#F&F orphans

[ileniagennari]

Yes it's me, destroyer of worlds

Sup

[thedevilscarnival]

shout out to daan fear and hunger for being a (textually) male character whom is narratively a woman. orange really hit it out of the park with that one

[degreesoomf]

degrees of yuri or something idk i just want to see the pinafore. it's cute

if it's not a full render piece i don't usually color fair-skinned characters bc i'm straight up lazy but actually i gave them slightly different tan values so aight... should have done that since the school npcs piece...

[macmuffins-blog]

Something something school cooking event except River shoved Rekker (my PC) the most difficult team to cooperate with

[dol-toast]

m!robin doodlies...i lobe him

[c0rpsedemon]

the thing about the queer media tournament that really gets me is that last i checked there wasn't a single mxtx work on it. like not even the untamed made it in and don't get me wrong the og mo dao zu shi books are huge but cql is def more popular among tumblr circles. idk it just really rubs me the wrong way how every single piece of western media that ppl have ever gotten a lil bit aggressive abt shipping with is there and then for east asian media there's utena and madoka magica and the handmaiden and last i checked that was pretty much it. and then for the rest of the world there's next to/nothing but idk enough to really make judgements there.

[tentacleplains]

more scenes that basically everyone sees but pointing out a specific detail i find interesting: "though i hope you don't cause a scene this time" does avery regularly cause scenes at parties?? lmao

[harveywritings92]

Ghost *Drunk*, to Orphan who is sober: I love you. Thank you for dealing with me.

Orphan, resting his head in her lap: It is not dealing with you. It's simply the patience of loving.

[sp4rrowdoll]

Robin having a particularly rough day and taking out his frustrations and anger out on pc through sex ? :3

I'm so sorry for the late response anon! Hopefully this makes up for the wait!! (Title taken from "Cherry Lip (Go Baby Go)" by Garbage, which is 110% a Robin song.)

the hysterical realm

m!Robin/f!Reader; read on ao3 here

Robin is an angry crier. 

He always has been, ever since you were little. You used to tease him, just to see him cry, his eyes filling up with frustrated tears. He’s also a pretty crier, and you lean up to lick the salt off his cheek as he presses you down into the bed, tearing at your clothes. He’s too angry to do much more than paw at the buttons on your blouse, and if your hands weren’t pinned above your head, you might have tried to help him. 

His face twists, and one of his hands wraps around your throat—he’s not mad at you, not really, but seeing him like this at all sends a fission of heat up your spine. You wonder if you’ll ever be able to make him mad enough to get like this by yourself.

In the meantime, you’ll settle for blowing him off, letting him walk home alone, and hoping that this town will be good to you in the only way it knows how.

“Stop that.” He punctuates his statement by squeezing your neck lightly. His nails, always well-kept and smoothly shaped, scrape at the sides of your throat. Robin releases your wrist, and settles back to working on undoing your blouse. His crying has smeared mascara around his pretty eyes, and his eyelashes stick together in the most alluring way.

It’s more commanding than he ever lets himself be in bed. Your hips rock up futilely, and you try and decide whether it’d be worth it to rile him up more. Insults and half-finished humiliating phrases loop over your tongue and sit between your teeth. You hold your tongue, and press into his hand on your throat instead, knuckles turning white as you grip the headboard.

“Stop what?” you ask, and smile like your tongue hadn’t swiped over his cheek only a moment before. His hand tightens on your throat, and he stops trying to unbutton your blouse, and just rips it open, scattering buttons across the floor. You watch dispassionately. A shirt or two is an easy sacrifice to make in order to see Robin this way. Luckily for you, your bra hooks in the front, which makes it easy enough to remove that it shouldn’t be a problem. He scratches at you as he unclips it—much like your shirt, he doesn’t bother trying to pull it off all the way, just shoving the cups out from under your breasts, letting them spill free.

