#sorry that it is not very lucid

[scummy-writes]

Scum my darrrrrling 👉👈

Could I pleeeeeease request 'falling asleep together with Theo? I've been thinking of him a whole lot lately 💕

Hellooo ally- this is short and based on the chapter where Mc tends to his wounds after running into those shitty art fucks (i dont remember their name, its almost 2am im not digging for it HAHA)

-----

It was difficult, having you take care of him. His life had been difficult, his second chance at it hardly better - so what had he done to deserve that panic in your eyes, the way you gently tended to split skin and bruises.

The hour was late into the night, and you stubbornly refused to let him be. Equal in such a trait, he stayed in the room with you, only answering a few of your inquiries as to what had happened to him. The words came out calloused, cautious, and only served to barely dull that worrying gaze of yours.

And now, you slept curled up beside him, leaning against his shoulder using his coat for warmth. He should have sent you to bed or should have stomped off to his own. But that unfamiliar warmth of care that you gave him caused him to linger, greedily taking what you'd give, despite the way his thorns strove to fight you off.

Theo was...tired. tired of fighting. Of putting up fronts and shields. He was worth nothing in comparison to the rest of the men here, yet he was the one being cared for, being trusted so earnestly. What had he done to deserve that?

He wasn't sure he'd like the answer. It could be from pity, meaning that he wasn't coming off independently enough. Or it could be from a daunting feeling he didn't want to name, not while he was still dedicating himself to revenge, not when he needed to make sure you'd go home to your own time. Surely, with the care you put onto him, it mean there were others from your time missing the same treatment, who needed it more.

As the rain continued to fall outside, gentle taps against the windows lulled his eyelids closed. The sound, mixed in with your sleeping breaths, had the tension ease from his shoulders. Your warmth felt comforting, and Theo supposed that for just tonight, he could allow himself to bask in it to sleep with ease.

---

Does this make sense? No. I just thought it was a cute idea that could have happened in his route.

[friendly-neighborhood-furry]

i love Carrie i think shes so so cool but i don't like drawing characters without any clothes on so i gave her a cute lil emo outfit :3

didn't go full on emo with it because i wanted it to simple enough that it could still be feasibly animated. idk how well i did cuz i'm not an animator but whatever i think she looks nice :)

[ace-disgrace-on-the-case]

I wonder if maybe, just maybe, in a better world, I could have been a better son to my parents

Where I’m not trans

And they never had to yell

And they never felt the need to punish me

And I never deserved it

Where I still felt as good about them as they say they feel about me

Where I was their golden boy they could really be proud of instead of this…wretched thing

I don’t know if he would still be me

But if that version of me is out there somewhere I hope he’s doing well

He deserves it. Better than I do anyways

[hjartasalt]

Two cats I met while strolling through Tallin, thought you might appreciate them :)

I do!! I do appreciate them!!!! The tuxedo one even looks a bit like my Gríma :')

[the-archpriest-and-the-outcast]

Until They Are Forgotten

He never quite knows where he will wind up wandering when he casts himself out into the Warp. Instead of merely listening to the melody, he allows himself to become one with it. To feel the thrum beat within the fiber of his being. To hear the choirs of endless voices cry and scream, blending into song.

This time, an odd note of melancholy is what drives him onward and in. Something has been gently needling at his conscious mind, and so he has gone out to investigate what it may be. Such journeys could take minutes, hours, days, years, or longer. He never knows and has not cared.

Following the note, sustained and faint like one held too long upon a violin, he finds himself reaching his destination. Within the realm of thoughts and dreams, he feels dust and ash coating his feet. He tastes the dry, acrid air. Smells the smoke, thick and billowing, filling his chest.

But what he sees is not the desolation he feels. No, he sees thousands of souls, all gathered, weeping, pleading, roaring...

An endless tide of them. As far as he could possibly perceive. Thousands. Millions.

He recognizes them. He knows them. He remembers weeping for them. The pain in his chest that refused to leave him for weeks. The same pain that twisted and coiled and almost turned to indifference. He feels the ash between his fingers. Feels the grip of cloth, the struggles of a feeble man, speaking what he thought to be heresy, and what he now understood as a form of the Truth.

He looks at the sea of souls. He listens. He hears their melodious suffering, how it blends with the background hum of the universe itself. He reaches out to them all with hands made of radiant gold, and feels as they reach back. He feels the small hands of children, grasping at his long fingers; the rough, firm hands of honest workers; the delicate hands of artisans and writers; the grasp of those feeble in body, yet strong in mind and will; how some grip his hand as though desperate for something to cling to, and others as though they are greeting an old friend.

