#i want sleep ;-;

[bluewolfangel01]

-Insomniac Mc-

I need Belphie to exist so he can come knock my ass out so I can go to sleep, I want to sleep but my body apparently thinks otherwise and I don't like it

Mc sometimes has trouble sleeping, the cause can range from nothing to a whole bunch of stuff happened and they still have to much energy that makes em feel not tired

Whenever this happens and Mc knows/wants to go to sleep they'll go to Beel and Belphie's room

This kind of thing has happened before quite a few times and Belphie has given permission to Mc that if they can't ever sleep and he isn't already sleep snuggling with them, then they are allowed to go to his/Beel's room or the attic and wake him up ever so slightly

He actually loves when they come to him for some sleep aid cause he gets the brag about helping them, having a cuddle buddy, and there's also the morning after where his brothers scramble to find Mc because they weren't in their room just to find them cuddled up with Belphie (the smirk he wears on his face when they walk into his room ✋️)

Of course he doesn't want Mc to have those types of nights, he doesn't want them to have a difficult time getting sleep, especially with all the craziness that happens daily, but he does enjoy the rare nights when those nights do happen

And no he doesn't make it to where they can't sleep, he let's it happen naturally

Once getting to the twins' room Mc will just crawl in bed with Belphie and will move him to where their chin is on his head and wrap their arms around him

He is big living cow plushie, fight me on that but not really

Belphie will either wake up slightly or just sense Mc's presence, either way once he knows they're there, he knows what's up and starts helping his precious human get the restful sleep they deserve

[pupateer]

Whats this? A soggy looking odysseus character?!?!? NO WAYY

[rocketqueen1989x]

my hair when I wake up hungover :

(It looks like I’ve been dragged through a bush backwards by a car)

[alexukei]

I finally finished it, yay!

Inspired by fanfiction from @charliewhaw but it can be considered a drawing independent of the work.

[huxyafepwa]

OH MY GOSH, HELLO????? XDD

I haven't been here in a hundred years XDD

I drew an art based on "Who framed Roger Rabbit,, yaaaaay yes yeeeey

I LOVE THEY SO MUCH!!!!!!

[ttroubledwaters]

WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH ME THAT I CANT FUCKING SLEEEPPPPPP. It's not that I don't want to anymore, I FUCKING CANT. And yes I'm aware of how many "fucking"s Ive used and I don't think it's nearly enough. IM FUCKIN TIRED, WHY CANT MY BRAIN JUST SHUT THE FUCK OFFFFFFFG. GODDDDDDD.

[torispringslemonad3]

I hate mornings so much I just want to sleep, watch TikTok and heartstopper and blog that’s all

[atlaswav]

METAMORPHOSIS ☾

INFO: 2246 words, kafka x gn! reader SYNOPSIS: The threads of fate were never to be interpreted by the senses of mortals, and you pay the price. An extravagant cage, or a slave to destiny? You play your part like the puppet you learned to be, with Kafka serving as your lesson to maintain the realm between art and the artist. You, the Frankenstein's monster of fate's mistakes, and Kafka, the one who sees everlasting beauty in you. WARNINGS: uh nothing really except angst ig and REALLY FUCKING DENSE PROSE good luck reading allat bc i'm not reading what I wrote again LMFAO. this is gonna flop bc it's too complicated rip AUTHOR'S NOTE: NOT PROOFREAD BC ITS CURRENTLY 3:30AM AND IM DELIRIOUS. This was intended to be a weird character study but it turned self indulgent REAL quick i hate it sofuckingmuch YIPEEE!!! likes and reblogs are appreciated i'll give u a fat sloppy kiss.

Art governs the world, as Kafka says.

The world is governed by its artists. Formed by the hands of sculptors, decorated with grandeur by its musicians and dancers, yet art runs far deeper than these meticulous displays. Art is present in all. It allows life to be breathed into the mundane, allows men to understand their souls – the contours of their being, the purity and refinement of their essence. It allows for the soul to become honed as sharp and pedantic as one’s craft, etching the outline of an artist’s life.

Art allows man to discover and become familiar with themselves, and hence becomes a vehicle for all those yearning for greatness to have their wishes fulfilled. Thus, art is mistaken as a noble practice, each misshapen line of a paintbrush burdened with the virtue it cannot promise. Yet art may not be as noble as what meets the eye, with its breath shaping each whisper of life. As there is an art to all, there can only be balance. Shrouded with the curse of mortality and death, the act of stealing life becomes an art as well. Dark and taboo, but an art nonetheless. 

