this blog is officially archived. you can find the new one under the same url. threads will be continued to there instead as will new memes and current plotting. once again i apologise for the inconvenience!

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Cosmic Funnies
Not today Justin
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Love Begins
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YOU ARE THE REASON

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PUT YOUR BEARD IN MY MOUTH
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@scythed-a
this blog is officially archived. you can find the new one under the same url. threads will be continued to there instead as will new memes and current plotting. once again i apologise for the inconvenience!
hello little people in my phone you have survived the softblock spree. i'm inbetween keeping this blog as is and archiving completely, so i have that on my mind as well.
actually no, scratch that, i think i will archive within the next few days. threads i have going will be replied to there. plotting will be carried onto there too, as will unsent memes and stuff i've yet to reply to as well.
hello little people in my phone you have survived the softblock spree. i'm inbetween keeping this blog as is and archiving completely, so i have that on my mind as well.
ngl i am seriously considering using just they / them pronouns 🧍
ended up getting sick after like, a whole streak of writing (karmic, really) and i apologise for not getting to messages! i'll get to them slowly but surely since i'm stuck in bed half asleep most of the time
it had been stubbornness at first that spurred her refusal, then a very deep fear : the kind of fear lovers refused to admit stemmed from the breaking of their hearts, an old wine sat upon a shelf that continued to age and age forgotten. she followed the colonel’s disobedience as best as his commands told her too —— she retrieved his uniform from the car and brought the papers necessary for his premature discharge from his room.
they would never see the second lieutenant again. it is difficult to admit, the way first confessions of love are, the way the refusal of it grew. the retirement officer visited his room more than she did, and it is not guilt that drives her to visit him for the last time before the colonel’s leave. ( or perhaps it is, and lovers love refusal more than each other. )
she steps into the room and the colonel’s bed is made, his things cleared out, but @nowincolor ( as jean ) still lies there on his white bed, nothing beneath his waist moving. he is still smoking ( a habit of which she, in truth, never minded despite her incessant comments on it ) and she holds out the ashtray underneath his chin when he says : guess i’m not much of a hero, huh ?
there is something unspoken about the way chess pieces glance at each other from across the room and think, it could have been me, and she inhales as sharp as a knife —— i could have lost my sight, my limbs, my life, i could have been rendered unfit to serve him, and that was a greater punishment than anything the military could threaten her with. a soldier cannot use words as well as a poet does, so she scoffs instead. ❛❛ don’t say that. ❜❜ and she sits on the chair by the bedside, their gazes refusing to meet yet still some manner of infinite mirror. ❛❛ you … did what i couldn’t. you protected him when i gave up. it’s all any of us could ever hope to do. ❜❜ her hands clutch the fringes of the colonel’s folded uniform on her lap, the folds and crumples springing like lightning from her fingertips. ❛❛ so don’t say that. he’s still upset about you leaving, after all. and i am too. ❜❜ because he was for both of us, because in the absence the knight now carved, there was nothing left —
before hesitation freezes the timid impulse of her nerves, a hand shoots across his shoulder to tilt his head to hers, where she presses a quick kiss to the side of his mouth, and the taste is all cigarette ash and grief, but it might be what she needs. ❛❛ we’ll come and visit as much as we can, okay ? ❜❜
Adjust it to twelve o'clock. I can’t tell how much to throttle the flames. You don’t have to throttle them. Range fifty - no, fifty-three.
YOU CARRY ALL THOSE DEATHS WITHIN YOU private & selective mixed media based sideblog for koschei bessmertny written by caliope following from @mysteriae AND IT HAS LEFT A HOLE, A HUNGER THAT CANNOT BE FILLED.
eclipsed sun and swallowed moon, circling like birds in an infinite sky. she remembers them kinder, patient in affiliation but stern and sober. a celestial body on the precipice of aphelion. but she can feign respect that is not feigned, bow a veneration that tells no lies. blaidd waits beyond reality and here she is truly alone, without a puppet to guide or fear to bind what remains of her mortality. she steps into the threshold.
here then is the perihelion, the ascent of the lunar. demigod and only so, to the holding of the city they command. @ategod ( as gwyndolin ) says in the soft tones of the moon : don’t do anything foolish, ranni.
