#ao3 username change

[youngeditor1999]

🚨‼Announcement ‼🚨

Back when I first started my AO3 account in 2017, it was important to me to make sure that my username there and my URL on here were the same.

This lead to me becoming youngeditor1999; first on AO3 and then here on Tumblr.

Recently, I have been wholeheartly embracing the younger version of myself and showing her the love now that she despretly needed back then.

With that being said, I have decided to return to my roots and have thus changed my AO3 username from young_editor_1999 to glittergurl191. 😊🤩🔥💯💞

Now, glittergurl191 is one of the FIRST EVER usernames that I ever made for myself. She was even my URL on here from 2015-2017!!

Returning to this username feels so carthatic and right. I can't even fully put into words how much this goofy lil' screenname means to me!! <3 <3 <3

I know that this announcement technically doesn't even matter, especially because people usually don't have their main Tumblr URL match their AO3 username, so who the hell even cares (aside from me ofc, hehe)?!

Well...!!

I feel like this is somewhat of an important thing for me to say, in part because I have been so (SO) consistentant with only being young_editor_1999 since 2017.

Moving back to glittergurl191 is not a sign of regression and is instead an act of freedom. 🥳🍾🥂🎆🎇🎉

My AO3 username is the only thing that has changed. I am also still very much youngeditor1999 and will be indefinetly be keeping that as my main URL. 🥰

And last but certiantly not least:

Thank you to everyone who has followed me throughout the years!! I love all of you so much and hope that you are getting the absolute most out of life. 🤗💗💓💖

[beyourownanchor6]

hoodiebuck -> beyourownanchor6

needed a change 🫶🏼

tagging some friends: @redlightsandicedtea @monsterrae1 @honestlydarkprincess @lonelychicago @wikiangela @loveyourownsmiilee @spotsandsocks @hippolotamus @bi-buckrights @daffi-990 @wildlife4life @underwaterninja13 @father-salmon @ronordmann @gamer-kai @spaceprincessem @eddiebabygirldiaz @confetti-cupcake @elvensorceress @justsmilestuffhappens @swiftiebuckleyhan @queerbuckleys @jackluvsdaniel @queerdiaz @giddyupbuck @watchyourbuck @thewolvesof1998

[joongdoklovers]

sorry this isn't selfcest harem related (ik, ik) but I only trust your authority on this: why is joongdok shortened to jdj?

is that second j from dokja (why would he get two letters! greedy!) or like are we also counting dokja's inner joonghyuk or

I (or...orphiclovers I guess lol) once upon a time asked the same question. If I remember correctly (can't find the post anymore) the answer I got is that it stands for "joongdokjoong" - and before you get as excited as I did, that unfortunately does NOT imply there are two Yoo Joonghyuks involved. It specifies that the top/bottom isn't specified (ie. they switch or it isn't relevant to the current discussion who is sticking what where). I like your version better though. (Also joongdok is selfcest, so this counts as a selfcest ask)

[peskellence]

Dear Readers: Extremely important update that you all definitely care about. I have decided that I have outgrown my current AO3/Tumblr username and want to shake things up a bit. I am however conscious that people may be confusion if I change it to something dramatically different.

After some 3am brainstorming, I have narrowed it down to the following options.

NOTE: The absolute genius that is @faxaway has helped inspire a glorious variant of Pixellence in Peskellence 😩🤌 A vote for Pixellence is now a vote for that. Sorry I don't make the rules.

[figachilles]

Wanted to share my fic on here too! Marinler fake dating.

So, as much as the thought of pretending to be dopily in love with Brad fills Beckett with a weird sickly feeling she can’t quite put her finger on, she has an obligation to put the effort in. Because Beckett’s a great friend. Because she never says no to a prank. And because Will – the Boimler who didn’t come back – definitely deserves it.

Mariner agrees to pose as Boimler's girlfriend at a Titan reunion party, in an effort to outshine Will after his big promotion. With ample practice, a lot of lying, and several glasses of champagne, what could possibly go wrong?