“You know exactly what I’m talking about. Don’t play with me,” he replies, and he even sounds different like this. His voice is deeper. Huskier. There’s an edge to it. If you couldn’t see the way his pulse jumps in his throat when he tries to intimidate you like this, you could even be convinced that he’s a different person entirely.

His lips lower to your throat. You wonder if he’s leaving lipstick stains behind again. Sharp little nips, brief deliciously painful flickers of teeth, trace a line down your neck towards where his left hand is still squeezing, as his right hand begins to work on your trousers. 

You’d started wearing this particular style of pant because the long line of buttons were tough to undo in the heat of the moment, and Robin seems to be finding that fact especially frustrating right now, because instead of trying to get your pants off, he sits upright again and slides forward, his hips slipping over yours, traveling further up your body. His faintly-muscled thighs press against either side of your ribs. Your breaths are coming in short, tiny gasps, and the hand around your throat twitches with every quiet noise you make, his nails biting into your skin.

His own pants had long been undone, though not removed, and his hard cock sits hot and heavy at the juncture between your breasts. Precum wets the soft swells at the base of your chest, and his hips twitch forward, smearing it across your skin.

“Robin,” you whine, writhing beneath him. One of your hands lifts from the headboard, only for him to slam it back down. You let him pretend he’s strong enough to keep you there, and stop struggling a bit. He leans down so his lips rest against your ear. You can feel the angry heat radiating off his face. You decide to beg anyway. “Please, Robin, I need you.”

“Aw.” He’s not smiling, but the bared, gritted, teeth could probably be mistaken for one. “I wish you’d been good enough for that.”

With that, his hips thrust forward, bouncing your breasts around his cock, and his hand finally lifts from your throat to pull them tighter around him as he fucks between them in earnest. His rhythm is sharp and stuttering, just like him in the heat of his anger—your breasts are pressed tightly enough together now that you can feel every contour and pulsing vein along the length of his cock. 

Robin snaps his hips against your chest, and his hand squeezes your wrists. You cannot look away from where his dick disappears between your breasts. For a moment you mourn that between the size of your breasts—they’d been so sore recently, and you could swear that they were getting bigger—and the size of his cock you couldn’t wrap your mouth around his tip on the apex of his harsh thrusts.

He groans, and his hand leaves your breasts to tangle in your hair. His thrusting speeds up, and he begins to pull at your hair for additional leverage—your breasts ache as they heave against his movements.

There’s no fanfare when he finally comes—he bends low and grabs your face, pulling you into a messy kiss, from anyone but Robin, you’d probably class it as a bite—and thick ropes of cum splatter across your chest and up to paint the base of your throat. He shudders there for a moment, before pulling away.

There is a rare look in his eyes as he looks down at you. It’s a little possessive, a little dark, and his brows are still drawn and furrowed. Tears linger in the corner of his eyes still. His lipstick is hopeless smudged around his lips, and the skin under his eyes is dark with ruined mascara.

One finger slides down the length of your reddened throat, and lingers in the pool of cooling cum between your collarbones. The nail bites into your skin. It digs in. You exhale, and your eyes flutter closed.

And then he’s gone.

The door of your room slams shut as he leaves. As soon as it does, you hastily shove one hand down your pants and crook it up into your soaking wet core. Your fingers rub with the rhythm you’d memorized from the thrust of Robin’s hips, and before you know it, you’re on the path to tip over the brink and follow him into orgasm. 

Later you’ll clean up the sticky mess that’s drying on your chest with the wet wipes next to the lube in your bedside table, and stretch out the soreness in your shoulders from holding your hands above your head for so long. Later you’ll grab some water, and test the muscles in your throat, and when you’re convinced that you look—not normal, because you know that normal for you exists in the peaks of pleasure, of cleaning up only to get mussed up minutes later, so not normal, but instead less debauched—and later you’ll follow him next door.

Robin will be crying again, and it will be as pretty as ever, but this time it will be in remorse, and maybe that’s one of the best things about riling him up like this. Because whenever anyone else uses your body like this, they don’t bother to apologize, don’t bother to feel dirty and wrong, don’t carve out space for you-as-person after they finish thrusting into you and leave. But Robin does—and his guilt makes a delicious chaser to a hard-won fight-fuck-orgasm. It’s the closest thing to power that you ever let yourself experience.