He sees them. Sees their eyes, their minds, their hearts. Sees them as they once were, and now are. Sees the fear. Desperation. Conviction. Anger. Grief. Friends, families, lovers, all still together despite how time-ravaged they all are. Some barely remember what they were. Others remember well.

He listens. Hears the tales parents once told children. The jokes once passed between friends. The arguments once held between lovers. The jabs between rivals and enemies. The mundane hum of existence, maintained in this one space.

This space could be anywhere, he knows. This place could be a chasm, a palace, a city square, a forest, a field. It matters not. All that matters is that all of them are here.

His eyes close. He tightens his grip on their hands. He allows himself to remember the bone-deep ache that pursued him from this moment onward. He allows himself to remember the anger that burned in him so brightly before it smoldered. He allows himself to remember the act that set him down this path. A quiver of the lip. The feeling of dry ash coating and covering beautiful golden skin, revealed by thin tracks that glistened in the low candlelight. Skin that earned him his name.

Aurelian.

He hears it now, being whispered through the gathered souls. He hears all his titles, murmured with reverence or spat with hatred.

He feels their grips all tighten with his own. Something builds within all of them. It is an overwhelming tide of emotion. It is sorrow. It is grief. It is pain. It is fear.

And strangest of all, it is understanding. His time here is impermanent, as is theirs. Soon he will leave, and they will dissipate. They will become one with the endless song, and he will find a note to untangle anew.

Some are scared. Some are too weary to feel fear, and simply wish to move on once more.

His eyes open. The gathering before him flickers between packs of formless and nameless daemons, and the forms of the humans they once embodied. He sees their souls. He sees who they once were. Sees their hunger. Their pain. None see the Neverborn quite as he does. None take the time to have these moments with them, for them to remember who they were, and for them to remind the pilgrim that he, too, was human once.

Slowly, he uncurls his hands from the crowd. The scent of ash, the feeling of smoke, the view of the gathering all begins to fade. Back into the melody they vanish. He remembers the eyes that stare at him mere moments before they are swept along. Remembers the feel of the smaller hands that tried to hold on for just a few moments longer. The whispers and pleas to just remember them.

And, as swiftly as he found this place, he leaves. A single tear trails from him, falling, forming itself into a wisp that fades after a few fickle moments of existence.

He returns to his confines upon a world of madness and horror. Within a chamber, with walls covered in a language never meant to be uttered by physical beings, he sits. He folds his legs. Feels the cloth against his gilded, tattooed skin. Reaches for a stylus and ink with only one pair of hands. And for the briefest of moments, he sees eyes that he had not stared into in millennia reflected back in that dark pool of ink.

With a shuddering breath, he reaches for paper, and begins to write. Allows his emotions, his thoughts, his memories to flow onto the pages. He sits like this for hours. For days. For weeks. He writes names. Writes what he felt. Writes what he saw. He writes and writes and writes.

When his hands finally still, pages fill the room. He feels the tenseness and soreness that should not be there. He feels all the physical limitations he swore he had shed long ago. As he stands, it all falls away. The facade of anything human flees, leaving behind a strange little god-thing. A perfect representation of Chaos Undivided, wrapped in the gold of its most powerful enemy.

But deep within its chest, there is the dullest of aches. A promise. A reminder. Remember why you are here. Why you quest so hard for the Truth. Why you stare into the abyss and have become one with it. Remember the blood, the tears, the suffering that formed each step to this pathway. Remember the sorrow. The stares.

The pages are organized and compiled with naught but an idle thought into loose bound tomes and journals to be studied later. He feels the tug again. There is a note out of alignment, and it demands his attention.

He wonders where the song will take him this time.

[egoarc4de]

ant mill wip #1536 so i can talk in the tags

[cosmictapestry]

REQUESTS ARE OPEN AGAIN??? HELL YEAH IT FEELS LIKE MY BIRTHDAY <33333

may we have A37, please? 👉👈

A37. lucienne orgasm control

i have like five ahead of this one but listen..... listen......... i am in. the state of mind. for this one

morphienne prompt list + fills here

"Are you doing alright?" he asks her, conversationally, with three fingers stuffed in her cunt.

Lucienne makes a sound like a woman tortured, garbled and muffled by the couch cushions. She's on her belly, wrists bound with silken rope and tied to the arm of the couch, her hips in her lord's lap, ankles bound as well. She's naked, shivering and sweating.

Her lord is cool and calm and fully clothed. He shifts his fingers, flexing the middle between the ring and pointer, grinding so exquisitely that Lucienne can only tremble and will away a wail.

He stops, hums soothingly, fingers spread and stroking, his other hand kneading and petting the swell of one buttock. He's been at this for a while now, idly playing with her body, unraveling her softly. "Lucienne?"

