Pleasepleasepleasepleaseplease

Loading Screen Tip: You can hold the princess to make her feel better.

Reblog if you have a cute girldick.

Slime girl but she's made of melted edibles so she sticks tentacles down your throat to get you really high and suggestable so she can lay all the eggs in you she wants

If not for the loss of her lover, she would never believe pain could feel this exquisite and all-consuming. The agony of black poison surging through her veins hangs like a curtain in front of her memory, and she pushes past it to remember ritual diagrams scribed in carmine upon vellum pages.

One final task. Blade for blood and vessel for soul.

The viciously curved obsidian dagger looks far too brittle, but when her fingertips touch its intricately carved handle she feels it thrum with purpose. It knows how to separate costal cartilage from ribcage. How to artfully make its wielder bloom like a rose and splatter the floor with crimson petals.

She grips the blade in both hands, mouth acrid with fear and body trembling in anticipation. She almost hesitates.

But then she remembers billhooks and pitchforks at midnight. Torchlight twisting familiar faces into grotesque mockeries of her friends and neighbors. Righteous victory seething off of their bodies like smoke off the smoldering stake where they committed their greatest sin in the name of holiness and love while she watched, helpless, from the forest's edge.

The blackened corpse of the woman they "purified", burned brittle and gnarled. Their hatred. Her love.

And she steels herself. Her shaking stills. She draws in a deep breath.

She only gets one chance. You can't remove your own heart twice...

...

A woman wakes to a memory of unbearable heat, yanked from oily darkness still clinging to her mind like film. Her eyes adjust slowly to her dim surroundings.

A few persistent thick candles still burn in the alcoves. Rust-red tendrils of blood spread across the flagstone floor of her tomb from a granite plinth adorned with a letter and an ornate gold box.

Gently, she stands. Her bare feet touch the cool floor and inferno fades further from her mind. Her first halting steps across the room take her to the letter and its contents.

She recognizes the familiar cursive script instantly and reads through a blur of tears as her pulse pounds in her ears.

I had to trade a life to bring you back, but they'd kill me for necromancy anyway. I'm so sorry for this. I'm so sorry I can't be here to wake you.

Please don't look for me. Just flee this place and never look back. I want you to remember me how I was, and I can't bear for you to see me now.

We always wanted to go back to the sea together. Go there, and live.

I ask only that you carry this box with you wherever you go, and that it should be destroyed upon your death. Hopefully at the end of a long, long life full of the happiness you deserve.

I love you. I will always love you.

...

In an ancient town of pastel houses crowding narrow streets on the sea cliffs, a woman sits at an outdoor bistro across the table from the woman who became her wife a few years after she moved here. Countless days and nights of comfort hang in the silence between them as they share a bottle of white wine and playful smiles. Their fingers interlocked, they watch as the sun sets over the water and the night unfolds in front of them like a vast, speckled velvet sheet.

At a table nearby, over the din of the small crowd, she hears a merchant regale his comrades with his recent travels. Kernels of truth embellished with encounters with saucy maidens, daring-if-drunken hijinks, and heroic acts of courage in the face of banditry.

But his tone becomes solemn when he comes to his trip through a backwater village on the edge of the Greatwood where the trees no longer bloom and the soil yields not even weeds. Where the few surviving townsfolk fled so quickly they left their doors unlocked and food still cooking in their stewpots.

Of the crypt entrance littered with splintered bones and broken bodies, where even the crows dare not pick at the desecrated corpses of clerics who tried to exorcise the place of the furious and vengeful lich that dwells within.

She continues to watch the horizon, hoping to hide the tears welling in her eyes, to protect the one secret she'll always keep for herself. Smiling warmly, she reaches into her satchel and traces her fingertips over the familiar inscription on the cover of an ornate gold box.

My heart goes with you, always.

succubus who can’t take your soul because there’s laws about that kind of thing now but she 100% can still sign you into stupid magically binding deals. if you want a blowjob your mortal life is forfeit until you go down the street and get her an italian sub because shes kinda hungry and doesn’t want to do it herself

thinking about the neural link between a pilot and their mech as a kind of gamble between overwhelming pleasure and unbearable pain

it's a kind of fucked-up reward system where firing your weapons accurately and destroying enemy mechs in a satisfying crunch of metal will make your eyes roll back and your thighs press together, but every hit you take and shot you fail to dodge will become a brutal feedback loop as it's sent straight through the neural link and into your brain, making you scream and thrash

you'd better do well on your missions otherwise you and your precious mech will suffer together

if you are going to fuck that tgirl you will do it like you love her or not at all

no that little tidbit of information is not an "easter egg" i fear. you are doing what we call "media analysis" ❤ it was on purpose i promise ❤ you were Supposed to notice that! and you did! good job ❤

From the outset of mech warfare, the joining of platform and pilot always engendered a special relationship. They share information, thoughts, and feelings, even though they understand them differently. When Cybernetic Neural Control v5 launched with Fully Autonomous Systems packaged in, the engineers thought it would render pilots obsolete. But try as they might, they could never replace that connection. Even as the neural frame took over all decision making, it still needed humanity. 

Every machine needs a Ghost.

To the degree she understands it, the machine feels the increase in neural load as a vague pressure. Without a Ghost, a mech can’t fully interpret sensation or effective purge strategies, so the Homunculus Protocol interfaces with her mind, maps that pressure onto her body, and interprets it as its closest human analogue.

To a Ghost, the neural frame’s analytic stress load feels like a growing heat between her legs, her thighs clenching and unclenching, her hips moving on their own. A growing wetness in the midst of all that warmth. Desperation. Hunger. A need for release.

Under routine neural loads she doesn’t notice it. That prey feeling? She can’t separate the anxiety of her first combat mission from the first signs of stress-induced physical agitation. 

At some point during basic training a Ghost’s body starts to mix up its signals. Anxiety becomes arousal. The air in the cadet barracks during exams carries enough musk and tension that they call it The Wetlands. A lot of Ghosts break each other’s hearts during basic. Even more, she hears, break each other’s hearts between missions. The best? They mostly just break each other.

Therian bottom? You mean a stuffed animal?