#fio figure

[dailyfigures]

Fio & Mama ; NieR: Automata ☆ Square Enix

[olivewormz]

ELLO!!!! GUESS WHO REDID HIS METAL SLUG DESIGNS!!!! i guess you could call it that uuhm

but YEA!! i've been thinking a lot about metal slug lately and i just... couldnt resist redrawing my versions, hopefully i do more in the future for more characters n all, i really want to post more metal slug stuff, i love LOVE these silly guys

im not writing anything at the moment cause i really didnt change my headcanons and im kind of tired to write proper paragraphs (i should stop staying up until 3 am to finish drawings? maybe).

[sapphic-haymaker]

lil guys :)

[mai-day]

La mayor parte de las cosas es un 50/50 porque no puedo con lo obsesionados que están el uno por el otro jsgdjsgs

[virtuesuncounted]

Matty just stood there, in the doorway, unsure of what he could do or say that would get him – and both of them – out of this situation. When Fiona spoke, her words were slightly sluggish, and almost immediately his protective instinct for her took over as he wanted to get her inside and help her sober up. But they weren't together anymore, and he'd lost that right a long time ago.

When she turned back around and started to step away from his door, he intuitively walked forward and reached his arm out, wrapping his hand around her wrist. "Wait, ba-Fio, come on," he said, deliberately paying no mind to how he'd almost said 'baby' instead of her name. "Just.. You don't have to go," he pleaded, and even though Kaitlyn really hadn't done anything wrong, he really wished she'd have left a good 10 minutes earlier. His muscles flexed in chills when the cool wind blew over his bare skin, but then he was tugging her back towards the house, right when a car pulled up as well - thank fuck. "Please, give me two minutes," he said, not really giving her a chance to protest as he dragged her inside to the living room, where Kaitlyn had walked back into - this time in her own black mini-dress and heels. God, this was truly a nightmare.

It was the snort of laughter at Matty pushing the door-answering woman to the side that made the little bell in her head ding: Yes, Fiona, you are definitely drunk. There was still enough clarity there for her eyes to rake up his familiar, lean frame and know exactly what he'd been doing. Her voice felt so pathetically small when she looked up at him, knowing her eyes had stayed on the man's torso too long to be subtle. "She doesn't have to go. I'm the one interrupting your night... morning?"Life, Fio had meant but had enough sense to bite her tongue, literally. "I hadn't even meant to walk here. I think I was just distracted or tired and..." Missing you, again, miraculously sparing herself the embarrassment of some kind of emotional word vomit. That was short lived though, when her third attempt at departing from her ex's front door was met with an, "Okay, good seeing you, Mattyboy. You're looking really great." Her hands had been gesturing to all of him on display and very much not holding onto anything as she turned around and swayed precariously over the steps, guaranteed to fall on her ass if no one reached out to help her.

[girlreborn]

Just as quickly as you are able to get your bearings, something catches your eye. Whilst there are many planets before you, a blazing sight hooks your eye on one more than the others.

It takes you a moment to realize what the sparks of color and shapes visible from the atmosphere even are. …Fireworks. Was there a celebration taking place?

You reached out a hand to begin to swim to the sight of the festivities, but as soon as you do, a dark shadow overtakes your iridescent digits, holding your hand. There is someone- something(?) that is holding onto you.

You look to your side as the sound of party horns and poppers fills your ears in great Elation, confetti and balloons joining the dust and debris surrounding you and your uninvited guest. There is a faceless umbra in the shape of a human in front of you. As if the figure were made of naught but smoke, THEIR body twirls in the vacuum of space, wrapping around you as if in an overly familiar embrace.

“You’ve finally graced us with your presence!” It takes you a moment to realize that the voice you hear is coming from the entity now before you, a mix of shrill and high-pitched glee coming out of THEM in a tone that sounds neither masculine nor feminine in lieu of coming off more like an instrument that had learned how to talk. “Aha has really been looking forward to meeting you!”

chapter two of ‘vae, puto deus fio,’ ‘un sogno dentro un sogno dentro un sogno’ is out.

this post is just a teaser. to read the whole chapter, please click here.

[theholmwoodfoundation]

Want to watch us (Fio & Georgia) figure out Twitch?

Come join us at 8pm GMT today where we'll talk Holmwood, do some drawing & have an informal Q&A, prepping for streaming fun during our Kickstarter!

[thesilliestrovingalive]

To meet oneself

Chapter 1: Escaping into the wilderness from a nightmare

POTENTIAL TRIGGER WARNING: Viewer discretion is advised due to references to alcoholism and self-harm.