[baenakinskywalker]

am i bad, or mad, or wise?

When her eyes finally flutter open, it’s the sitting room ceiling she finds. Instead of her bed, she’s on the sofa, buried amongst the deep velvet throw pillows. Soft morning light streams through the linen curtains, and Feyre watches dust float in the air like glittering stars. She sits up, stretches her arms above her head, and frowns. Do I sleepwalk? And that’s when she casts her gaze toward the hallway and sees him. Rhysand, the High Lord of the Night Court…painting? He’s sitting on a stool before a great easel, blocking out shapes on a towering canvas. As she stirs, he turns — a lazy grin pinned across his devastatingly handsome face. “Hello, Feyre darling. Awake so soon?” or what happens if Feyre has a good dream after exchanging magical notes with Rhysand during ACOMAF. 

rating: m

words: 2,966

a/n: originally posted for @officialfeysandweek, but i realized there was a missed opportunity for a moodboard. thank you to pinterest, taylor swift, and sjm herself for this one! read under the cut or on ao3.

I was under duress, his next note read. If you want, I’d be more than happy to prove you wrong. I’ve been told I’m very, very good at licking.  I clenched my knees together and wrote back, Good night. A heartbeat later, his note said, Try not to moan too loudly when you dream about me. I need my beauty rest.

- A Court of Mist and Fury, chapter 29

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Sometime between getting the last note from Rhysand and readying herself for bed, shame starts to bubble in Feyre’s stomach. It creeps up slowly, steadily replacing the joy from earlier and making her doubt every decision made on that magical paper. By the time she slides into bed, there’s no trace of happiness left in her mind. Just three words, repeated ad nauseam. 

Killer. 

Traitor. 

Whore. 

What if she’s all three? What if everyone in Prythian thinks the same, or even worse? What if her traitorous human heart costs them all this war?

As sleep barrels toward her, Feyre braces for a night of turmoil. Of nausea forcing her to the toilet in the early hours of the morning. Please, she begs someone. Anyone. 

Her eyes finally close, and she sees violet before complete darkness.

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When her eyes finally flutter open, it’s the sitting room ceiling she finds. Instead of her bed, she’s on the sofa, buried amongst the deep velvet throw pillows. Soft morning light streams through the linen curtains, and Feyre watches dust float in the air like glittering stars. She sits up, stretches her arms above her head, and frowns. Do I sleepwalk now? 

And that’s when she casts her gaze toward the hallway and sees him. Rhysand, the High Lord of the Night Court…painting? 

He’s sitting on a stool before a great easel, blocking out shapes on a towering canvas. As she stirs, he turns — a lazy grin pinned across his devastatingly handsome face. “Hello, Feyre darling. Awake so soon?” 

There’s paint on his hands, curling up his arms and stopping just short of where the sleeves of his crisp, black shirt are rolled up. When did Rhys learn to paint? Feyre thinks dimly, trying to recount any mention of him favoring the arts. But then he’s crossing the room, and before she can ask out loud, he’s leaning down and —

Rhys is kissing her. Actually kissing her. His lips find hers easily, like he’s done this a million times before. Like he could do it blind. And it’s not the fiery, all-consuming kiss she sometimes imagines in the dead of night, either. His mouth is feather-soft against hers, moving slowly and sweetly in a good-morning greeting.

It feels like they’ve done this before. 

It feels good.

“Sweet dreams?” Rhys asks when he pulls away. “Must have been. I think I even heard some snoring from the general direction of the couch.” He presses another quick kiss to her mouth, then the tip of her nose. 

“I do not snore,” Feyre huffs. Her head spins. 

Rhys laughs, and her heart clenches. Has she heard him laugh like that before, so completely unbidden? “I think I would know,” he says. “After all, one of us” — he shoots her a mock glare — “falls asleep like that these days.” He snaps his fingers and nods, still smiling. “I hear plenty of cute snoring from your side of the bed, darling.”

Her side of the bed? Snoring? 