So later you’ll follow him out of your room and into his, and you’ll take your prized place in his bed, and curl close around his back, fitting into him like he can somehow manage to slot all of your missing pieces back into place.

But for now, your fingers work, and pleasure sparks as you imagine the furious look in Robin’s eyes from only moments before—you can’t help yourself. He’s just so much fun when he’s mad.

[dollya-robinprotector]

Why do I have the urge to draw Bailey having the body type of Miguel O'hara?

[degreesoomf]

i can't really think of a caption but i offer

individual pics under the cut ⬇

i posted sydneys so pls dig them up manually /j /j here

i thought kylar used a big cutter knife bc they can fit that in their school bad. i have one. but well it was.................. really a kitchen knife HUH...

[vfdinthewild]

“He was no longer trembling, but his head felt very fuzzy. Drinking didn’t help, but it at least gave him something to do with his hands.”

-from Babel by R.F. Kuang, ch. 5. 

[gundamfight]

[silverselfshippingchaos]

I fucking HATE how the fandom treats m.ine. it's so bad 😭

[tiramisu-tuesdays]

You knock on the door. Robin throws it open and hugs you. "Come in," she says, pulling you inside. She sits on the bed beside the television and picks up the controller.

[sp4rrowdoll]

regarding such brainsick fantasies

m!Robin/f!Reader, warnings for mommy kink and also maybe a bit of incest kink. read on ao3 here

He doesn’t know why it bothers him so much. 

He’s overheard worse things about you before, in the school hallways—there’s always some jerk running their mouths and not bothering to stop before a friend elbows them in the side and motions towards Robin, like he’s not supposed to hear the things they say about you. He does, he always does, this school likes to pick a favorite and then there’s no stopping the waves of vile things said about them. You’re far stronger than he is, knowing that these things are said about you and then still coming to school regardless.

Robin thinks that in your position, he would probably stay home to cry every other day. But you don’t, you get up and face it, and you keep smiling through it all. No matter how many assholes leer at your tits in the hallways, no matter how many times Whitney tries to humiliate you—no matter how many random strangers smack your ass. It’s incredible. He loves—admires—no, love is right. You’re his girlfriend now, he’s allowed to think that, he can even say it if he wants—he loves how strong you are. In fact, he’d go so far as to say that your strength is one of his favorite things about you.

He just wishes he was a little stronger, because the first time you stand up for him and someone whisper-shouts, “Aww, someone had to go get Mommy’s help,” he hides in the nurse's office to cry. It doesn’t make him late to history class, but it’s a near thing, and you shoot him a concerned look, and then his cheeks are getting hot.

Ok, maybe he was lying to himself—he certainly didn’t go to the nurse’s office to cry. Not that he didn’t cry, just that the crying came after the most shameful and intense jerk-off session that he’d ever had in his life. And maybe the heat in his cheeks was more about the fact that the concerned, motherly, expression on your face sent heat spiraling low in his gut than it was about embarrassment. 

Class passes excruciatingly slowly, but it passes, and then he can go and have a blessed hour free before the two of you walk home together. He smiles and grabs your hand as you leave Winter’s classroom together, and he’s almost regretful that he needs the time and space to clear his head. He’d much rather you have all your classes together—he wants to spend whatever time with you he can. And then he overhears someone wishing you were actually a mother because you were clearly prime ‘milf’ material, and he can’t take it anymore.

“Robin?” you ask, as he pulls the two of you towards the bathrooms with single minded determination. “Is everything okay?”

He shoves you through the door, and then locks it. It’s a crappy lock, in a crappy door, but everything should be fine, as long as the two of you are quiet. Robin knows that he can be very good at staying quiet—maybe you’ll even tell him that much.

“Yes Mommy,” he says, as he sinks to his knees.