#so. somft

[didderd]

Fell Week day 1! :3

Lil kith on th cheek. u3u

Prompt suggestion from @skelekins! <3

[raphaerolo]

Cozywan for cozy season

[letitrainathousandflames]

I wish you a soft bed, clean sheets, a cool pilow against your cheek. An uninterrupted, recharging night's sleep. A gentle, lazy morning of dewdrops and birdsong to wake up to. I wish you a new day, a new chance, a new beginning.

[suokumi]

Catnap and Dogday fluff commission for my beloved @kaz0ey

[housecow]

i see ppl talk about needing a firmer mattress as they get fatter and i just can’t 😭😭 i can’t sleep on anything harder than like. medium 🥲

[inquisimer]

For arlow and viago 😭 ❛ i don’t want to understand, i want you to stay. ❜

THANK YOUUUUUUU I am ALL up in my feels about them ;-; this is set well pre-canon, right after Arlow is released from (my version of) "how not to get possessed" Crow Edition

Arlow de Riva & Viago | 972 words | cw: implied/referenced torture, child abuse | @dadrunkwriting - veilguard

-

She is ragged, rubbed raw when they dump her on the stoop of Viago's estate. They rap on the door, once, twice, three times, because she could not lift an arm to do it herself. And then they leave her there, shivering and utterly drained, still bleeding where the manacles had held her. Still aching where the Fade had dug its claws into her.

But she is alive. That is more than most of the others can say.

Viago opens the door himself--of course he does, because he does not employ a staff, would not give anyone such access, no matter how thoroughly vetted. She wonders, as a soft string of curses fall from his lips, how they even knew to leave her here. Its location is a closely guarded secret.

(She will never know about the gold and threats exchanged, when first she was taken. As soon as she has passed, he insisted. Not a moment longer.)

His arms are gentle, slotting carefully under her legs and at her shoulders; he is trying to avoid the bruises, the welts, the weeping wounds. If she could find her voice, she would tell him not to bother--there is nowhere that does not ache, in some shape or form. But he is trying, and she focuses on that, rather than how the world spins as he lifts her, carries her down the hallway to a familiar room. It is not hers, but she spends a great deal of time here, being poked and prodded--poisoned--pressed for answers and learning how to describe what he needs to know.

The cot she usually sits on is made up with softer blankets and pillows than is typical. As if it were waiting for her, and knew that she would not be in a state for the harsh, cold crinkle of paper. But that is foolish--there is no one in the estate except Viago, and Viago is not the type to prepare such creature comforts. If her mind were not so muddled--

She blinks, and Viago presses a vial to her lips. He does not need to tell her to drink; she lets him tip it down her throat without hesitation. Bitter elfroot, and acidity. At her side, over her knuckles, and where it is seeping down her temple, blood clots as her skin knits itself back together. Though the gash over her shoulder blade only gets about two-thirds of the way there, and she knows that it will be a scar.

Experimentally, she reaches for it with her magic. It is new, this power within her, and awkward like a third arm, or second tongue. It is also weak, drained by the price the Crows have exacted. But she has paid it--she is alive. She has been judged, and not found wanting.

For once. Perhaps for the last time.

"Stop that," Viago snaps, as if he can sense that she is pushing past limits that have long since been flattened. "You will make it worse."

The tendril of mana blinks out into nothing. He cuts her ruined tunic away, pursing his lips together as each snip reveals bruises, burns, and more ribs than he'd been able to see three weeks ago. But he is not surprised. Necessary, as so many painful things are. When the pain fades, confidence will take root--in confidence, safety.

With short, clinical strokes, he cleans her skin and a tiny sigh parts Arlow's lips. She has nearly forgotten what it is like to be touched with an intention that is kind.

He takes his time. Tends each of the wounds with the appropriate salve, or balm, or serum. His gloved hands are more gentle than they have ever been when he urges her to lean forward, but he offers no apology when he draws the needle through her flesh, sealing another mark into her skin.

When he is finished, he wraps her in fresh clothes and brings her to rest before the fire. Hands her another potion, diluted this time, and gives strict instructions to sip, slowly.

Despite the fire, despite the ghost of his care lingering over her skin, Arlow feels a chill. This is the part where he leaves. She knows--understands, even. So much more than a child should have to. Of all the ways Viago covers his skin, he has never treated her with kid gloves.

