musee-de-muse

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fucked up hurt/comfort. the person who stabbed you tends to your wound. the person who killed your loved one helps you grieve.

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i’m starting a nonprofit where i hit all cis male “doms” with my car. the money will go to my legal fees and gas prices and stuff

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sexiest thing a character can do is drag their past around like it's a dead body tied to their ankles

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When I am artblocked I love drawing characters as Disney animals and seeing if people recognize them! This time we have WoW edition on medium difficulty 💛

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"Poor thing." (condescending) (flirting)

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I love the flattened noses of the dracthyr🥺🌸

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When the wrong person knows too much about you... but they weren't always the wrong person.

MY MEMORY LOVES YOU.

jonathan carroll // margarita karapanou // jean-paul sartre // fatima aamer bilal // x // we are the dirt // x // the wedding date // haruki murakami // richard siken // x // angel a.g. // beau taplin // ryan o’connell // akhira // sylvia plath

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✨ Welcome in the New Year with the Succulent Tart! ✨

Come for the glitter, stay for the rave! Dance the night away and shine brighter than you ever have before with your most shimmering finery!

WHEN: Saturday, January 11th 2025 WHERE: Scryers’s Tier Stage, Shattrath Stage [57, 72] This event will be hosted on Wyrmrest Accord but we will have anchors! TIME: 6 PM WrA/Pacific (8 PM MG/Central) Cross-Faction & Cross-Server Friendly

Anchors will be provided closer to the event date!

Check out our WEBSITE for Event Flyer, Menu, Details & More!

Join our Discord!

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Draecember Day 10: Undead/DK

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The Count of Monte Cristo (2024) dir. Alexandre de La Patellière, Matthieu Delaporte

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Prim and proper, the girl who's never been kissed I'm tired of being pure and not chased Like something that seeks its level - I wanna go to the devil

I wanna be horrid, I wanna drink booze And whatever I've got, I am eager to lose I wanna be evil, little evil me Just as mean and evil as I can be

- I Want to be Evil, Eartha Kitt

Art by the ever-amazing @bamicommissions!

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Bright

The thing about music, is that it has a way of getting inside you, under your skin…the way a person, or a drug might. It gets in your veins, in your system, stuck in your head - it makes you move, and you don’t want it to stop.

Flashing lights in the darkness - a brief glare, and innumerable pairs of eyes made sensitive by their drug of choice squint in unison; needy bodies grinding, panting, and sweating. 

The high made some things sharper - intense, acute, and all-consuming - while others became dull, blurred at the edges, and less important. The press of sweat-soaked, barely clad bodies, for instance, became almost too much, with how high she’d gotten beforehand.

And during.

The drink she barely kept from spilling down another’s dress was further infused with the substance that made her forget.

Except it didn’t. It made the edges of the memories less distinct, but the contents stared her in the face - one, a human man; the other, freckled and cussing. No, he hadn’t been angry in this place. That had been at the barge, hadn’t it? She hadn’t made him angry often. Not like now.

The rest of the drink went down - yet the memories wouldn’t; this place was a web sticky with the drugs she’d come to rely on most, in her youthful exuberance. Such drugs - and people - were hard to quit. She knew she had a problem - she’d tried to live a sober life, for a time. It hadn’t lasted; it never seemed to.

A tongue traced the green, thorned vines tattooed across her stomach, that snaked across her abdomen - fingers straining to discover where they led, when they disappeared beneath cloth, and leather.

She plucked the wandering hand up, to slip the fingers between her lips - a fang pricking flesh, sucking at the bead of blood that began to well at the tip of the gentle, oh-so-breakable appendage. Soft, like she used to be.

A soft, broken girl stuffing herself full of darkness - chasing the next high, as she sank deeper and deeper into self-loathing…but the faces that the drugs never let her forget, oh they were as bright as the flashing lights in this dark place. As much as she’d loved them - and still did, in her way - she’d been chasing the high only they could give her. A taste of something that broken girl had thought she needed, a new drug - one far more intangible, and addicting.

The trouble with being an addict, however, is that nothing will ever compare to that first high.

[musee-de-muse]

"Are you okay" NO. THERE ARE LITTLE FICTIONAL BITCHES IN MY HEAD. AND THEY'RE KISSING.

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"Careful, we wouldn't want to spoil that pretty face."

I miss Lily, so I made as close of an approximation as I could in XIV for a photo-shoot idea stuck in my head!

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The sun rises on a new day - golden fingers of light creeping along the lush greenery of the Isles bit by bit - a nervous lover's first gentle, exploring touches... and as it reaches me, it should alight the remains of a battlefield... and yet... all is silent save for the cries of the jungle's denizens.

The magma pit around which the Primalists conducted their business saves me from having to suffer the stench of rot, and death as I bask - as the cat that got the canary - in the pale light of dawn from which my family must have taken their name.

And I can't help but think that it's lonely.

I dislike that word, however - it lends the wrong sort of connotation to my situation in others' eyes - I say 'lonely', and what would another think? That I just... crave friendship, or a lover?

It's about more than that. Because naturally, yes - it is a lonely existence, mine. Not a one friend, and no one brave enough to do more than fetishize my darkness, and state of being - but even deeper down, past the superficiality of connection?

I am alone in who, and what I am.

Who can understand me? Who can understand what it is to wield the Light - something that is order, and hope and fulfills you...only to have that carved out in place of a magic that is the quite the opposite - a yawning void, a hunger, a buzzing of chaotic - often violent - need, and desire constantly in your head and under your skin? The only one who ever came close to understanding what it was like for me was Jericho - for who else knows the horrors of eternal hunger for the suffering of others like a Death Knight?

In the years that have passed, I wonder if he - like the Marquis that I fell prey to before - found a cure for his undeath. If he, too, shrugged off a state of being similar to that which I am now forced to bear.

I was shrugged off, too.

I am utterly alone.

The Illidari are similar, it's true - struggling against a quite literal inner demon - but they are containers for demonic power... and I? I'm what - the thing they'll hunt, in time? I am not a container for a beast - I am the monster. Slowly, but surely, I change. I war with the inner darkness in a way they simply cannot understand - because at least their inner darkness isn't actually their own.

There are times I crave to just let the darkness take over - to win out, so I don't have to have moral quandaries between what I am, and what I'm becoming. Other times, I rail against it with every fiber of my being... but often find myself wondering why.

A thing which should not be, I put one foot in front of the other.