The Sparrowhawk Operations Base slumbers quietly, its occupants lost in the depths of their subconscious, enveloped by the soothing oblivion of sleep. A lone window in the quarters stands sentinel, bathing the room in soft moonlight that stretches down the rows of bunk beds, where Marchrius’ team rests peacefully. On this spring night, the air holds a crisp chill, yet hints at the warmth of summer's impending arrival. Though the beds aren't as luxurious as those at home, comfort and gratitude fill the room, for in this tranquil space, rest is a treasured solace. Returning to the base always feels amazing! The team reunites, sharing lively conversations and celebrating their victories. After a fulfilling day, they unwind, preparing for a well-deserved rest—whether tomorrow holds action-packed adventures or a welcome escape from the daily routine.

Tarma's deep snores fill the air as he murmurs softly about a vivid dream. In his subconscious, he, Fio, Eri, and Marchrius are revelling in an intergalactic adventure, defeating evil Martians after a night of drunken celebration. His burly arms wrap tightly around Fio, who sleeps even more soundly, her snores harmonising with his. Her beautiful face nestles snugly into the warmth of his chest, enveloped by his calming presence and gentle tenderness.

Nearby, Ralf sleeps undisturbed by the chirping crickets outside or the occasional creaks that break the silence. His own soft snores punctuate the stillness, accompanied by a gentle trickle of drool that runs down his chin. Above Ralf, Clark slumbers, lost in an underwater odyssey. In his subconscious, he rides the back of a horse-sized Sparky, his beloved charcoal Bengal cat, forming unlikely friendships with a menagerie of bizarre and fantastical aquatic creatures. After a frustrating day of fishing, Clark deserves some rest, but Ralf's restless tossing and turning, coupled with Tarma and Fio's cacophonous snoring, makes it challenging for him to fall into a deep sleep.

Tequila is trapped in a harrowing nightmare, reliving the horrors of the battlefield alongside his former comrades. His whimpering, laboured breathing, and restless tossing and turning betray the turmoil in his mind, clutching his blanket and bedsheets tightly as if he’s desperately trying to find solace. Across from him to his left and below where Fio would usually sleep, Eri sleeps peacefully, her insomnia unusually absent. Fortunately, she’s sober, sparing everyone from the rowdy chaos of her sleepwalking. The others in the spacious dormitory remain undisturbed by Tequila's distress, Ralf’s restlessness, and the loud snoring of Tarma and Fio, sleeping soundly in anticipation of a potential mission the next day.

Unbeknownst to the others, Marchrius is trapped in a vivid and terrifying nightmare. His face contorts in anguish, fists clenched as his breathing turns ragged. Cold sweat drips from his brow, and his body tenses as the nightmare's intensity threatens to drag him back to the horrific memories he's desperately tried to bury. It begins with Marchrius restrained on a filthy hospital bed that resembles an operating table. An angelic figure with a feminine, nude body, wings of frazzled teal plumes, and a gilded halo resembling a Black Sun, approaches him with sly, eerie grace. Her radiant form stands in stark contrast to the gore and blood that drenches her surprisingly youthful body. Her face, hair, and eyes eerily mirror that of someone he once knew, a woman he hastily abandoned after she betrayed and violated him to obtain precious samples.

The angelic apparition straddles Marchrius’ hips, her weight crushing him and her thighs gripping him like an iron vice. His breathing becomes erratic as his stomach churns at the ghastly sight. A violent gag reflex takes hold, and he vomits forcefully, the contents of his stomach surging up his throat. A fetid substance settles upon his chest, comprising a noxious mixture of seminal fluids, the iron-tainted fluid of blood, and the acidic, tar-like essence of black bile. Before he can unleash a blood-curdling scream, she abruptly forces his head into a hidden recess beneath the silky white pillow, where a dark, blood-stained pool awaits. The water within is a noxious, smoke-filled abyss, emitting a piercing, hellish resonance that reeks of charred flesh.

With a deep breath and eyes clenched shut, Marchrius is suddenly transported back to the battlefield in a twisted, nightmarish version of Gerhardt City. Merciless Rebel forces surround him, unleashing brutal attacks on his former comrades. The air is thick with the sounds of suffering and torment as they overpower and brutalise those he once called friends. The deafening explosions and relentless barrage of bullets fill his mind, forcing him to watch in a powerless state as those he cares about suffer through their final, agonising moments. His vision blurs with tears as Marchrius rushes to Tarma's side, only to find his best friend's bruised, stabbed, and bullet-ridden corpse.

As he teeters on the brink of madness, Allen O'Neil and a squad of fanatic land troops emerge behind him, pinning him down. Allen's voice drips with malice as he delivers the brutal commands. The troops carry them out with savage efficiency, tearing away Marchrius’ left arm and gouging out his left eye. His screams echo through the air as blood erupts from his fresh wounds, and the fanatics respond with cruel laughter and sarcastic shrugs.

General Morden's face looms before the group, his eyes glinting with malevolent intent. A fanatic presents him with Marchrius' grotesquely removed eye, its dangling vein quivering in the macabre breeze. Morden's grin twists into a wicked smile as he presses the cold muzzle of his Chiappa Rhino 40DS against Marchrius' forehead. With a dark chuckle, he savours the gruesome scene. The sound of the trigger being pulled jolts Marchrius awake, shattering the nightmare.