She does not want him to leave. But it is not her place to ask him to stay.

Her eyes drift closed; for a moment, her heart stutters, afraid of the darkness that waits behind her lids. But the fire makes it warm and orange; the cold and dank to which she has been relegated remains firmly--if a bit too near--in her memory.

In that halfway place between waking and sleep, she imagines tender hands tucking a blanket around her. Shifting her on the pillow so that her neck will not be so terribly cricked in the morning. It is nice of her mind, to cushion her recovery with such niceties.

Gloved knuckles brush a stray hair back behind her ear. A softness that she will not remember in the morning, nearly gone to the Fade already as she is. Which is why he offers it, of course.

"Well done, parajito," Viago murmurs. She will not remember that, either, or the smile that tugs at the corner of his mouth. When he is stern and exacting in the morning, she will not remember that he was proud of her, or relieved to have her back under his purview.

But that does not change the fact--he is.

He tucks the blanket more snugly under her chin, smooths the wrinkles over her legs. For the first time in three weeks, she is resting easy--and he leaves, for the first time in three weeks, to do the same.

[ineed-to-sleep]

My favorite thing about being an adult has got to be that I can literally just buy whatever I want and nobody can tell me shit about it. I bought a bunch of play-doh the other day and spent like an hour making a play-doh flower just to relax and I've never felt so free

[cryptidsport]

I was like hey Why do this suspicious package by my door smell of pungent slime ?

alas it was the Thang

[cloysterbell]

What's the last thing you remembered before you woke up in the hospital?

[didderd]

forgor to post this doodle i did for Milk a bit ago

the beeg mans, Butch belongs to @sans-guy <333

[lotuslate]

drunk and in love in a meadow // used this pic as ref

[ptnia19773882]

Today I offer u (doggo) rahuchief sketches

Tomorrow?? Who knows…

Bonus:

Chief with her (emotional support) tahu squeaky toy/plush

[demodoggonetired]

It's a quiet night in with just the two of them - Wayne having already left for work. A gentle drizzle has settled over the trailer park.

Eddie's hunched over at his desk with the old table lamp on, painting his latest miniature for the upcoming campaign. Steve's perched on the bed right near him, using that same lamp light to read one of Wayne's magazines. A tape randomly picked from their collection plays in the background.

There's a quiet 'clink' as Eddie rinses his brush in the paint-water cup (newly labeled after one to many mix-ups). The brush is dried then slotted into the cracked mug holding the rest of his painting tool hoard.

He pauses to stretch out his back from its scrunched position, scars giving a minor twinge at the action. Then reaches for his small, detailing brush.

Only, it's not where he put it last.

It's not on the pallet. Didn't slip under the paper towel. Sitting in the paintbrush mug? Nope. Roll onto the floor? No dice. (Well actually, many dice. Including the d8 he lost last week, he should remember to grab that later (he won't)).

It's as he's pulling his head back out from under the desk that he notices it.

The subtle, upturned pinch at the corner of Steve's mouth.

Like he's fighting not to smile. Trying to act like he hasn't noticed Eddie's obvious searching.

"Steve?"

"Mhm?" The thief doesn't even deign to look up from the magazine.

"Have you seen my small detail brush? Bright red handle?”

"Nope."

Right, of course. Because the hand Steve wasn't using to hold his magazine just happened to be tucked behind his back, out of sight.

Clearly this called for drastic measures.

Without giving the other a chance to react, Eddie lurches forward to push his boyfriend back onto the bed, simultaneously planting himself atop Steve's legs.

"You sure about that one, loverboy?"

Steve crinkles his nose with a slight blush at the pet name. Then reaches up with the hand that previously held the magazine (that has now ended up in the abyss of the floor, sorry Wayne).

Eddie stills, curious to see how Steve will defend himself, as the hand continues up... and plucks the missing paintbrush from behind Eddie's ear. Where Eddie had earlier, unthinkingly stashed it.

Steve's face breaks out into a grin at Eddie's affronted noise.

"What do you have to say for yourself now, Eds? Accusing your boyfriend of such a heinous crime?"

Eddie hums, rolling the now reclaimed brush in his fingers, staring down at the boy beneath him. His sure-fire grin. Eyes crinkled in mirth. How the soft lamp light and dappled moonlight played across his features.