“It’s a good thing you’re finally up,” Rhys continues. “I need your help with this painting.”

She cocks her head to the side. “What on earth are you painting?”

“Only my favorite subject.” A wicked grin spreads across his face.

“Yourself?” Feyre asks, one foot back into familiar territory. The banter between them makes sense even if other details don’t. 

He laughs again. “My lady wounds me,” he says, voice gliding like the nighttime breeze through the mock-hurt on his face. He gestures at the canvas, where there are a few rudimentary shapes certainly meant to become a portrait. 

Feyre squints at the soft oval meant to be the face. The delicate points of two ears. Already, a sweeping of freckles where the cheekbones will be, as if the painter got ahead of himself. She tilts her head and steps back, eyes going wide when she realizes that the canvas is no more than a mirror. Rhysand is painting her.

She raises her brows. “Me?”

“Is there anyone else?” Rhys asks, suddenly earnest. Something shines in his violet eyes, something other than star-flecked night. Something warm and healing and —

In a flash, it’s gone, replaced by that all-too-familiar smirk and mischief she’s come to know since living in the Night Court. “I thought it a fitting anniversary gift for my favorite artist.”

“Our anniversary?” Feyre breathes. The kiss. The ease of conversation, how Rhys has heard her snore. What sort of wicked dream is this? It must be a dream. She looks down at her left hand and spies the ring retreated from the weaver’s cottage. 

Cauldron boil her. 

“Did my sweet wife forget?” Rhys muses, yet another smile playing at the edge of his mouth. “How should I punish her?” 

His smile turns wicked. The glint of his canines sends a spark down Feyre’s spine that she’s seldom felt before. Not with Tamlin, as much as she’s tried to convince herself otherwise. And certainly not with Isaac. From the roots of her hair down to her toes, she feels a flush that’s no doubt painted her beet red. 

“Oh, Feyre darling,” Rhys croons, paintbrush appearing in his hand out of thin air. “Then I suppose we should make this portrait a nude.” He dusts the brush down the bridge of her nose, traces the edge of her mouth. Her lips part, and Rhys finds her tongue with the soft bristles. A question. A challenge. 

Though he’s her husband in this topsy-turvy world, though they must have gone to bed together before, Rhys makes no move that she doesn’t want. It stumps her. What on earth is this fantasy she’s living in?

It’s not like Feyre hasn’t thought about it. Thought about Rhys like this. On Calanmai, even though it felt traitorous to think, he was easily the most beautiful male she’d ever seen. And back in Spring after Amarantha and everything they’d all been through, sometimes violet eyes were what she saw in Tamlin’s bed. 

Since living here in Velaris with Rhys, getting to know his family — well, those eyes have made more appearances in her daydreams. And in her fantasies. So maybe this is the culmination of all of that. Of the flirting, the dancing around each other like something inevitable is just beyond the horizon. 

Is that so bad? 

Is she so bad for wanting Rhysand?

He’s still before her, waiting to see what she decides.

Without another though, Feyre closes her mouth around the paintbrush and hollows her cheeks. Her eyes stay on Rhys, and she watches how his eyes darken, how all the air in his lungs disappears. She hears his groan, and then the paintbrush is gone, his hands are on her, and his mouth — 

Mother above.

Gone is the sweet greeting kiss from earlier. This one is a roaring fire they’ve just thrown a log on. Smoke and embers and sparks everywhere Rhys’ mouth presses, everywhere his tongue sweeps. Feyre’s knees go weak as he parts her lips with that cunning, devilish tongue, meeting hers with a curl that has her seeing stars. 

It’s so much better than she could have imagined.

Rhys pulls away, breathing heavily and smiling. She wants to commit that perfect smile to memory, wants to paint it a thousand times until it covers the walls of the townhouse — maybe even plaster it on every street in Velaris. Everyone should be so lucky to see this smile. “Wicked, beautiful thing,” he croons, gaze dropping to her swollen lips. “You’ll remember I asked for your help, Feyre.”

“That you did.” A challenge for him.

