independent, mutuals only ⅋ selective multi-muse roleplay blog. this space is primarily for friends. written ⅋ cherished by viero [twenty8, she/they]. this blog will be very lowkey, as i’m testing the waters to see whether i can handle running a multi-muse again, so please don’t expect too much. i don’t have many rules: don’t be weird, don’t be problematic, ⅋ we’ll get along just fine. most characters on this roster are closed for writing unless we’re friends and/ or you’ve shown genuine interest in my femme ocs. yes, this is me bullying you into writing with my oc's.

MUSES UNDER THE CUT.

hey guys, i'm writing this because i'm in a really terrifying financial spot right now and my anxiety is completely through the roof. last friday, i unexpectedly lost my job. because of how the contract and payout dates fall, i am left with absolutely zero income until the beginning of august, and i am panicking about how to cover the next few weeks since i'm already in the negative on my bank account.

my absolute priority right now is keeping a safe roof over my head and taking care of my dog, smilla. she is epileptic and strictly relies on her daily medication to stay safe and seizure-free. her next batch is due by the end of july/early august and costs 120€. (on top of that, my rent is 533€, making it a total of 653€ that i somehow need to raise out of nowhere. but getting smilla's medication is number one on the list.)

to try and bridge this gap, i'm also opening up emergency commissions specifically for blog graphics. if you need headers, promo graphics, dash icons, or anything else for your blog layout, please shoot me a dm. i'll be opening up slots of 3 commissions for the moment. under the cut you'll find some examples of blog layouts i made for friends.

if you aren't able to commission me or drop a few euros via paypal, please do not feel pressured at all. honestly, just hitting the reblog button helps me just as much by getting this onto more dashboards. thank you so much for reading, and for looking out for smilla and me.

my paypal.

(alternatively it’s @amyrchtr on PayPal)

a rubiginous desolation/ the vitrified rot of dead human foundries left to choke on their own dross. through the iron carcass moves that telluric heft, breathing a mephitic incense of spent cinders and a defensive, stubborn lacquer of sandalwood. then the calid air spoils. a sudden, parasitic intrusion breaks the heat-haze—an osseous shadow trying to skin the edges of a pre-cosmic gravity. a larval, mortal insolence trailing an exiled furnace. the reaction is no civil pivot, but a plutonic paroxysm ... a sudden, calcining displacement of the human envelope to accommodate the ancient weight of múspell. velocity as an act of god.

corrugated alloys buckle, screaming into sudden liquefaction as the white-boned facade of the intruder is driven back. a theomachy in miniature, shaping the rust into blistering roughage under the lawless, chthonic pressure of their proximity. the whole yard thinned to pure mephitic suffocation; slate-grey eyes dissolving into sub-crustal embers, looming close with an absolute, unmitigated malice: 〟give me a single reason,〝

the syllables an exhumation, a low, crepitant rasp dragged over centuries of primordial magma, heavy with a bitch’s immediate, unreconciled pride.

the question goes in like a small clean round, no blossom of noise,   only that ugly ballistic elegance by which the slightest thing finds the oldest breach.   somewhere beneath the gunmetal patina/   beneath the well-kept slouch,   the raffish ease,   the bright little counterfeit of unruined humor: impact. a hairline failure in the plating.   some minute interior give.   leon stills in that almost-imperceptible way damaged men do,   not frozen exactly,   only drawn very briefly into themselves,   as if taking inventory by instinct of what has just been struck and whether it is survivable to let it show.

〟what,   i don’t sell ‘doing fine’ well enough?〝 wryness arrives on cue,   lacquer-bright and vaguely disreputable.   the old expedient.   charm not as adornment but as managed hemorrhage;   the wound taught better manners,   taught a grin,   taught itself to flash nickel in the light so nobody studies the penetration too closely.   it sits in his mouth with that familiar glint/   something more sideral and shopworn:   steel handled too often,   a blade thumbed dull at the spine and yet still serviceable for parry.   for years it has been enough,   this rakish little sleight-of-hand,   this insinuation of ease flung over worse machinery.   usually the shine does the work.   usually nobody peers long enough to notice the metal fatigue underneath ... but this was @ethyriam after all.

but some looks have a way of entering like lockpicks.   some silences assay the structure more cruelly than touch.   and suddenly the whole bright contraption feels a little threadbare,   a little porous ...   bravado with daylight showing through the stitchwork.   his gaze slips,   returns.   the almost-smile remains where it was,   though now it carries the unmistakable aspect of something stress-fractured;   a charm gone fissile,   an old defense turning volatile in the hand.

the wall is a mere antechamber, a rude plank of plaster at the spine, a secular impact scarcely worth the body’s notice. what follows annuls it. @callmeteor's mouth arrives and winter, hitherto all discipline and pallor and ironed reserve, suffers its first heresy. the planet's vessel takes the kiss like blackwater takes moonlight … stunned first, then fathomlessly altered. there is in them one lucid, vitreous instant where everything arrests, breath in abeyance, thought cleft clean through, as though some long-rimed interior river has heard at last the inaugural crack travel through its own bright carapace.

it is not tenderness they register, not firstly. rather the austere catastrophe of thaw/ hoarfire under the skin, a cold so absolute it inverts and burns. cloud’s mouth makes an orison of ruin at theirs, and the body, faithless to composure, comprehends before the mind can rise up and desecrate it with sense. fingers seize a fistful of him in pure reflex. then their own mouth yields, parts, answers … with the dazed and tidal obedience of ice becoming flood, of rime translated to melt and momentum and the exquisite shame of wanting rendered suddenly corporeal.

... and somewhere inside that upheaval, something impossible begins: something rarer. winter bloom/ hellebore forcing its dark little face through frost-hardened earth. a rose kept alive beneath glass while the whole world starves. love, perhaps, in its least merciful season; not meadow-born, sun-indulged, but flowering precisely where it ought not, petal by argent petal from the wound of cold itself.

they kiss him back as though the season itself had entered them incorrectly, as though winter, finding no clean vocabulary in snow or silence, had chosen instead to write itself in mouth-heat, in the stunned salt of breath, in the perilous nearness of being desired past language. the wall recedes — the world recedes. there remains only this narrow and blinding topography; cloth knotted in their hand, his closeness, the vertiginous fact of answer.