He leans down, hovering over the other.

"I say that I'd forgive you anyway. How could I not, with such a pretty face like that."

They meet in a gentle kiss. No rush as they simply enjoy the other's company. Warm in the knowledge there's nowhere else they need to be tonight. The tape clicks as it finishes and the rain becomes their only background noise. They seperate.

"Mmgood. Cause I did steal your paint tube."

[grelleswife]

Chimike mascots of the baby bun and the supernatural entities battling over the fate of his soul! Based on a quick Google Translate scan of this image, it appears that they’re scheduled for release in December 2024, but pre-orders are currently being accepted!

Source

[llamagoddessofficial]

Still got that Horror Mafiafell Sans brainrot

---

It wasn’t the first time Sans had pulled you into his lap, by any stretch of the imagination. The wads of cash he so often put in your pocket to ‘make up’ for the time you spent trapped had been difficult to explain to the bank at first- by now, it had happened so often that the tellers just got a look on their faces when they saw you walk in

They called you by name without looking at any paperwork. They probably thought YOU were in the mafia.

It was common bar knowledge how fond he was of holding you through his meals. Nowadays, Lisa would jokingly 'warn' you when he came through the doors and his mood was visibly stormy... the deeper his glower, the more likely he was to pull you in without warning when you passed his table, those giant claws sealing tight around a body that immediately became tiny in his presence.

So you should've been used to it.

...

... Something was very new about this time. And it wasn't just the lit cigar between his phalanges, different to his usual brand of choice.

Up against his huge chest. Your cheeks were hot, your heart was thumping. His touch was... different. Sat sideways across his lap, he kept you tucked against him with a hand on your thigh. Though on your thigh was a little bit of an understatement- his hand was so huge, he had nearly all of your thigh in his hold. 

The other hand, resting on the table, had the cigar held between the index and middle finger. It felt like an impenetrable barrier between you and the outside world... his gold rings gleaming in the low light.

... Perhaps it was the position of his hand. Holding your thigh gently, but with a possessive hint in the curl of his claws that slightly pressed into your flesh. Big, warm bones, the cold metal of the rings... he was holding you like he owned you.

Either way, you were just staring at his jacket lapel. Finding it very hard to cool down. The smell of smoke and gold was overpowering.

(You’d grown pretty adept at just tuning all table conversations out, for fear of overhearing something dangerous. But today, you couldn’t have concentrated on what was being said to Sans by the other two men at the table, even if you tried to.)

You didn’t know what the meeting he was having was about, and whatever it was, he didn’t seem happy about it. But he wasn't furious in a way that would usually frighten you. His energy was much more... reserved. There was a low scowl written across his face, he looked serious, dark. The crack and his scars cast deep and expressive shadows across his face. You were protected from the entire world, like this.

... Usually, you just felt like a tiny plushie in the arms of a big child who needed comforting. Not this time. And as he brushed his thumb slowly, back and forth across your leg... the prickles ran up your spine.

What's wrong with me? You swallowed. Your heart hadn't slowed down, not one bit, hands balled in your apron. What's going on?

... You heard Sans move, above you. You couldn't help but look up at him- and his big eye moved down to you. He seemed to register your altered state, for the first time, emerging a little from his obvious frustration at the other members of the table.

...

... His expression changed. Something about him shifted, ever-so-slightly.

His grin lifted, sharpened... his sockets fractionally lidded. 

He was smirking at you.

You’d grown accustomed to gleaning as much as possible from Sans’ expressions. It was how you judged his mood, how you saw his grabs coming, how you guessed what he was trying to say with the few words he had available. 

Perhaps you were too good, now. Because when he leered down at you like that, gently squeezing your thigh... you could practically hear his words purring through your mind.

“aren’t you cute~?”

You immediately broke eye contact, staring at your own knees. But it to was too late- you felt heat completely flood your face.

... Sans returned his attention to the other people at the table. But not before he gave your thigh another little stroke with his thumb. As if making sure you absolutely knew he saw that.

...

You faintly recalled hearing that Sans, before his famous injury, was something of a... playboy. If you were completely honest, it had been very hard to picture the Sans you knew successfully wooing someone.

...

You could imagine it, now. Very, very well.