His breathing is heavy and shaky, punctuated by a few stray tears that trickle down his cheeks. Sweat drips from his face and palms, and his body trembles subtly with fear. His mouth feels parched and uncomfortably dry. Frantic, he scans the room before leaning forward on the edge of his bed and peering down. A sigh of relief escapes his lips as he spots Tarma, safe and sound. He wipes away the sweat and tears that dampen his face and chinstrap beard. He had been on the verge of panic, fearing the worst—that Tarma had vanished. But as his past traumas begin to resurface, threatening to overwhelm him, he knows he won't be able to shake off the wakefulness that's taken hold. He decides to slip out of the dormitory, seeking a distraction from the darkness that's creeping in.

He cautiously throws off the blanket and descends the bunk bed ladder with silent deliberation. His feet meet the wooden floorboards, and he freezes, scanning the room with darting eyes, holding his breath in hopes of not disturbing the others. A few seconds pass, and the soft rise and fall of chests reassures him everyone remains asleep. With a deep, calming breath, he proceeds. The old floorboards groan beneath his feet, sending a shiver of paranoia down his spine, but he presses on undeterred. Marchrius’ sweaty palm wraps around the bronze door handle, and he turns it slowly, easing the door open with deliberate quietness. He slips through the narrow opening and shuts the door behind him, the soft click of the latch a welcome sound.

He knows Wysteria and Celaphios are sleeping in the lounge, surrounded by the trio of affectionate cats—Perifa, Sparky, and Mr. Kibleton—that have made this place their home. He continues with caution, tiptoeing towards the storage room where their uniforms and tactical gear are kept. Inside, he flips the light switch, and the sudden brightness forces him to shield his eyes. He squints, waiting for his vision to adjust, and his laboured breathing disturbs the silence.

As the room comes into focus, he navigates through the rows of lockers, his footsteps quiet on the floor. Approaching his locker that boldly displays his first name in crimson marker, he grasps the combination padlock, its gilded surface gleaming in the light. A tired yawn escapes his lips before he focuses on entering the combination, his fingers deliberately turning the dial to the precise numbers.

"5-9-21," he murmurs, his voice barely audible as he recites the combination.

As the dial reaches 21, the padlock yields with a soft click. With a weary sigh, he lets the padlock fall, its metallic clang dulled by the worn wooden floorboards. With a gentle tug, he opens the locker door, revealing his neatly organised gear. His uniform lies neatly folded at the top with his other tactical equipment lined up below in orderly rows. His gaze drifts to an old photograph taped to the locker door's side—a pre-teen version of himself, flanked by his father, Salvatore Rossi, and childhood cat, Grubley. A faint smile creases his lips, but it fades, replaced by his usual stoic expression, now tinged with a hint of melancholy.

He focuses on dressing, selecting key items: a platinum grey sleeveless shirt, a crimson vest with four pockets, khaki-green army cargo pants, a pair of olive green paratrooper boots, and a leather belt. He dresses methodically, securing each piece, and finally threads his belt through the cargo pants' hoops, clicking the buckle into place. The routine gesture is driven by practicality, but a flicker of vanity underscores his actions—the thought of his pants slipping off in public still embarrasses him. Despite his pride in his masculinity, he has always been baffled by men who seem unfazed by their pants sagging. To him, it's a matter of functionality and dignity, not just image.

He shakes his head, clearing the fatigue, and scans the room cautiously before reaching for his concealed combat knife. Secured in its sheath, it lies hidden in his locker, protected from scratching the metallic interior. His gaze lingers on a secret treasure, a six-pack of beer, stashed away from prying eyes. A lazy smirk spreads across his face as he retrieves it with his cybernetic left hand, the prosthetic moving with smooth precision. Marchrius cradles the six-pack with delicate care, a guilty pleasure he conceals from his friends. It's his solitary solace, a means to dull the emotional pain that still lingers.

With the knife and six-pack secured in his grasp, he softly closes the locker door and clicks the combination padlock into place. He can't shake the concern that leaving it open would spark unnecessary worry among his friends, prompting them to launch a frantic search. Gripping his blade's handle firmly, he slips out of the storage room and quietly exits the Sparrowhawk Operations Base, disappearing into the night.

It’s a beautiful night, filled with the soothing sounds of crickets chirping loudly, a distant wolf howling at the full moon, and the haunting hoots of owls echoing through the distance. The grass, still damp from a spring shower that passed a couple of hours earlier, releases the sweet scent of wildflowers and petrichor as the gentle breeze stirs. As Marchrius weaves through the landscape, he can't resist glancing up at the sky. The vast canvas above is dotted with countless white stars, scattered like diamonds across the dark velvet of the night sky, twinkling brightly. For a fleeting moment, he thinks he spots a comet streaking across the sky, but his tired mind might be playing tricks on him. As he ventures deeper into the forest, common glowworms flicker green and dart away from him, disturbed by the rustling grass beneath his feet.