She mumbles and shifts and manages, at length, in a voice wrecked with her choked-off moans, "it's good."

Lord Morpheus hums again, approving, and he grips her buttock to spread her open and watch the way her cunt grips his fingers as he grinds them out, then back in, twisting, torturous. Tears build in her eyes; she can feel herself leaking and spasming around him, can hear the squelching of his fingers. "You clench so tightly when you get close," Lord Morpheus murmurs. "Did you know that?"

Lucienne doesn't know if she's actually expected to answer, but luckily he seems satisfied with her muffled keening. He plunges his fingers and circles them, strokes her walls, then withdraws them entirely with an pronounced pop, leaving Lucienne bereft and open, fluttering. He rubs the pads of his fingers over her folds, parts them to spread her. The air is cool on the hot slick flesh that he plays with, tickles, dips his fingertips into. "But I don't think I'm ready to let you come yet."

Lucienne shakes and jerks and tries to rock back on his fingers, but he stills her with his unoccupied hand squeezing her hip, pressed her down on his lap. "Patience, Lucienne," he chides. His thumb circles her cunt, draws slick up to stroke over her arsehole.

An idea occurs to her. "Would you—" Lucienne swallows, focuses, finds her lord's hands have stilled while he listens. Her face burns. "Might you—spit?"

He hums quiet puzzlement, and, shoulders hunching up to her ears in embarrassment, Lucienne imagines it, and thinks he's quite unlikely to oblige. She jolts, then, when she hears him, and feels the coinciding hot splatter of his spit on her arsehole, feels it begin to roll. She's still reeling from the obscenity of the act when he swipes his thumb through the spit and pushes it inside her.

Lucienne's bound feet kick up and she gasps, whines, quivers as his thumb works in, softening the tightness of her insides, and his other fingers resume rubbing her folds. Lord Morpheus bends down, lays a kiss on the back of her neck. "Alright?"

Lucienne nods frantically. Sweet man, dear brave trusting lord, giving her just what she asks for, and she sobs and perhaps mentions her appreciation, and begs for whatever else he might have in mind.

He gives a little huff of laughter, straightens up again. Her arms are so tense they strain in their bindings, and her belly heaves with the easy slide of his fingers back into her. He pistons in and out of her arse, in and out of her cunt. She's so full, sparking with sensation, arching up, shameless and desperate—

And his other hand strikes her sharp and quick under the curve of her arse, makes her jolt and sob out a cry and clench and drool helplessly. Her glasses went from askew to missing completely at some point. She only notices now with her arse in the air and her nerves alight.

Lord Morpheus rubs the stinging heat of his handprint, murmurs soothingly to her. "You're alright," her lord whispers, then delivers another strike on the other cheek. She's so wet that when she writhes his hand nearly slips out of her. "Good girl, just try to stay still, you're alright."

This is how her afterlife ends, quite possibly. Tears and sweat dampen the couch cushions and the fabric drags roughly on her nipples and she tries to drag herself up on her elbows to escape some of the stimulation but he drags her back flat on his lap, thrusts his fingers in deep, moves them so slowly, not enough to finish her. "Is it too much?" he asks. Another tap makes her howl and struggle. "Do you want me to let you come?"

"Please," she begs, "my lord, my lord, my lord—"

"I would keep you like this," he tells her. He bends over her again, presses his head to the back of hers, his hair tickling her scalp and his breath hot on her neck. "Just so I could see it. You open up so beautifully for me, Lucienne." His little finger works its way into her cunt, spreads with the others so she can feel cool air inside herself. His thumb presses down and in, mercilessly, and she imagines she can feel it meeting his other fingers.

He works her like that for a few more torturous seconds. She is incoherent, mumbling, entire body sweat-slick and trembling-tense. "I'm going to let you come now," he says. As an afterthought, "what do you say?"

"Thank you," Lucienne manages, and again when his fingers move faster, and again when he licks the back of her neck, and again when he growls and moves his free arm to lie across her back and shove her down hard, pin her to him, and again while she kicks and squeals and fights and seizes and finally goes still and gushes, and she keeps mouthing it when she is beyond all capability for higher thought.

She floats, then, quivering in the aftershocks, soaked and whimpering and vaguely aware of continued stroking inside her that stills and withdraws and leaves her empty. Steady pressure holds her down, keeps her safe. "Almost took my fingers with you," she hears her lord say. His lips press to the back of her head, his hand pets her thigh. "You did not have to thank me, that was rather mean."

Lucienne snorts and giggles and pushes her face down into the couch and can feel him grinning. "I loved it," she mumbles.

[spaghettiandart]

from a request

doodles of these silly guys!

