymore. 

She was holding him in her lap, his boxers were back on, he was resting his head on her shoulder. He assumed she'd finished at some point, he didn't remember, and he knew he hadn't, but he hadn't really wanted to anyway. 

He was drooling, and he couldn't stop himself, and he couldn't see much, but her body was warm. He crawled closer, squirmed in tighter. It felt good to be held. He felt good. 

He woke up almost naked on the sidewalk in the sun with drool pooling at his chin and the rest of his clothes on a pile next to him. 

[rooksgambits]

☤: Blood Magic

send a thing for my muse's opinion on it.

        “has its uses, under certain circumstances. but i have often seen it abused and used to torture my kin. many times.” she stares off for a long moment, seemingly lost in thought. or perhaps a memory. then she blinks, comes back to herself. “it's not a path i'd have chosen for myself.” and that is the truth.

ooc.        amrita's feelings on blood magic are...ambivalent, to say the least. she has knowledge of blood magic herself because she had to learn to keep up appearances while apprenticed to magister aurelius. she is also not above using it if she feels she must. overall, she thinks the magic itself is morally neutral, as all magics are to her. but she also sees and acknowledges it as dangerous because again, all magic is dangerous. none of it is truly or wholly safe. even healing magic can go wrong if you don't know how to use it properly. bones and tissue can mend incorrectly and require re-breaking to fix. blood magic is not inherently more dangerous or evil because it draws power from life force and manipulates the body. for amrita, it's all in how you use it. however, she probably would not have chosen to learn blood magic if she'd had the option not to, simply because of how often she's seen it used in evil ways by the magisters of minrathous.