He flicks his wrist, and her nightgown is gone. 

All of her clothes are gone.

Somehow, standing stark naked in front of the High Lord of the Night Court doesn’t scare her. Doesn’t embarrass her. Feyre feels strangely powerful as Rhys takes in every inch of her body. So powerful that she cocks her head and asks, “What did you need from me again?”

He smirks. “There are a lot of things I need from you, darling. You can start by sitting down, so I can get a better look at that face.” 

Feyre sits on the stool just in front of the canvas, covering her bare breasts with her hands. “Since you’re only interested in my face,” she says. “There’s no need for these” – she squeezes, delighting in how Rhys’ eyes go wide – “to be on display.”

That rips a growl from his throat. “We’ll see,” is all Rhys says as he walks to the other side of the room. “To make sure the composition looks right,” he adds.

On the stool, Feyre wrinkles her nose. Then sticks her tongue out. She crosses her eyes, bares her teeth, and then scrunches her whole face, eyes squeezing shut. Trying out poses like a good model. “Any of those work for you?” she asks. 

“I see something that works quite nicely,” he says, drawing near her again. When he’s barely an arm away, he gives the command. “Lean back, Feyre.”

Against the canvas. The freshly painted, wet canvas. “But your hard work will be ruined,” the artist in her says. She’ll surely smear the paint, making the few shapes behind her completely unrecognizable. 

“My hard work has barely begun,” he answers, looking down at her hungrily. “Now lean back.” So she does. With a sharp inhale when her bare back touches the cold, wet paint behind her. Rhys’ paintbrush is back in one hand, and he has a palette with fresh paint in the other. He dips the brush in a dark, inky indigo, and starts painting her. Wherever the his lips land, the brush follows, from her forehead to the tip of her nose, finally reaching her hands — still covering her breasts. 

Kneeling before her, Rhys plucks her left hand from her chest and presses kisses to the whorls of magic ink signifying their bargain. He kisses each finger, then draws her thumb into his mouth and sucks, which has her moaning softly. He nips at her skin, and then moves to the right arm, where her hand is completely bare. Not for long, Feyre realizes, as Rhys drags his brush along her skin, painting a mirror of the marks on the left. Each touch is light as a feather, and Feyre squirms as he adds more detail, pressing his hot mouth against any areas without paint. 

Only when he’s finished with her arm, when it matches her bargain tattoo in a way that makes her heart clench, does he look at her breasts, now heaving and heavy with want. 

“These,” Rhys murmurs, taking both in his hands — so large, so warm — and rubbing his thumbs across her nipples, “are simply exquisite.” He pinches one, keeps rolling his thumb across the other, and Feyre can’t breathe. Her body is wound so tight, and he’s hardly even touched her yet. If he uses his mouth, she’ll shatter fast. 

And there’s the mind reading, finally. I’ll just have to take my time, won’t I, darling?

Slowly, so slowly that Feyre could scream, he lowers his mouth to her left breast, pausing before he gets to where she wants him. Needs him, more like. He simply exhales, sending cool air across her skin and making her nipples pinch. “You bastard. Why won’t you just —”

He takes her breast into his mouth and sucks, teeth scraping and lips soothing, and it’s too much and not enough, and her hands fist into inky black hair and tug almost without Feyre meaning to. And suddenly his fingers are coated in paint, and he’s swirling more dark shapes across the rest of her chest, pinching and kneading along the way. 

And just when he’s going to make her come apart — just from this! — Rhys pulls away, eyes heavy and dark, feline smile across his face. “You were saying?”

Before she can pull his hair or pinch him or do anything, he’s nudging her knees apart and giving her a look that says she’s his personal feast. 

But he takes his time here too. Uses that painted hand to roam up and down her thighs, even writing the word mine just below the crease of her right hip. “Territorial?” Feyre asks, voice wobbling from the feeling building in her stomach. 

“I want all of Prythian to know that you’re my” — he pauses, pressing his lips together — “wife.”