For a mountainous region, it's absolutely stunning, with the perfect elevation for a military compound to be situated away from civilization. Conifer and deciduous trees cover the rocky landscape, while large patches of grass are home to flowers native to Britain, such as cow parsley and wood anemone. However, none of these compare to Wysteria's favourite spot: the serene cerulean lake. Its edges are lined with broad-leaved trees, a few conifers, and various flowers, with primrose dominating the landscape. The gorgeous surface of the water shimmers beneath the pale moonlight, adding depth to the darkened waters.

Marchrius reminisces about how Clark occasionally comes here to fish, mostly for fun, but sometimes brings back game. He vividly recalls the fish Clark caught, shared over dinner at the Sparrowhawk Operations Base just days after his arrival with Ralf: a handful of common carp, brown trout, bream, northern pike, and minnow. A faint smile spreads across his face as he remembers the time Clark taught Wysteria how to fish. She had been eager to learn the ins and outs of fishing, but her excitement quickly turned to surprise when she reeled in a silver eel—a species Clark had never seen before.

With an exhausted sigh, he trudges onward, searching for a secluded spot to indulge in some much-needed solitude. The biting wind sends a shiver down his spine, but he grits his teeth and presses on, undeterred. As he ventures deeper into the mountain forest, the foliage grows denser, and he remains on the hunt for a secluded haven. The crickets' chirping, the glowworms' ethereal dance, the occasional snap of twigs, the soft rustle of leaves, and the faint crunch of grass beneath his feet blend together in a serene symphony, punctuated by the distant, mournful hoot of an owl. For a brief moment, he sees a pair of glowing red eyes stalking him among the tangled deciduous and conifer trees, watching his every move. He freezes, a shiver racing down his spine, as his gaze locks onto piercing eyes that hold for an unnervingly long moment. The spell breaks with a sudden blink, and the eyes disappear, banished by a sharp shake of his head. Shaking off the unease, he takes a deep breath and continues walking, attributing the unsettling encounter to his overactive imagination.

As he walks, a majestic oak tree emerges from the landscape. Its trunk, robust and weathered, catches his attention, particularly the left side, where a dense thicket of shrubbery forms a mysterious veil. He approaches cautiously, setting the six-pack beside him near the thicket of bushes. With a deliberate motion, he lets his combat knife slip from his grasp, its weight thudding softly onto the earth. Then, he rests his right hand against the tree's rugged trunk, his fingers tracing gentle patterns on the rough bark. With a contented sigh, he turns around, leaning his back against the tree and arching his spine to release a satisfying crack. As he settles in, he slides down the trunk and sits cross-legged, exhaling a deep breath. His gaze drifts lazily to the six-pack beside him. Marchrius reaches for the six-pack with his right hand and pulls out a beer, his grip firm but gentle. He gazes at the can, its blue surface adorned with a white circle housing a red-trimmed black star at its centre. The lukewarm beer rests comfortably in his hand, but his apathy prevails. For him, a warm drink is just as effective as a chilled one, both serving a singular, fleeting purpose: dulling the inner turmoil that churned within.

Before opening the can of beer, he pauses, taking a deep breath to fortify himself for what lies ahead. He tosses the beer into his left hand and, with his index finger, effortlessly lifts the tab and opens the lid. The can cracks open with a satisfying hiss, music to his ears, signalling a perfect opening. The robust aroma of fizzing beer fills his nostrils, reminiscent of fresh apple cider. Opening a beer with his left hand has become second nature, thanks to his cybernetic prosthetic's impressive physical strength and precision, courtesy of its micro-sensors and neural interfaces. He recalls the early days after Tarma built his prosthetic, when he'd accidentally crush newly bought beers, struggling to adjust to the new limb. However, with time and practice, he mastered it, and the prosthetic proved invaluable in combat situations and everyday tasks, both on and off the job.

Without hesitation, he downs the entire beer, feeling the refreshing liquid soothe his parched tongue and throat. He’s hooked on the taste, indifferent to flavour or bitterness. The specifics of his latest six-pack purchase are a blur because they were overshadowed by the urgency of preparing for a mission against a pirate raid. Yet, as the beer's crisp, fruity notes dance on his palate, Marchrius identifies the unmistakable hint of apple black cherry. A sly smirk spreads across his face, accompanied by a low, amused snort. He carelessly crushes the empty can and discards it, already reaching for the next one.

He grabs another beer and repeats the familiar ritual, but this time he takes a moment to savour the taste. The beer's addictive flavour temporarily dulls the pain lurking in his subconscious, bringing a fleeting sense of joy to his troubled life. It's a small comfort that lifts his spirits during times of overwhelming sadness and dread. As he takes a second sip, he lets out a loud belch.