the plenilune bows to her shadow, the shadow speaks like a solar corona. ❛❛ it pleaseth mine heart to have your concern webbed into words. ❜❜ she rises as a tide and blinks no more in the silver - gold. ❛❛ but it is better placed elsewhere. it is thee who knows better than all else that i am no fool, and i take no challenge in which victory becomes that which i cannot claimest. the dark sun shall worry not. ❜❜
x / Landscape With Fruit Rot And Millipede, Richard Siken
there is no use for her bow when she ascends the stairs to the inquisitor’s chambers, knocking again on the door once, then twice —— a coded rhythm to identify herself. she crosses the threshold, lit only by candlesticks and chandeliers threatened in flickers by the constant gales from the open windows. ❛❛ your worship, ❜❜ she greets the silhouette overlooking the midnight balcony with even tones, ❛❛ here are the reports you requested from commander cullen about the arrangements to orlais. and the ambassador wanted me to remind you about … your worship ? ❜❜ something is different about this air. salt - sharp, fragrant, the call of an unknown element crying in alarm. the shadow on the balcony walks in and she is envious of the candlelight when it touches him the way she cannot. her lord is older than the man she saw at the conclave, older still than the boy she remembered from the distant, watery dreams of her childhood. it frightens her, the way dreams of demons and lyrium veins once did ( and still do ) , but those dreams are not as tangible as she is.
she stands still like an idiot when he cages her against his desk with his arms, takes one of her hands. @nowincolor ( as roy ) brings it close, dangerously closer to where the line of his shirt ends and the flesh of his collarbone began, right above his sternum, and suddenly his face is too close when he whispers : can you feel my heart beating ?
wait. wait —— the world has taught her too much and yet nothing at all. he is warm, a perfect imitation of a dying fireplace. under the pads of her fingers her bones echo the tremors of his heart, the anxious closing of her throat, the way her eyelashes flutter in an effort to wake her from this hallucination, because it had to be. ❛❛ my lord — ❜❜ somehow he might have found the desperation she so keenly tried to hide in the wavering of her voice, because she swears on the maker his eyes narrow into such keen focus and she falters. she has not wanted many men in her life ; her father’s isolation made her a stranger to civilisation, the templars devoted themselves to their duty more than each other, even ferelden in the blight had love strangled out of it. but here, in a corner of the world tucked away behind mountains behind stone walls. now.
answer his question. serve him — ❛❛ yes. ❜❜ the hand by his chest grasps at the fabric, a crossroads between pulling him closer and pushing him away. he had always been so untouchable, because a pedestal was the best place to put anything she loved, far away and revered. there had always been something between them, but to name it meant it existed, and so she danced around it, he refused to acknowledge it ( beyond, of course, his incessant jokes and teasing that struck a little too close to its target ) , and so it went. so it would, until she would die taking an arrow for him, taking any hit for him. she was content to love a statue for the rest of her life, who would notice everything in the room but the boyish soldier behind him. but things have changed too fast, they have gone through the length of multiple apocalypses within the span of a lifetime.
❛❛ i … wait — ❜❜ events happen in reverse ; she denies him and yet her hands pull him closer, and she laughs at the nights when her subconscious used to lull her about the way his hair would feel when she could rake it with her fingers. ❛❛ no. ❜❜ then clearer, ❛❛ no, my lord. this is wrong. you can’t possibly … i’m not a templar anymore. i have no title outside being your vassal. you’re the inquisitor, and … all of thedas needs you, more than i do. so please … ❜❜ please ? what mercy did she deserve ? the stay of the sword she wanted to kiss her neck ? the lust for the dagger of his attention ? breathing is painful, because breathing means knowing he is electric, the air around him always is, and maker —— she wants him, more than want could say. she has since that terrible, ambitious boy walked through her father’s door, since she saw him with war - scorched eyes at kinloch, since envy ate her alive at ferelden, since forever began —
she does not know who kisses who first. in the end, such a little thing matters.
𝐋𝐎𝐔𝐃 & 𝐃𝐄𝐀𝐅𝐄𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐒𝐈𝐋𝐄𝐍𝐂𝐄 (a series of nonverbal prompts . mature themes present , ‘ my ’ muse belongs to the one who posted the meme - send “ + REVERSE ” to reverse the prompts .)
→ 𝐈 . GENERAL
❛ hush . raise a finger in a gesture to silence my muse . ❛ sit . gesture for my muse to sit down . ❛ door . hold a door open for my muse . ❛ tap . tap my muse on the shoulder to garner their attention . ❛ hunger . give my muse something to eat / drink . ❛ cook . present my muse with home - cooked food . ❛ brush . work a brush / comb through my muse’s hair . ❛ read . silently read a book alongside my muse . ❛ hand . hold out a hand for my muse to take . ❛ dressed . help my muse put on an article of clothing . ❛ note . give my muse a note saying : [ content ] . ❛ amplify . turn up the music in the car .
→ 𝐈𝐈 . ANGST
❛ patch . help my muse patch up a wound . ❛ night terrors . hold my muse after they wake up from a nightmare . ❛ company . silently sit with my muse to comfort them. ❛ hospital . my muse is told that yours is in the hospital . ❛ revelation . show my muse evidence of a lie they told . ❛ indulge . find my muse drinking to cope . ❛ downfall . find my muse collapsed on the ground . ❛ console . comfort my muse as they cry . ❛ nurse . give my muse company in the hospital .