If she’s letting herself have this fantasy, why not really enjoy it? “Then why don’t you take what’s yours?”

Rhys needs no other instruction. In an instant, his hands are clean of paint, and he’s got both of her legs hitched over his powerful shoulders. Wouldn’t it be nice to see his wings, she thinks distantly as his hot mouth descends on the apex of her thighs.

The mind reading again as his wings appear dark and imposing and incredibly wide. Does the wingspan match the —

“Oh, you’ll see,” Rhys answers before the first press of his tongue against her clit turns her mind to utter mush. He licks broad strokes across her center that have her legs shaking, then wraps his lips around her and sucks. One hand snakes up to pinch at her nipple, and it’s so much better than she ever imagined. 

So much better than it’s ever been. 

Her thighs are trembling when Rhys slides one finger inside her and curls, hitting that spot that only she’s been able to find before. It wrings moans from her lips that turn into shouts as he adds another finger, working her slowly but surely toward the edge of something. Is she saying his name? Is she praising the Mother? It’s impossible to tell when she feels this full, when she can hear how slick Rhys’ mouth is with her arousal. 

Rhys looks up at her from under his lashes, and there’s a glint in those starry eyes that has her practically begging for more. It’s possible she does beg, but there’s no way for Feyre to tell when she’s on the precipice like this. 

Tell me if you want me to stop, Rhys says through the bond. So convenient that they can communicate while his mouth is occupied. The fingers curling inside her rotate, still filling her so perfectly, and then —

He gathers some of her slick onto his thumb and presses gently at the pucker below her center. 

Don’t you dare stop, Feyre says down the bond. 

Rhys doesn’t stop, just presses deeper, sucks harder, thrusts his fingers further. 

By the cauldron. Never, it’s never felt like this; she’s tense, like a bow about to loose an arrow through the snowy wood. She’s so close, so dangerously close to something entirely new. To being remade. To understanding, to peace, to —

With a gentle scrape of his teeth against her clit, Feyre comes undone. She shatters. Melts. Is everywhere and nowhere at once, anchored to the world by the golden light from her bargain. Rhys licks her through the aftershocks, then draws back slightly and nips at her thigh. Kisses his way up her leg, past the paint claiming her, all the way to her heart. He presses a soft kiss where her pulse thunders beneath her skin and rises. 

In the back of her mind, Feyre swears she can hear his knees creak as he stands. Something to tease him about later, when she can form sentences again 

“Enjoy yourself?” Rhys asks, scooping her into his arms. All the paint has been magically cleaned away, save the mine on her thigh. She’ll tease him about that, too, surely. 

“I think you know the answer to that,” Feyre says, voice husky from screaming her pleasure. She buries her face in the spot between Rhy’s shoulder and neck and breathes. Would it be so bad for this to be her life? To love the man cradling her like something precious after pushing her hard enough to break? He knows she won’t. Rhysand believes in her. She feels it deep in the pit of her soul, whether that soul is black or not. 

He sees her. 

All of her. 

Suddenly, her eyes are heavy. “Let’s get you back to bed,” Rhys whispers. He lays her back in the mountain of pillows she awoke from earlier and brushes her hair from her face. “I love you. My wife. My ma—”

His voice is far off, and she can’t make out the last word. “My ma—”

Or is it, “Fa—?”

“Fa—?”

“Feyre?”

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Her eyes flutter open. “Feyre? Are you alright?”

She’s not downstairs anymore. Instead of the couch, Feyre is back in her bed, clothes on, not a scrap of paint to be found. “Feyre, are you okay? I heard a commotion,” Rhysand says, sitting beside her on the bed. His hair is mussed, likely from a fitful night’s sleep. “I heard you scream.”

Feyre sits up, her thighs sore and slick from her orgasm. “I’m okay,” she says softly. Her voice is still hoarse. 

“Nightmare?” Rhys asks. He looks her over for any signs of hurt. This male who had joked so brazenly about needing his beauty sleep came to check on her in the middle of the night without a second thought. Dropped all pretenses tomake sure she was okay.