Killing becomes an art, each spray of blood the artist’s signature, each cut, bruise and scar carrying the same reverberations as the splash of paint on a blank canvas. It could never be replicated, even if the artist’s eye was the most honed at their craft. Done right, killing could be beautiful, and death could be revered. It was a mantra for all she did – Kafka, the absurd devotee to all that was beautiful, perpetually in pursuit of beauty and purpose. 

Beauty, she thought, was the hierophant of art in itself. Though this may present a causality dilemma in all art mirroring beauty and beauty ever present in art, she believed that beauty would reign triumphant. To her, it was a sanctimonious practice that would rule out of presence alone, but instead of interpreting the beauty of the world, she craved to find beauty for herself. Selfish to no end, but what were humans if not selfish?

Many thought she was mad. That her self imposed quest was futile, and she’d return tasting bitter disappointment sickly on her tongue. Her self imposed quest was woven into her being, the thread that perpetuated her fate and directed her to Elio. The thread that gloriously pulled her towards you. 

Were you art, or the artist? Were you the creator, or the created? The all knowing maker or the grotesquely beautiful creation? She couldn’t tell. It was trivial. Did it matter? No, it didn’t. You were beautiful to her – the embodiment of all she believed to ring virtuous and true. Causality dilemma as you may be, you remained unshaken by the wiles of fate.

“How did Elio get you?” were her first words to you. 

Composed of fragments of dreams and broken flesh, you appeared in front of her. Stricken by a plight of existence, but beautiful, still. A Frankenstein's monster of beauty and decay. “He didn’t.” 

“What do you mean?”

“I came to him.”

Curiosity flashed in those eyes of honeyed wine. “What reason would someone like you have to enslave yourself to fate?”

In turn, you smiled at her. “Fate will tell, will it not?”

Fate strung its threads across your body in a pattern of knots so ravishingly complex. Your fate, ambiguous to all but Elio, it seemed, wrapped around you in the most tragic and delightful way, she couldn’t resist tangling herself with you; tracing her gloved hands along your bindings, losing herself in the rumination of possibility. The rumination that she once would’ve scoffed at for being so wishful. 

You didn’t know what you did to her.

“Is it time already?” she rose from her position, glancing down at the unconscious man beside you, oblivious to your presence. Blade was barely conscious, drifting in and out of the hypnotic state Kafka had induced on him. 

“Looks like it. Elio’s never wrong.” you reply.

“Are you nervous?”

“Why would I be? Did Elio mention anything about danger?”

Her laugh is musical. “The trailblazer hasn’t met you yet.”

“I’m excited to make their acquaintance, then, if they’re as interesting as you suggest.”

Kafka smiled, slipping through the doorway of the makeshift abode with a fleeting glance. Fleeting glances, furtive touches, whispered words. That’s what the thin bond stringing you together consisted of. Neither of you let the other linger for too long, so help the stain that you’d inevitably leave. You were the substance she wanted to get blissfully drunk on, yet you were far too beautiful to squander on such menial things. In turn, she was the overture that haunted your dreams, yet disappeared once the score came into view.

Some things were best left at a distance, the careful and prudent restriction promising preservation. 

With a laugh to none but yourself, you followed her from a distance just beyond arm’s reach. You realised you would follow her to whatever end she led you to. You’d let her lead you to desolation, because you trusted she’d restore what she called your ‘beauty’ once again. You trusted her cunning eye – the eye of the artist – to watch you become derelict, and to salvage what could be saved from the shards of your remains. 

The trailblazer had the same eyes that Kafka had – willful and shrewd – yet determination sat at the forefront instead of the tinge of deadly curiosity Kafka held. 

“Who are you?” the trailblazer questioned, eyes flickering between the two of you. Two questions spent, one left.

“I used to be a knight of beauty.” a faint glimmer in her eye as she smiles towards you. “We worshipped Idrila, the Aeon of Beauty. We vowed to guard their beauty with the sword, but one day they suddenly disappeared.”

The trailblazer appeared to be conflicted, gaze darting back and forth between the two of you. “And you?”

“I am the interpreter of the cosmos.” Kafka’s amusement is undeniable. Her lie doesn’t escape you as you weave a web with the string she provided. Playing her game as intended. “The stars ordain their prophecy, and I interpret them into coherent events that mortals are able to comprehend.”

The trailblazer says nothing. The best lies are moulded from dregs of the truth, as she’d taught you.