→ 𝐈𝐈𝐈 . AFFECTIONATE
❛ wink . wink at my muse . ❛ wrap . wrap an arm around my muse’s [ shoulders / waist ] . ❛ caress . gently caress my muse’s face . ❛ tousle . mess playfully with my muse’s hair . ❛ chest . place your head on my muse’s chest . ❛ comb . comb fingers through my muse’s hair . ❛ grasp . run to my muse & jump into their arms . ❛ lean . lean on my muse’s shoulder . ❛ tender . kiss my muse on the [ forehead / cheek / nose ] . ❛ abrupt . kiss my muse out of the blue . ❛ chaste . chastely kiss my muse . ❛ good morning . kiss my muse the morning after . ❛ volumes . gaze at my muse in a way that silently says ‘i love you’ .
→ 𝐈𝐕 . VIOLENT
❛ strike . [ slap / punch ] my muse in the face . ❛ gun . wield a gun at my muse . ❛ twist . twist my muse’s arm behind their back . ❛ throttle . aggressively wrap your hands around my muse’s throat . ❛ parch . burn my muse with a hot object . ❛ take down . forcefully bring my muse to the ground . ❛ gouge . wield a sharp object at my muse . ❛ shunt . shove my muse backwards . ❛ stickup . yell at my muse to put their hands in the air. ❛ shoot . [ fatally / non-fatally ] shoot my muse . ❛ stab . stab my muse with a [ knife / other object ].
→ 𝐕 . NSFW
❛ surprise . send an unexpected nsfw image to my muse . ❛ pin . push my muse against a [ wall, table, other ] . ❛ go down . go down on my muse . ❛ choke . intimately wrap your hands around my muse’s throat . ❛ belt loops . pull my muse closer by their belt loops . ❛ skinny dipping . go skinny dipping with my muse . ❛ rip . tear a piece of clothing from my muse’s body . ❛ mark . leave a mark on my muse’s body [ specify where ] .
here is an unknown truth of autumn, that little else but roots and demise know : it is a thing of mathematics, synchronised calculation, nothing but perfection willed into dying perfectly. rot stops, rot moves, rot becomes ambitious in its greed, deliberate in meaning. it arrives one morning as he returns from the splitting of an oak, the verditure of the seelie comes to his beck and call after their strange obedience and withers under his touch. the students arrive on campus after their respites like a whirl of leaves gathering at forest floor ; he had told them he had to take a sabbatical ( as has been a usual occurrence, per his arrangement with the dean and his students, that between the deep gradient months of september to november he would be absent from his academic duties ) and he did not miss the relief on their faces.
they take the remainder of their paraphernalia from the office, and it is enough to fit into the dark nooks of a seemingly deep satchel. perhaps it had been the shadows of the orange twilight obscuring half the place in a comfortable shadow, but he almost missed the presence by the door, a lingering thing that was all ribs and bones and sorrowful memories. @poppyvale ( as eimile ) crosses the impossible distance to stand in front of them to say : for the record, i don’t want you out of my hair.
rot chuckles, and it becomes a dark and taunting sound, a wolf in theatre wings. ❛❛ for the record ? here i was thinking i would enjoy myself tangling it around my neck. ❜❜ rot has no fingers, no hands but the facsimile of human hands, and strangely, like the creeping of lichen on bark, an invasion of feeling prays it is enough, that flowers mimic animals and animals mimic flora and so can he, so can he too pretend to be something he cannot be for her. an index finger like a twig curls under her chin to tilt her face to his, and he is some great willow bending over her, giving her shade from the dying sunlight, and he might think he will miss this. ❛❛ come with me. ❜❜ there, it is said, and the past grips to soil. something aches, and it is perturbing, like a single unguarded lantern in a lonely wood, because autumn cannot ache.
the sigh they release becomes a flock of birds choking their lungs in all their white feathers and soft down. ❛❛ why should you not ? does the world beyond not call for you too ? do you not want it ? ❜❜ such a tree bends closer and kisses her cold cheek, the sharp knife of her jawline, the all - too human curve of her neck. do you not want — ? ❛❛ you could be a sparrow. you already have such lovely wings. you could be such a lovely, little sparrow, and sing songs that drive men to their deaths, and i could shelter you for as long as trees are trees. we shall be back before the office of winter melts, and then the seelie can have their spring and their flower fields, their wheat and solstices. let me only have your hatred, your infinite ire. your gaze, you. ❜❜
watching the fma live action films right now and being cringed into the 6th dimension until roy and / or riza show up and put my eyeballs right to the screen before their scene ends after 8 seconds and i go back to being cringed