Feyre shakes her head. “A good dream, actually.”

His eyes narrow. And then zero in on where her nightgown has ridden up and exposed her legs. 

And the word mine in dark paint.

[isbergillustration]

I know we panic every few months collectively about this webbed site disappearing but since it is the source of 98% of my art related income and the only place people are sufficiently queer and mentally ill to like my stuff (which I, a fellow mentally ill queer, say with love & affection) that would kinda suck. Anyway if it does disappear you can find me on fb, insta and tiktok also as @isbergillustration, on twitter as @utgr1d and on my own webbed site where nothing happens isbergillustration.com

Here is an abstracted minotaur in progress for your trouble

[bluedovee]

chokes on astronomical energy "Queen Undick couldn't care less" I LOVE YOU (platonically) YOUR ART YOUR FIC YOUR EVERYTHING YOUR AMAZING

have a great day <3

or night <333

or any hypothetically possible time of the universe, as in the 4th dimension there might not be such a concept.......

ok you made my day ✨ I LOVE YOU TOO

THE FOURTH DIMENSION. if we can come up with the multiverse and the antivoid, I mean we can't prove it doesn't exist

A doodle of Horror giving Dust a flower from my fic

[gayvecchio]

Summary:

Gardino was dead to begin with...

Ray's relationship with Stella is long over. He hasn't spoken to Fraser in years and barely has contact with his family anymore. He's alone, stuck doing a job he hates, soul wilting in the Florida heat. Will a visit from three spirits help Ray change things in time to save him from a bleak future?

Bringing this back because ‘tis the season! 

[rossary-of-the-rose]

posted chapter three, no one get too excited it’s sucky :’)

should have the next chapter done by next week though!

[muriers]

This is my gift to @nobledragonflying for the @mcythorrorgiftexchange event!! It's so funny I got matched as your gifter for the recursive gift exchange and then this one XD

+ Here's a close up

[muldersfingers]

medicaldoctorscully --> muldersfingers

[nerdstify]

I'm writing a Death Note story and need help with the middle. Send your ideas via DMs, comments, or asks. If I like them, I might even draw them! Also open to Death Note art requests. Share any Death Note-related ideas and I'll see what I can do.

(and in this case comments too!)

Start and end of the fic under the cut:

God, the rain was gorgeous. L wasn’t usually one to remark or note on the beauty of people; people did things and said things that he couldn’t understand. They hurt and killed and lied; and for what? For only themselves. But the world- the non-people part of the world- was utterly beautiful. L knew why the rain fell. It brought the plants to life. And even though sometimes it felt like nature didn’t have a purpose- like destructive typhoons and hurricanes- he at least understood that these catastrophes weren’t self-serving. The rain had no greed or selfishness; nothing to gain, and so the chaos was out of its control. The rain was always his favourite, grey and rhythmic and cool. Any beauty he saw in a human was simply a reflection of the beauty of the rain. Watari, cool and graceful and methodical as himself, nurturing lost children like they were plants below his sky. Soichiro, stoic and sturdy, creating a calm and intentional rhythm for L to think to. These people and others he had admired for sharing the qualities of the rain he loved, but there was one more. A conundrum that L couldn’t quite place.

Start:

Light Yagami. Not just the rain, but a monsoon. He was endless and unrelenting. No matter how many challenges you gave him, he dodged and weaved until the rainwater had flooded every crack in the moulding and invaded your basement. L wasn’t fond of people getting into his basement. He wasn’t cool and stoic and calm, but he came with a surging heat and a blinding sun and a furious intensity. L was almost sure he was Kira, because like Light, like the monsoon, Kira barely seemed human to him. He didn’t seem to be killing for personal or even corporate gain. Kira had convinced himself and the world that he killed for righteous reasons; for saving the good in humanity, but L couldn’t believe that. Kira killed because like Light, like the monsoon, he simply couldn’t stop.

