If Your Muse Prompts The "would You Still Love Me If I Was A Worm?" Question To Aggie, She Would Go Into

if your muse prompts the "would you still love me if i was a worm?" question to aggie, she would go into vivid detail of just how she'd take care of them.

why won't tumblr let me paste text/symbols right into someone's askbox >:(

How sweet the sound, when you burn out,

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤLet's get this straight:

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤThe world is GRAY.

indie. sel. multi-muse. ft. ORIGINAL, DBD, and SLASHER muses.

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤpuppeteered by BROZI (he/they 30)

AFFLILIATED WITH— @ferociium, @leadxxr, @breakdcwn, @gamenu, @fiorserpen, @historias-multorum

❛ i love that no one else has seen you like this, that no one else has felt you before, been inside you. they don’t get to have you, but i do. ❜ (soap)

smut sentence starters. / accepting!

if someone had told her she would find someone like johnny, welcome him into her life, be vulnerable in front of him, she would've denied even the possibility of such a thing. surely it's impossible that anyone could want her in any capacity... right? yet here she is, sharing a bed with him, johnny, a man who makes her feel cared for, a man who more than meets her needs, a man who makes her heart feel so full, a man he makes her hate herself less and less with each day. even if she would've dismissed the idea before meeting him, agatha most certainly wouldn't now.

she doesn't shy away from his reverent gaze like she did the first time they had sex and she doesn't quite mind being in the spotlight that was johnny's attention anymore. his words alone are enough to make her feel wanted, desired, his actions enhancing these feelings.

her arms wrapping around his neck, agatha holds him closer. " a-and i'm glad you're the f-first person i gave myself to, johnny. " she moans his name, burying her face in the crook of his neck as he thrusts into her. she whimpers against his skin. " i-i love that y-you're the only person that gets to s-see me this way. i wouldn't h-have it any other way, johnny. "

the way it's tempting to use soryn's old fc as an alt fc

today was, to put it lightly, just not her day. with her car in the shop, she had to call a cab to get to work, a customer chewed her out for one miniscule mistake, which stressed her out and caused her to make more mistakes. so what else is new, the faerie guesses. she's just one stupid mistake after another. can agatha's night get any worse? it's bad enough the cabs don't run at this hour, so she has to walk home along dimly lit streets.

she stops for a moment to take a sip from the bottle of, thankfully still cold, water she's carrying with her. tucking the bottle back into her bag, agatha closes her eyes, a sigh flowing from parted lips. she can't wait to get home, shower, change into something more comfortable and read for a bit. that's all she wants to do right now, but she hears sounds that one might only hear in a horror movie; flesh tearing, wet squelching, heavy breathing, and it keeps her from moving.

agatha's gaze drifts down the alley, her head slowly turning to see the gruesome, bloody scene laid out not far from where she stands. her eyes widen and fear grips her, her heart racing as her gaze meets the man's. no, surely that's no man. some... monster. something vicious and hungry. the growl he lets out reaches her ears and her breath hitches, a foot moving back one tiny step. he steps forward and then she bolts, fleeing like a rabbit from a starving wolf.

   he  should  know  to  hold  himself  back.  to  have  better  prepped  for  the  situation  he's  put  himself  into.  but  then  again  -  maybe  he  wants  to  be  the  monster.  to  be  seen  as  less  than  human.  to  be  looked  down  upon,  hated.  it's  how  it  should  be.  he's  always  been  ugly,  rotting  away  inside.  now  the  outside  matches.  ugly,  deadly.  rough  edges  -  murderous  intent. 

   he'd  rolled  up  the  fabric  of  the  mask  under  his  face  to  reveal  fangs.  he'd  let  himself  hunt.  jump  on  the  unsuspecting  guard.  nails  tore  though  clothes  to  expose  the  flesh  of  the  neck  and  his  teeth  had  sunk  in.  hell  -  he'd  torn  it  open  and  let  the  blood  spray  over  him.  so  much wasted  but  in bloodlust  did  it  ever  matter?  it  tastes  bland  -  he  doesn't  expect  an  earth  shattering  taste  to  it. 

   it's  when  the  body  goes cold  that  he  stops  bothering  to  feast.  he  lets  it  fall  to  the  ground,  still  leaking  blood.  a  waste  -  but  it's  not  that  worth  his  time.  a  living  victim,  someone  whose  heart  will  pump  the  blood  into  his  waiting  mouth  -  that's  what  he  wants  more  than  anything.  his  gaze  narrows  in  on  the  lone  bystander.  frozen  by  what?  fear?  intrigue?  does  it  matter?  not  to  the ghost.  fangs  bared,  a  low  growl  resounds  from  deep  in  his  throat.  blood  soaks  his  exposed  skin  on  the  lower  half  of  his  face,  dripping  heavily.  he  takes  the  step  forward,  crimson  irises  showing  nothing  but hunger.