His mind drifts back to happier times, remembering a night when he, Tarma, Eri, Tequila, Gimlet, Ralf, and Trevor had gathered for drinks. Trevor sipped on a blue raspberry slushie and puffed on a joint, while Ralf indulged in a homemade root beer float. The others, meanwhile, enjoyed their drinks of choice. Eri's thunderous belch startled Fio, who was completely absorbed in baking a caramel-layered red velvet cake, adorned with chocolate truffles, coucougnettes, and strawberry jam macarons for Nadia's 26th birthday. The memory brings a deep chuckle, but as his thoughts continue to wander, the darker moments of his life begin to resurface. He tries to shake off the resurfacing memories, downing the rest of his second beer, and sets the empty can on the grass beside him before grabbing another.

He rips open his third beer with trembling hands, his breathing growing erratic. Memories of fallen comrades flood his mind, and he desperately tries to shake them off. But the pain cuts deeper when thoughts of his mother resurface—the one who never loved him, never accepted him. The worst of it comes when he recalls the day she abandoned him, locking him in the dark basement of his childhood home before vanishing from his life forever. As he gulps down the beer, his cheeks flush with a hint of intoxication, and tears suddenly well up in his eyes. He pauses, the can half-empty, and takes a deep breath, attempting to calm his racing nerves.

His gaze drifts to the combat knife he'd dropped earlier before snapping back to his beer. After a moment's hesitation, he downs the rest in one swift motion, crushing the can in his left hand with a mixture of anger and desperation. He tosses it aside, joining the other empty cans.

He gazes at the combat knife once more, his lower lip trembling and a few tears escaping his eyes. His breathing turns ragged as he hesitantly pulls out his right arm and begins to unwrap the worn gauze covering it, the fabric clinging to his skin. His hand shakes subtly, his conscience screaming for him to stop, but he's too far gone. This ritual has become ingrained, a primal instinct etched into his mind and bones. Once the gauze is removed, his left hand drops it to the dirty, grassy ground. With a gentle touch, he caresses his forearm, despite the numbness that grips his left arm. His eyes trace the map of self-inflicted cuts etched into his pale ivory skin, a testament to years of pain and suffering. The scars will never heal, never fade.

He pauses, his hand lingering on his forearm before slowly reaching for the leather handle of his combat knife. The blade's once-gleaming silver-white sheen had dulled slightly, bearing testament to its frequent use. He takes a deep breath, holding it for a moment, then exhales heavily, releasing pent-up anxiety. He boldly prepares himself for the unbearable, desperate for a temporary reprieve. He holds the blade above the middle of his forearm, the glint of steel reflected in his tense expression. With a deep breath, he presses the blade lightly against his skin, the pressure deliberate, drawing a thin line of blood. A faint wince escapes his lips as he moves the blade horizontally to the left. The sharp edge gleams crimson as he raises it, blood trickling from the self-inflicted wound.

Undeterred, he lowers the blade to a spot below his wrist, the motion deliberate, and cuts again. A soft groan escapes his clenched teeth; his eyes squeeze shut, bracing against the sharp pain coursing through his arm and spine. Each cut is a calculated attempt to distract himself from the haunting memories of his past, the physical pain is a desperate bid to conceal his emotional anguish.

@fruitypixel

[ennuijpg]

MILL — 'angel' era

for our beloved fio @iridescentspacewhale's birthday!!

[id: 6 gifs of mill/lee yongsoo from kpop group onlyoneof. 1. on the set of the 'angel' mv shoot, looking at the director as he tells mill "Your eyes are killing them!" and he smiles in response. 2. pointing out a camera to yoojung on stage as they both do a peace sign pose towards it 3. making a hand heart and then arm heart during the 'angel' relay dance 4. with yoojung and junji, offscreen, copying gazelle from zootopia's pose 5. discussing the 'angel' recording with kb, holding and pointing to a sheet of paper 6. in the 'angel' mv wearing a gaming headset and suddenly being dragged offscreen by masked figures. the colored caption reads: mill — 'angel era' /end id]

[fio-renze]

“What happened to your hair?” 

It was Pyraelia’s first question to her once the healers had set her loose from their tent in the mercenary tent, after Fiorenze had directed her to her own for a little more privacy. All she could do was shrug, “Tried to find you, it didn’t work, so I waded into the water off the coast where Dalaran—” 

She didn’t know, did she? 

Her little sister’s brow furrowed. She looked so tired. “It’s true, then? Some rumors came through the Weaver’s Lair, but…” 

Fiorenze nodded, understanding not wanting to believe it from random sources. “Unfortunately, yes.” 

“So you waded into arcane irradiated waters to enhance your scrying ability,” her sigh sounded tired and a little exasperated, “You didn’t come sooner, I guess it didn’t work? What about the cost, Fio?” 