[little-devil-town]

they are so important to me,,

[comfied-chriterature]

shakes you. do you think when loulu parted, lucy, the romantic and heartbroken, tried to tell herself to think logically?

it was for the best and she knew it. the guild is the past, louisa is win the guild, therefore she is the past too. but that kind of logical thinking was what louisa would’ve done and maybe she rubbed off more on lucy more than lucy had thought.

to rub salt in the wound, that mindset actually helped. it also showed that louisa (and her thinking) is good for lucy. even when she’s gone

(does this make sense? i’m not sure)

(being shaken) Urgghhhhh it hurts to think that in order for Lucy to move on from Louisa she had to be like her and think like her. Had to absorb parts of Louisa into herself to forget her. And she continues to carry Louisa's influence with her as she leaves her behind.

Maybe she was thinking like a romantic at first — that maybe she and Louisa would cross paths again on some fateful day, maybe Lucy could "show her the light" and bring Louisa over to her side. Because, surely, they're going to see each other again, right? Louisa was her first friend, fate wouldn't be so cruel as to split them up forever, right...?

Until she realized that of course Louisa would choose the Guild. The logical girl with hundreds of plans in her head, the strategist who prioritized the Guild's survival over anything else, she would be able to leave Lucy in the past. She would be thinking toward the future; she would be able to accept that they weren't meant to be (even if it hurt Louisa to put their history aside, even if she was so much lonelier now than she thought she could be).

So Lucy would have to do that too. But there are other traits of Louisa that Lucy may pick up over time. Maybe she'd be more open with things and people that she loved. She'd grow to care in a more gentle way (well, sometimes). She'd find a home and a pursuit that she could cling to with such resolve and devotion.

And maybe while she sacrifices nearly everything to protect her home, she'd have a fleeting thought that it's something Louisa would've done.

[verifiablebot]

this is so stupid but in my ongoing cultural crisis i want to change my farm/rabbitry name to something french but i can't think of anything good and i have no one to ask for advice who actually speaks cajun so once again!!!!!! i feel very isolated!

[rainbluealoekitten]

i genuinely feel so bad for my ex's gf though because she's out here posting on her insta that it's their 3 month anniversary but boyo is making me playlists with unrequited love songs and posts stuff about being nostalgic about when we were dating, keeps complimenting how i look, and literally yesterday was telling me he still has the sticker we stole from the library where we held hands and cuddled like. he's such an important friend to me but really i guess i will have to cut him off (again) bc i thought we were both over this but apparently not and it's just going to hurt a lot of people if i don't

[jontheredrc]

Well, it's about that time again...and I've been quite lax in these posts lately, for a few reasons. I sort of unpacked this by talking to a friend, but sometimes I feel like others don't care very much about me. But it's hard not to see things that way when I think about folks like my doctor, who has ignored my symptoms and their severity like every time. But that's the other reason I haven't been posting much...I think I need a doctor, and a good one at that. I called out of work on Friday because I was having this terrible feeling in my neck and upper back, starting about Wednesday. I pushed through it, but that just made it hurt more and more, so I tried to give myself time for rest, for ice, for anything I could think of to make the pain go away. And it did! But a lot of the other symptoms I've been having are still there...I still feel weak, numb, off-balance...almost like my body can't carry its own weight. So, like, both physically and mentally, I've been feeling pretty down lately. Most of my posts these past few days would've come down to emojis in various states of distress. I've been scouring the house, looking for ways to make things more comfortable and ergonomic, especially in regards to neck strain. But I think I've done all I can do, and I'm still having problems. So then I went back around again and tried to set up the house so that, like, I always have something to catch myself on in any given room if I do have balance or dizziness issues. It's the same as the terrible congestion...part of the reason my sleep schedule is so weird is just so that, like, if I do start suffocating in my sleep, I then have a few hours to regain my bearings before it's time for my work shift. I've given up any hope of getting better in that regard...maybe this neck injury and this dizziness is permanent too...

Oh well! Have a great day, everyone! Love you! 👋💕

[zwei-rhunen]

best-worst city of mhach raid ever (i am dead on the ground)

[pacifymebby]

As somebody interested in reality Shifter and has shifted multiple times, I have to ask why you reblogged that one shifting post? Is it because you believe in shifting or do not?

right here right now in this reality I am currently so sad that I wish I could "shift" outa here, id shift out of here so hard and n e v e r come back.

[bloodheartz]

Idk why I even get out of bed when all I do is sit around twiddling my thumbs and hallucinating all fucking day. And these past few weeks all I’ve experienced is shit that made my psychosis worse (Catholicism forced on me by family, “friends” blocking me out of nowhere, bugs in my room, pirate clown)

Like genuinely, why don’t I just lie in bed enjoying myself in my mind all day.

Ignore under the cut :b