“What’s your last question?” Kafka asks. 

“What are you two?”

Very few times you’ve seen Kafka taken by surprise. The woman blinks. 

“Kafka is an artist.” you respond in her stead as she scoffs at your answer.

“Then you are the wanderer above the sea of fog.”

Full of riddles, always. She could never give anyone a straight answer. Why would she? She was the artist, forever touched by the calamitous effect of your being.

“That doesn’t answer my question.” The trailblazer frowns.

Kafka laughs in delight. If you could store the sound in your heart, surviving from its pure, unbridled mirth, you would. “Everything leads to the answer eventually. There’s only the illusion of being lost.”

“Quit being cryptic.”

“The future is a labyrinth. Divergences are merely inducements. There is only one true path. You only have to know how to look.” A smile plays across her lips as she gestures towards you. “And I have my looking glass.”

—

If beauty was present in all art, you failed to find the art in deceit. Morally, its falsehoods nurtured the true nature of humankind, yet the guilt that followed in tandem with this practice ate away at the disposition like rotting flesh in the maw of a rabid beast. 

Elio had revealed his plans to you – your script to act out – and you’d shied away in cowardice. Or could it be seen as self preservation? Where was the line between cowardice and preservation? Surely, you walked across it with fear of teetering to one side. There’d been no deceit on your part until this very moment, the illusion of what you’d had finally facing the denouement. 

You so desperately wanted to continue living this beautiful farce with Kafka, but there were other plains written in the stars. 

“Kafka?”

“I’m here.”

“Tell me a lie.” 

“A lie?” 

You frowned, gazing up at the stars. The infinite, perpetually changing stars that voiced their teachings to you with whispers unheard to ears but your own. If it was in Elio’s script, you’d play your part, no matter the height of the fall. Such was your deal with Elio – your shackles in exchange for an extravagant cage. “Yes.”

“Why would I do that?” she asks, leaning against the railing of the balcony. Another city, another task to fulfil via Elio’s requests. Did they ever end? It was a foolish question to ponder. 

“Your lies are pretty. I could get blissfully drunk on them.” your eyes reflect the cosmos in them, and as Kafka leans in closer, you shut your eyes. 

“What do you mean?”

You laugh, palm outstretched in front of you as if to gather the galaxy in your fist and force the fate of the world out of its grasp. “You lie so often that it’s the only constant I can find, anymore.”

She pauses. She’s sure you can feel her body tense beside you. “...Don’t tell me.”

“Lie to me, Kafka.” you close your eyes, leaning against her shoulder as the stars gaze down at you. She remains still. 

“I can’t. Did Elio put you up to this?”

“Why not?” Your avoidance of her question only makes her even more wary. 

“I’ll feel guilty.” she pouts, her light tone an attempt to alleviate the atmosphere, but you turn to face her completely. 

“Kafka, I’m in love with you.”

Silence hung rigid in the air as the stars sang their lonely hymn, their finale of Orpheus and Eurydice. Kafka, the picture of stoicism – the unmoving sword in the stone – was torn. Her facade of cold, amused indifference had shattered, leaving a demeanour that betrayed her emotions, now written clear across her face. You turned away. 

Two stars, born of the same nebula, yet suffering far different fates from one another. Your star burnt far too brightly, while hers shone with cold light that you relished in. Your star would soon wink out, your death a destruction unbeknownst and insignificant to many, yet cataclysmic for one.

Deceit was necessary, or so Elio had told you, for Kafka’s resolve to steel. For her to become the character he needed to execute his script.

So, you supposed, as there was an art in Kafka’s beautiful lies, there was beauty in deceit. A beauty of sacrifice to set Kafka’s beauty etched into time, while you burned away in the depths of history. 

The wanderer above the sea of fog, and the artist that could only appraise its beauty. The two realms far too separate for the artist to reach out and stop the hand that tore the canvas with a blunt knife. 

“Was that a lie?” Kafka asks, voice distant as the look in her eyes. 

“I couldn’t lie to you.” the words spill out like a wound torn open. Rehearsed, and performed like the slave to destiny you became. It repulsed you. You wanted to rip your tongue out. 

“You can’t do this.” 

“I’m sorry.”

“You can’t do this.” she meets your eyes. Pleading, almost. The Kafka you know never pleads – but the thread between you is stretched taut, and the three fates lie in wait. 

