#too scared to post on ao3

[orxinus]

Bill Cipher wipes off the sweat off his shape and takes a step back to look at their progress. The triangle marvels on his unfinished painting of his lord, his muse. It was getting along well, just a few more hours of rendering left and it's good to go!

He studies the facial features painted of Ford, something no Euclidean can even begin to comprehend. A separate eye and mouth, a 'nose', and other orifices he can't bother to recall at the moment as he stares and stares.

...

An impulsive urge brings him closer to the canvas. Bill looks left, right, then up for extra measure. Good enough, his studio is clear of any shape or 3 dimensional beings in sight. He silently curses at no one in particular before bringing his eyelips close to the canvas.

Bill kisses the painting of his beloved muse. Just a small peck.

He instantly regrets doing so, scolding himself at how stupid of a decision that was. Why in the flat lands of Euclydia did he do that?! Sometimes impulsive thoughts leads you to the weirdest places. Bill closes his eyes, exhales, and—

Oh no.

—

"Pixelated eyestrains..!" Bill curses to himself as he storms out of his studio. He needs to get home quickly. Before any shape sees him in such a state—

"What's the rush, painter?" Ford asks, his spiritual body floating just above him.

Bill immediately puts a hand over his eyes. "I thought you had some business to do?!"

"Yes, I was busy but I got it down quick. I hope you're not questioning my efficiency to get tasks done."

"Of course not, I was just-"

"Put your hands down, Cipher." Ford closes some distance to poke the triangle's side. "You can't fool a god. We both know you're not the shy type."

Bill hesitates. He can make a run for it and come up with an explanation later. Maybe he can excuse himself, say he has pink eye and he doesn't want to risk infecting his muse. Who was he kidding? Gods probably don't even get diseases! Possible excuses pile up Bill's little head but he ends up sighing, obeying his muse as he takes his hands off his face. Ford holds back a snort.

"Why do you have paint on your eyelids..?"

The triangle just stares at him with a deadpan expression.

"Oh Cipher, did you accidentally eat paint again?"

"How do you.. Uh- Yes I did. You got me there, Muse!" Bill awkwardly chuckles, not very convincing but it was enough to make Ford chuckle himself.

"Come to our space, I'll help you with that."

[i-like-books-and-women]

Oh the crippling reality of small fandom means if I wanna read the fic I'm probs gonna have to write it

[dirksawesomesprites]

WHY IS WRITING SO HARD

why cant i just stick to sprites why do i torture myself in 2 creative ways

damn me

falls to my knees

i wanna post sprite edits of my fanfics so bad hold me back hold me back hold me back hold me back hold me back hold me back hold me back hold me back hold me back hold me back hold me back hold me back hold me back hold me back hold me back hold me back hold me back hold me back hold me back hold me back hold me back hold me back

[domi091]

The Struggle of Parting Ways

Tails knew Sonic never cried, it just wasn't him, even if Tails had the chance to witness him tearing up once or twice in his short life, but never cried, his eyes shined sometimes, with emotions more than tears, but they never spell, they well up his eyes and steadily stay there until he blinks them away or they dry of sheer will and stubbornness, that was just his brother, that's how he handled his feelings.

Sonic never cries, and he didn't cry when they sat in silence on the floor in Tails's room, packing up the yellow bag that used to carry their whole life and everything to Sonic's name before they settled in the workshop, tails wasn't going to take it at first, he wanted to grow, he wanted to be his own person, he was taking the cyclone instead of the tornado, he wanted to feel like himself and grow into his full potential without any influence, even Sonic's, especially Sonic's

But the rational part of his brain told him that if anything was going to hold him back it certainly wouldn't be their bag, a piece of worn-out fabric, holding more memories than any other item they have now,

and maybe, just maybe a tiny part of his brain wanted it, wanted to have something of theirs, of sonics, to keep with him for reassurance, it was a childish part, a traitorous one, but his fight over it was weak.

When Sonic showed up at his door holding the bag in his hand and offering to help him pack up before his trip, tails couldn't say no, sonic smiled at him, one of his signature grins almost too natural for the situation,

He didn't cry when he stood in the hangar with a less wide smile but a smile nonetheless still planted in his face, quietly watching tails do the last of many checks on the cyclone and putting away all the things he needed.

There weren't many words to be said, they already had that talk, and soon, the quietness became too much to bear. He was too familiar with Sonic's behavior by now, and could always sense the unsaid words that Sonic struggled to voice or refused to say out loud. However, this time, he felt the weight of the unspoken words in the air around them, and for the first time in a while, he couldn't fill the gaps. He could feel Sonic's gaze on him, and he tried his best not to fidget under the intense scrutiny. When he finally mustered the courage to look up at him again, he found Sonic's arms open and his expression soft. too soft tails almost looked away, He hesitated for a few seconds but soon gave in when Sonic gestured for him to come closer.