“You’re my little sister, Pyraelia. Fuck the cost. It worked enough, I was able to figure out that you were alive but I wasn't able to get enough information to actually come sooner and I am sorry about that,” she guided her sister to her cot — which was likely barely long enough for her taller sibling.  “You’ve always been smarter and more capable than me, I trusted that you’d survive until I could find you.” 

Pyra had never been as good at masking her emotions, and the bone deep weariness of the last month had made her skill there much worse. There was something about what she’d said that made the younger woman tense up a little, and hold her tongue. She shook her head and sat in the middle, careful not to tip the raised bed, “I’m only alive because Xylaes found me by chance and saved me, we both owe him for that if he’s still alive.” 

Fiorenze knew her sister better than anyone else. Being smarter and more capable hadn’t helped her, wherever she’d been. She frowned herself and dug a comb out of her travel pack, fully intending to start working on getting the knots and tangles out of what had been, at one point, Pyraelia’s long braid. 

“He still cares about you, you know, he told me months ago,” Pyraelia leaned away and held her hand out for the comb, at her limit of being poked, prodded and handled by others. “Will you comm Khaeris and Aerden for me?”

“When I figure out what to do with that, I’ll let you know—,” Fiorenze stopped short of handing Pyra the comb. Right, she didn’t know about Aerden either. “Khaeris, yes, of course. Pyraelia... Aerden’s still missing last I heard.” 

There was a heavy pause in the conversation, then. Pyraelia’s expression fell and she covered her face with both of her hands, rubbing deeply at her eyes. Fiorenze set the comb next to her on the cot and put her hands on her sister’s shoulders, “I know. I’m sorry. I wish I had better news for you.” 

Her sister exhaled a ragged breath before nodding resolutely, “Got it. Okay. Um. Do you have a knife? Nothing crazy, I promise, I just—” 

“Yeah, I do. Talk to me first, though” Fiorenze unsheathed a wickedly sharp dagger she kept at her hip in case of close-combat and watched Pyraelia carefully. 

Pyra smiled a bit, the action not really reaching her eyes, “I never told him how much I care about him, loved, even. As friends or… whatever. The person who kept me captive sometimes would use my braid to adjust the angle of my head. It’s far too tangled, anyway, for the comb. Washing it without good shampoos and conditioners has made it all worse.” 

She wanted some control back, and Fiorenze could understand that, too, “Keranna will be able to clean up the edges for you when you’re back home, she’s been watching your place and keeping the cats and sheep healthy.” 

“It’ll be nice to see her,” Pyraelia carefully took the handle of the knife from where her sister held it out to her, and sliced into the plait just below her collar bone. Cutting all the way through took some sawing, but the job went quick enough. She exhaled a long breath and her shoulders slumped a little when it was done, “Can I sleep here? I’m exhausted.” 

“Absolutely, darling, I won’t be far,” Fiorenze promised.

@xylaes / @aerdendios / @kharrisdawndancer / @themercenaries

[xylaes]

Does he still have feelings for Fio? Does he plan on speaking with her anytime soon?

Of course he does, but having feelings for someone doesn't erase all the bad things that have happened. It's very complicated. It's not like they completely ignore each other right now, they just don't talk about any of the important stuff!

Her being a noble was always one of the big issues in their situationship, but now that she no longer is one may think 'well hey why don't they just pick up where they left off'? Doesn't quite work like that. Still lots of hurt lingering there.

Plus, she's in between chapters of her life and trying to navigate that, which seems like something better to be left to do on your own while not trying to figure out whatever the hell they are or they want. Now he's also in a similar predicament, although he's certainly better at adapting his ways as it's what he's been doing his entire life.

His focus right now is mainly on his son and the current war. Eventually he needs to find somewhere new to live, figure out what the hell is going on with her new magic, and generally figure out what he wants to do with his life. He has options now!

I've always loved the dynamic between the two, but we've put a terribly large barrier between them that will take some time to knock down. Anything is possible in the future, but for now it is what it is!

ty anon @fio-renze

[swooningshadow]

vae, puto deus fio!

lupus in fabula.

hi there! call me "En" on Tumblr. I'm a trans queer masc man—a gay fag and butch dyke. I'm also a wolf and devil expressed online as a shapeshifting shadow entity. ancom leftist

polyam, semi-closed. partner and Daddy to my switch little (host). boyfriend and Master to my vampire pet (alter). 10+ years of Dom experience, open to flirting and local play

service Dom, vers top, very stone—my title wheelhouse includes Daddy, Master, Sir, and Wolf. furry, sadist, and voyeur. only looking for queer t4t—thanks for understanding!

delectatio morosa.

for the purposes of my blog, consider it a performance—a digital dance of voyeurism and exhibitionism. know that I am also a real Dom and take my role(s) in BDSM seriously

when running real scenes, I follow RACK. I require slow vetting, negotiation, safewords, aftercare, and debriefing. my blog, however, is mostly for flirting and "featherlight" play

when domming, I love to get inside each play partner's head. once I've figured out just how they tick, I create scenes to satisfy everyone involved—every scene is an act of service!

homo homini lupus.