[inquisimer]

Hi, happy Friday and thank you for the welcome! Arlow de Riva/Lucanis with “I’m sorry, I’m just—I’m just really tired.” - Anonymous-Inquisitor

ty for the prompt!! Mostly fluff with some hurt/comfort (?) and subtle pining for flavor :3 for @dadrunkwriting - mild da4 spoilers, just Arlow and Lucanis being somft workaholics.

-

“Rook?”

Arlow started, blotting the parchment with the bead of ink that had been waiting too long for her to keep writing. Cursing under her breath, she set the unfinished letter aside and laid down her quill.

“Yes?” she asked, without looking up, or even really registering who had called her name. “What’s happening?”

“Arlow.” The same voice, but quieter, firmer. Finally, her brain caught up to her ears and she sighed, pinching at the bridge of her nose.

“Lucanis. What do you need? Must be serious, to get you out of the pantry.”

“If it were truly serious, I wouldn’t have waited as long as I did for you to respond to your name.” Lucanis perched on the edge of her desk and folded his arms. His brow knit together, concerned. “You need to rest.”

“Hypocrite.”

“My reasons are a little more tangible than yours.”

“Are they?” Arlow challenged. “Tell that to D’Meta’s crossing. Or—“

She broke off, glancing over to where Varric was sleeping. The steady rise and fall of his chest did nothing to ease the guilty ache in her heart.

“You cannot help anyone if you are exhausted beyond reason,” Lucanis said gently. “And what would Viago say, if he saw you so unaware of your surroundings?”

“Viago would clock me upside the head and knock me out to teach me a lesson.”

“Is that a request?”

“You can certainly try.” Her words were snippy, but they lacked their usual bite. She didn’t remember the last time she’d properly slept. Before the Crows kicked her out of Antiva, probably. With a sigh, she picked up her quill and took a fresh sheet of parchment.

“Arlow—“

“Someone has to answer Strife and Irelin,” she snapped. “Unless you have someone else that’s interested in the job, let me handle it.”

Her quill was halfway into the inkpot when Lucanis laid his hand over hers, trapping it there. She clenched her fist, irritated.

“Take a break,” he said firmly, in the voice of the First Talon’s grandson, the one that was used to deference. It made Arlow want to buck on instinct. But there was a weariness in her bones, an exhaustion in her soul that wanted to agree.

“I can’t,” she whispered. “I blink, and the world falls apart, Lucanis. I look away, and every crisis redoubles.”

She closed her eyes and steadied herself with a breath. He was close enough that she smelled coffee and cinnamon, and the odd tangle of herbs that were always drying over his cot. “This is my contract,” she said. “Could you rest until it was completed?”

He pulled the quill up between her fingers and set it aside, cupping her now empty hand in his and gently massaging the cramps she hadn’t even felt forming. “Of course not. But I would at least break for coffee.”

“Is that an offer?”

“It always was,” he said softly. His fingers stilled against hers and it took all of Arlow’s willpower to keep her hand from twitching, lacing their fingers together. She wanted that comfort. But it wasn’t something she could take so easily anymore.

“Are you brewing from your supply, or ours?” she asked, teasing. Lucanis raised a brow.

“Would you even know the difference?”

“I would,” Arlow said, affronted. “Or do you think Viago didn’t drill us in palate sensitivity?”

“There is a difference in tasting for poisons and knowing a quality brew.”

“The two have a surprising amount of overlap. Just because I’m not a snob—“

“The word you’re looking for is connoisseur.”

“Sure it is.” Arlow rolled her eyes. She capped the inkpot and stood, regretting the chill that took her hand when it slipped from Lucanis’ grasp. “Well, if you’re taking me from work, it better be from your stash.”

“It will be,” Lucanis assured her, holding the infirmary door open. “Someone has to save you and Neve from yourselves.”

“I might be at the point of saving. Neve, on the other hand—“

Lucanis laughed, a low, quiet chuckle that warmed Arlow better than any cup of coffee he promised. He slipped past her to lead the way to the kitchen, the silky samite of his vest brushing against her knuckles. She clenched her fist to keep from chasing after it.

“Let’s get something in you before you’re beyond hope, then,” he murmured, eyes twinkling. The corner of Arlow’s mouth quirked. As long as he looked at her like that, she thought, she wouldn’t be beyond anything. But she didn’t say that.

She gestured across the courtyard with her chin. “Lead the way.”