“Tell me a lie, please.” you step closer. She steps back, expression carefully blank. “Tell me you hate me. Tell me you despise the air I breathe. Tell me that the beauty that you see in me is unfading.”

“Stop.” her gloved hands rest on your shoulders. Delicate, as if you’re a statue that she sculpted herself. 

“Kafka, please.”

“Enough.” She releases her hold, turning away from you. “Goodnight.”

The art must be separated from the artist, or so Elio had claimed. You were the grotesque creation, and she was the artist with unbridled curiosity. Your mere touch was poisonous to her, Elio claimed – he claimed many things, and you wanted to scream at him, to tear the tapestry of destiny apart with your bare hands, but he gave you a choice. 

Though a life as destiny’s slave was demanding, life as an orchestrator of the most beautiful catastrophe sounded far more enticing – morbidly so. 

Kafka was the artist in perpetual pursuit of all things beautiful, and you could think of no entity more beautiful than the tragic story of your own satirical tragedy. 

Elio handed you the options, and you tugged at the thread lined with gold, cajoled with fables of love and artistry. The world fell silent around you as you stepped into the role of the artist, commanding the orchestra with a baton of bones. Cold, unfeeling. Such should be the shape of your soul, as your art demanded. 

Art aids mankind in discovering the contours of their soul. Yours just so happened to be the missing star in the sky. A tale of destruction unknown to any other except the star burning blindingly bright beside you, mourning. 

You, the monster of art, pressed too close to the artist, and now you were marked with lacerations none could erase. Kafka’s sword found its mark through your heart, and blood sprayed onto the floor in a flourish of red. The artist’s signature. 

“I can’t lie to you anymore.” 

And so the star burned brighter.

written by @atlaswav , published 17th of January 2024

[render-bomb]

My body: I want to sleep for a year and a half

My brain: I want to get back into my routine

Me: how about a compromise? One day in bed watching our comfort show and sleeping, then back to routine?

Brain and body: NO

[bardoeo]

"I'll catch you, bro"

I've been wanting to draw this for a long time, I was thinking about starting on Friday. But I made the sketch on Saturday and finished it on Sunday night. I'm great 👀🍷

I think I'll draw another picture with this theme based on them 🤔🍷

[holdonletmeoverthinkthiss]

I don’t like her like that but if I had date someone I would date her.

[gg-neptune]

Three Pt.2

A/N: So this might suck like bad but I wanted to write a part 2 to my previous work. Uh this person @evans23 kinda inspired me to so thank you to this person. But anyways if this suck I apologize but for some reason I found it really hard to write like it was extremely difficult to make every word work, but I liked the challenge. Also I didn't proofread it. Um I maybe should have but like I didn't want to and so I didn't. Part 1 is at the end. I don't know how to do links yet so I tried my best. Hope you enjoy feedback is welcome <333333 :)

Also this is the song I imagined playing. Recently been obsessed with it and I dunno it's nice to play in the background. For some reason it calms me down real good so yeah I figured I'd link it.

“Hey… come on wake up,” a distant deep voice says to you. Groaning in frustration at being woken up you keep your eyes tightly closed, not bothering to look at the person trying to wake you right now.

A warmth overcomes you as arms wrap around you pulling you up against something. “Wake up,” the voice whispers in your ear, making you aware of the sharp pain behind your eyes, “You can’t sleep until noon, I refuse to let you.”

Your eyes open slightly enough to take in your surroundings, the room is still dark, the curtains are blocking out light still and you seem to be being held up by a person. Who you can only assume to be Severus. Turning your head to look at him your assumption is confirmed correct.

A small smile graces his face as you turn to look at him, happy to see your pretty face, “Morning,” his deep voice makes you want to curl up and go back to sleep even more than you do already.

All you do is groan in response, not being bothered to fully respond to him, pushing your head against the crook of his neck. He rubs his hands up and down your back. “You’ve been asleep for almost 14 hours. I figured you might want to get up now,” he gently says.

This shocks you, quickly you pull back from his embrace and look at him wide eyed.

“Don’t worry I got your work from your teachers you didn’t miss any classes and I called in. It's fine I took care of everything,” he assures before you can respond.

You relax quickly before another thought strikes you. You made a 3 on the test and you can’t afford to miss any class. With how dumb you are you probably need to go to extra classes if anything.

“No, no, no, I can't, I need to get up,” wrestling yourself from his arms and the covers trying to gain your footing. As soon as you stand upright however, a jolt of pain shoots through your head straight to your eyes, almost knocking you to the ground, overwhelming you with a feeling of lightheadedness.