ATTENTION BAJORAN WORKERS.

volenti non fit injuria.

FETISHES: BDSM; bellies; breeding; collars/leashes; fat/hairy; leather (in general); necks; nipples; panties; thigh highs/socks

KINKS: age play; fauxcest; furries; gender play; genital torture; impact play; mind fucks; orgasm control/denial; pet play; primal play

CURIOSITIES: bootblack; breasts; chastity; crying; femmes (in general); fisting; paddles; skirts; somnophilia; wax play

lupus non timet canem latrantem.

SITUATIONAL: breath play; CNC; cuckoldry; deity play; face fucking; kissing; public play; risky sex; sissification; watersports

SOFT LIMITS: 24/7; blood play; brat taming; choking/gagging sounds; face slapping; fire play; latex; rubber; spandex; switching

HARD LIMITS: ABDL; breastfeeding; diapers; electro play; farting; feederism; medical play; needles; scat; vomiting

faciam ut mei memineris.

the wolf invites you to its 20+ Discord 🐺🔞

cras amet qui nunquam amavit; quique amavit, cras amet.

[nahisummerhold]

Diary… nope

Nahi reported in and was taken with the others on a tour of Dornogal. Her main impression? Square. Never before had she been in such a straight edged place and she wasn’t sure she liked it. Maybe it was just too much stone, considering their hosts in the city it made sense, but that didn’t mean it was a place that she connected with. Suddenly she was hit with a pang of bone deep loss for her home and gardens in Dalaran, she closed her eyes and took a deep breath, then continued on with a calm demeanor.

The debriefing was interesting, there was a lot of information taken in, much of it was memorized so she could process it later The most distinct impression on her was how people reacted to the list of those missing and presumed dead, she didn’t know any of them, of course, but it touched her just the same.

There was some surprise to see people she knew there, she had expected Dice but Fio and Kai were as well. Her first thought was not to go to them, she was trying to put her performer habits aside and worried she would greet them as she normally did. High energy, overly friendly and a bit distracted didn't seem like good qualities for a mercenary crew, nor were they something she felt she could keep up day to day with people she was living closely with. 

It had been a decision she made over the past couple of weeks that she would work to be authentic more often. The showman public face was still there, it would always be a big part of who she was, but she did not want to separate the two sides as a way of life any longer. In almost fifteen years only her family, and recently a handful of friends, got to see the confident, down to earth, woman she had become through her mother’s injury and the aftermath, it might be time to let others know more of her.

When they were sent on their way to their temporary quarters, she settled in, then went outside to just people watch. It did not take long before she felt a little closed in by all the stone and considered going out further to see the land but didn’t feel like being kicked out for breaking rules on day one. To keep her wandering feet settled she reached out for her recent support system, taking out her family communicator, she clicked on her second to last text.

Nahi: Nave you made it to Khaz Algar?

Pathyn: Hey you! Yeah we are here and scouting.

N: What did you think of the city? P: It is rocky blocky.

N: Oh Sun bless! Thank you! I know rocks are natural and I have been living in floating cities, but it feels so artificial here.

P: The wilds are pretty, if you can ignore the random grouping of nerubians.

N:  Isn’t the point of us being here to not ignore them?

P: Don’t be so literal. Did you find my gift? If not, check your pack.

Getting up and heading back to the space she claimed, she dug to the bottom of her pack and found a book. Folding into a cross legged seat on the floor, she looked through it finding only blank pages.

N: Is this for Kyean? Written in magical ink or something? Did you mix us up?

P: No, I didn't buy him a going to war present. He is very jealous by the way, he wishes you texted him instead.

N: He has no reason to be, I don’t answer to him and you don’t want to fuck me anyway.

P: Well, now that you are not going home with so many assholes… Kyean just threw a rock at my head. Alright I read what I was typing out loud, I deserved that.

N: Asshole… Get back to the book, what is this for?

P: Him or me? Never mind, I know that both is the answer. It is a journal.

N: I am not keeping a diary, do I look like a diary person?

P: You wrote out notes and questions on the flair bartending, do the same with this experience. Ask me, ask Kye, ask people you are there with, or just figure out the answers on your own. Take notes on what you learn or see that you want to remember. 

N: Hmmm you have a point. Thank you Path.

P: I am always right. Sorry Nahi I have to go, be safe.

N: You be safe, I am in town.

There wasn’t a reply so she set her comm aside and picked up the journal, looking at the blank pages for a while before it dawned on her what she wanted to write first. Flipping to the back page she wrote the names of those missing, presumed dead.