He had never before been so attracted to a person, yet so repelled. If Light contained a duality and, say, Kira was a north magnet, and Light was a south– then L was north. There was nothing his heart, mind, and the deepest parts of his very soul craved more than a friend- or so he told himself- like Light.

But Light was Kira.

Wasn’t he?

Ending:

He knew it. Of course Light was Kira. There was no way around it. L was doomed by this narrative of friendship he had written for himself. Light was so perfect that L couldn’t have beared to lose him. So charming that the barely human, hardly affectionate, happily lonely L had warmed to him. Welcomed him. Shown him the smallest, quietest parts of himself. But Light was barely human too; becoming less and less by the day. And as L grew more and more attached, Light grew further away. A part of him had known from the very beginning how he would die. It wasn’t a slip-up in safety or privacy, it wasn’t a miscalculation, or a misjudgement of character- in fact he had judged Light perfectly from the very beginning. It was trust that had killed him.

His first, his best and worst friend, using him even now. No doubt faking his grief towards the task force. Or perhaps the grief was real. Despite it all, L couldn’t help but clutch onto the glimmer of hope he kept locked tightly in his ribcage, as the light faded from his eyes, that he could still mean something to Light, despite using him and throwing him aside.

Like he did Misa. Like he would his father and Sayu. Like he did his own soul. Like he did everyone once they stopped being fun to play with. L laughed weakly. Kira really was a child.

He had always known he would die right here, in task force headquarters, where he was supposed to be safe, and at Light’s hand, who was supposed to be his equal. He had imagined dying with a subtle smirk, Light finally incriminated, and a successor lined up to catch him. But in his ideations of death, not once had it occurred to him that it might hurt so much.

The grief, the guilt, the regret, and most of all the gaping wound that Light created, ripping into him with his bare hands and clawing at the insides of his chest, twisting a knife right into his gut as he pretended to care that he was gone.

[quiet-admirer]

just noticed the AO3 link in your pinned post- I can’t believe my favourite tumblr blog is also my favourite fanfic writer

🥺 aw, thank u, that's very kind of you to say.

I really hope I'll be able to get back to updating and posting fics soon ❤️ I've had a lot of life stuff going on for like a solid 3 months, but it should be maybe one more month and then things'll calm down and I'll hopefully feel up to writing again. Especially that samseb one - I've been focusing on my new OCs the past few months, but I miss those guys, that story can be really comforting to write and I'm really looking forward to wrapping up those last 3 chapters when I have the brain capacity to do them justice :)

[rainofthetwilight]

Who is Sora’s favorite ninja? (Role swap au)

and what’s Arin’s Relationship with his parents? Is it bad?

zane! him being a nindroid is a reason, she's still a tech lover in this au so she's pretty interested in him! (and in pixal, too)

arin still had a good relationship with his parents, but it got a little complicated when he found out the truth about imperium. he told them the full story and they believed in him, and he wanted to tell everyone else about it, but they didn't let him, telling him that they'd probably face consequences and that it was for the best for him not to say anything. he only left imperium after the merge because he couldn't bear the idea of living in a place that tortures other beings for his enjoyment, but he still loved his parents and felt extremely guilty about leaving them

ty for the ask!! :D

[rottedbrainz]

Okay sooooo...I've been thinking about this very specific aspect of Rand and Jamie's relationship for a long time. I've debated on the idea but...I think I finally caved. So everyone, say hello to

MATEO & THEO

I've been wanting to give Rand and Jamie kids for a second but I was still unsure if I should. Anyway I'm glad I did it because they are just the cuestest little blue beans ever!!

And after thinking about it further Rand would actually be a pretty decent father. I mean I look at the type of relationship he has with Lottie and I'm like "why COULDNT he have this kind of relationship with a kid of his own?"

And I even had the same thought process when thinking about Jamie. I can imagine she would be timid about having a child without her mom present but she uses that aspect to spend as much time with her boys as possible ❤️

(A Lil extra something :) )

And of course they gotta spend time with their best uncles ever! (Remember Raph belong to @palettepainter and you should really go check out their art!!)