Luckily he is there to catch you as you almost fall to the ground, gathering you up in his arms as he does so, “No I don’t think you're going anywhere actually. No offense but you look awful. Still beautiful but seriously you look awful.” You can tell he is genuinely concerned and not trying to be mean but this almost hurts you. So you're a failure and ugly?

Huffing in frustration and hurt you give up and try to relax as much as you can into his arms. “My head hurts.”

“I bet.”

“Well give me something for it.”

“Not on an empty stomach.” He hoists you up, holding you close to him as he walks into his kitchenette, settling you into a chair.

“I’m not really hungry, thanks though,” you say, slumping in the chair borderline falling out of it.

Severus ignores you and starts making some toast. As the bread begins to toast he puts on some music. The melody begins to ring through the kitchen, not particularly loud but just enough to be heard. 

The toast pops up and he spreads some of your favorite flavor jelly on it. Plating it before setting it on the table in front of you before he takes a seat beside you. Gingerly he wraps an arm around your shoulder before pulling you near him.

“Your food is done,” he says quietly into your hair.

Groaning you look up at him and squint, “I’m not hungry.”

“Quit being stubborn and eat something. The quicker you get something on your stomach the quicker I’ll give you something to make your headache go away,” Severus replies with a small smile, picking up the toast and nudging your mouth with it.

Begrudgingly you oblige and open your mouth chewing up the toast and swallowing, and before you can complain that you now have something on your stomach he shoves more food in your mouth, a larger bite than the last.

“Very good. Look at you. You're doing so good,” he praises. Squeezing you a bit closer to him. As you finish that bite he doesn’t make you eat the last bite however he does keep it in his hand very close to your face.

“I feel bad,” you groan, leaning in close to him. 

He puts the toast down then gently pulls you up into his lap. He rocks you back and forth as you curl up in his arms. Your head finds the crook of his neck as you bury your face into him.

“I know you're still upset about the grade. But you have no reason to be. You did what you could and that’s the point of the test. And I know you know that. Don’t be sad, pretty. Let me take care of you, alright?”

Tears well up in your eyes at his words but you slowly begin to relax in his arms. Tears overtake you as you limply lean up against him, “I just- I expect more of myself. And I didn’t-.”

Gently he shushes you while rocking you still. You stay like this for a while before the crying subsides and your breathing is back to normal. He stands bringing you along with him, abandoning your toast on the table. Bringing you back to the bedroom he sets you on the bed before digging through the bedside table grabbing a Pepperup Potion and giving it to you.

“Here you go it will make you feel better but you still need to get some sleep and probably some really warm body pillow like thing next to you. Like maybe it should be me shaped…” he says crawling up next to you in the bed. A small smile graces your face.

He wraps his arms around you as you uncork the potion and drink it. Almost immediately your headache goes away. But your mental state remains the same. You still feel upset and down that you hadn’t done how you wanted on the test. 

He takes the empty bottle from you and discards it before taking you fulliny in his arms and holding you close to him. His arms made you feel safer than anywhere else on the planet ever could. Holding you close to his chest he let out a sigh.

“You know you feeling so down and out makes me feel bad too,” he complains as he runs a hand down your back. “But I kind of like it because that means that I can spend more time with you and it makes me feel a bit guilty but then my guilt kinda leaves when your so close to me”

Some of the words do not register in your head fully as you drift in between being asleep and not but you smile lightly and almost laugh.

“I never thought my own boyfriend would admit to wanting me to feel bad,” you mumble out into his neck. Snuggling into him closer.

“Well it’s not my fault, we barely see each other as is,” he says lightly, a hint of sadness in his voice as he pulls you closer to him. 

A comfortable silence takes over you both as you lay in his embrace. It would take a while before you felt back to your normal self but Severus would surely speed up the process.

[iz-nomerants]

!!ANNOUNCEMENT!!

WE AS A FANDOM HAS COLLECTIVELY DECIDED THAT THE OFFICIAL SHIP NAME WILL BE:

GOTH-BUD-CHADDY-ACE-STAR

NO DEBATES. THANK YOU

[sleepypeek]

Headache

me :') / I am not fluent in Russian.

[alexukei]

Just some REALLY lazy and undone art of sleepy Lucifer. (I'm not sure what I will finish this so I just leave it here)

[apodyopsisss]

Muchas veces al no poder dormir mi mente se va a lugares que me prometí olvidar.