@themercenaries

[astralartefact]

Divine Fio Analysis Post The Gacha Dragon Roars

<<Prev: Divine Yudil Voice of Cards: Forsaken Maiden Spoilers!

Levania would be so proud of his little dragon girl q_q

You know the drill by now, yadayada probably not real deredere but i like doing these so here it is

As you might have noticed I have added a Dragon category of lines to the conspiracy board - which is of course very exciting in its lore implications! Because up until now Dragons and Watchers (/the only gods we know of) have been a thing of a certain other other franchise... So to see that Dragons are now a recurring theme in a Divine Costume Series... I wonder if these Accord Hints and NameDrops in the main story might actually lead us to a Drakengard 4...?

Both Yurie and Yudil already had dragon inspirations in their outfits (It's not really visible on his artwork but it's there in the model), but Fio kind of takes it to the next level in hers...

She has wings, she has a tail, she has horns, she's adorable! I always try to fool myself into thinking I recognize the patterns on the costumes (like here on the tail) from somewhere but as far as I could tell they make most of these from scratch (except for things like direct cross-over stuff)

This Divine Costume doesn't really have a crown for once - but she does have a third eye on her headband, which is a thing the Ivory Spirit also has in her mouth so take that as you will.

The shape of the design on her front (especially the two 'figures' in the middle looking at each other) reminds me of the card edges in VoC - but as I mentioned before they're not the same, they just remind me of them.

Fio is my atheist queen!! But the story we actually have to look out for is this one:

In classic NieR weapon story format the story is written in a way that reads one way until you get to the final story part and the story turns on you by revealling that actually this kind of sweet thing might be a little fucked up.

So this story was obviously written to be understood as Fio's PoV only to reveal actually it's not her, it's somebody else. So the question is of course who might that person be?

I mean is it a stretch to call the Cursed God that became the Mourning Mother a Goat? This is a Divine Weapon after all. And the story could - depending on S3 Story - actually fit with Fio. Because remember, different from everyone else Levania was stripped of all of his memories for some reason. What if him and Fio meeting (again) made this all happen somehow...?

It would be a first for a reinkane plot thread to be foreshadowed like this but idk, I'm just spitballing here!

[mai-day]

Before vs After

Sketches! Kiria se puso fuertecito luego del club de natación...

Poses de referencia de un tktk que me apareció de Stray Kids lol (imágenes luego del corte)

[fionajames]

Hello Fio if youre feeling up to writing more of the tcw circus au could I get a mutual pining barrisoka from that universe?? Thank you so much :]

circus barrisoka

HELLO GUYS IM BACK!!!!!!!!!!

I really love this au but like, i have writers block so i apologise for it being so short <3

request people, im back and want more!!!

Ahsoka stretched out her limbs as she jumped down from the caravan’s roof, landing swiftly as she did. She bounded to meet her friend - Barriss - who stood with a grin beside her own caravan. Barriss had long black hair - always made into tight, thin braids - with dark charcoal skin, glowing green eyes and black freckles on her cheeks. 

“That was amazing, Soka!” Barriss told her confidently, high-fiving her friend. Ahsoka beamed and turned her hand in an attempt to hide her growing blush. “Really well done!” 

Barriss was a magician in the circus, her motherly-figure Luminara being the psychic. They were closely knit. Barriss moved to walk with her friend as Ahsoka grabbed Arsev from his stable, Barriss waving to her friend Gree. He waved back with a smile. 

“What are you going to do in your performance today?” Ahsoka asked her friend eagerly, turning to her with a grin. Barriss tapped her chin with her index finger thoughtfully, beaming widely. 

“I’m going to make Beedee disappear,” she decided, spotting the small red Irish setter puppy. Cal - a thirteen year old boy with scruffy ginger hair, green eyes and light skin - pulled his puppy closer and glared playfully at Barriss. Beedee must have been a cross because he was rather small - even for a puppy - but looked completely Irish setter. 

Ahsoka laughed as they continued walking, Cal glaring daggers at them all the while. She draped an arm over Barriss’ shoulders playfully and missed the blush covering the girl’s face. Ahsoka glanced at her friend - oblivious to the obvious blush - as she admired her features. The sparkle in her eyes, the shape of her nose, the curve of her dark lips. Barriss - in turn - admired the glimmering blue watching her, the contrast of her skin and the markings, the natural purplish rose colour of her lips. 

They were admiring each other rather unsubtly, but no one disturbed them. Not even Anakin, who was watching from the front of the ring, waited patiently for Ahsoka to return with Arsev. 

The ride could wait, he thought. This is much more important.

yes, bd-1 is a irish setter. ive decided it, and no one can stop me. and yes, anakin is barrisoka's number #1 shipper, just like ahsoka is anidala's number #1 shipper.

have a great day/night everyone!!!!!!!!!!

<3 request!!!