Sonic didn't cry as he pulled Tails into the hug, not even when his arms tightened around him too much it was almost painful. He cradled the back of Tails' head with his palm, just like he used to do years ago. sonic remained silent as Tails buried his wet nose in his shoulder and cried, despite his best efforts.

He didn't cry sending him off, tails turned on the engine and nodded when Sonic gave him a thumbs up after checking the way in front of him, all clear.

Tails soared into the sky, he blamed the tears welling up in his eyes on the crisp morning air hitting his face too fast, the fact that his eyes got used to it long ago to tear up went ignored, and the fact that he was wearing his goggles completely forgotten, tails didn't want to look back, not now, not at the start of his own journey, not when he probably looked miserable and childish right now, not when that was exactly what he was trying to grow out of, but he couldn't fight the strong feeling that washed over him, forming a lump in his throat, a tiny voice in his head, sounding suspiciously like his younger self, told him that one last look at his brother won't hurt, one last glance for the road, for good luck, for extra comfort, for the cold nights, he turned.

And he saw him, still standing at the hanger door almost too far to see but Tail's trained eyes didn't miss the small shake in his shoulders, sonic was covering his eyes with his palm and his face was looking down, whether Sonic thought tails was too far away to see him anymore or if he just couldn't hold it any longer tails didn't know, but it was too much to witness.

so he looked back ahead trying and failing to swallow the lump away, he pretended that he didn't see anything and that his eyes were clear and not too blurry to see through, years of practice and the way ahead of him memorized like the back of his paw was the only thing keeping the plane airborne.

[fluxweeed]

Hii, I just discovered your fics and am reading my way through them. Love, love, love the ones I’ve read so far.😊 I was just wondering what your favourite Draco is you’ve written, and what your fave Draco is in fics written by others? ☺️

ACK thank you!! what a question!! i've considered this v carefully and it turns out i have………a lot of thoughts. i will keep them under a cut so nobody is accosted with a full 700 words of my Draco Opinions 😂 so my quick answer is:

my fave draco i've written: the taste of țuică my fave draco ever: rookie moves by peu_a_peu

draco is an interesting one for me bc i don't really LIKE him? but i have sooo many feelings about him. really not sure i could summon the same fervour for harry, for example, who is my number one boy forever and always.

(i saw a thing once that said a pairing becomes ur otp when u relate to one of the characters and want to fuck the other one, and 🙈 i mean, i think you're supposed to relate to the gryffindor, aren't you. whoops.)

OKAY SO HERE'S THE UNHINGED DRACO MALFOY ESSAY BY FLUX W. EED.

listen. i love and respect people who are Refined Draco enjoyers. connoisseurs of redemption arcs. appreciators of majestic malfoy bone structure and ethereal grey eyes and soft windswept hair. fans of dracos who insult harry (with hidden affection) and who are a bit snobbish (in a rich, sexy way) but ultimately have realised the error of their teenage years and have become a better person. perhaps this draco has built a potions business and helps the aurors. perhaps he IS an auror. either way, he has a biting sense of humour, maybe, but he's a good guy.

unfortunately, the draco of my heart is a horrid mean little rat man.

i've never actually managed to write him the way i love him. i tried to aim for immoral bastardy in what's mine is yours but i got so caught up in trying to nail the feelsforbreakfast-style humour in the narrative that i ended up focusing much more on that and much less on writing genuine bastardhood.

i've written him as reserved and clever (in the four doors – this draco was written entirely for @jovialobservationanchor, who had a weak spot for closed-off academics with soft centres) and as a traumatised self-loathing mess (in two to lie and to some extent for lack of wanting and say no to this) and hopelessly sexually/emotionally horny for one harry james potter (in, um, most things) but i've never managed to capture the genuine cruel streak and flawed personality that is sooo so important to me.

WHICH IS WHY i picked țuică!draco for my favourite of the ones i've written. he's still a bit too emotionally intelligent to be Just Right, imo, but i think he's maybe the closest? he's unrepentantly rude to people. he's not attractive. and he has a streak of self-destructive fucked-upedness that is some form of wartime guilt, but certainly not a pretty one.

HOWEVER. rookie moves?? NAILED it. i adooored how genuinely fuckin MEAN he is, even tho he's an auror. i love love LOVED that he's kind of bad at his job in a way that's in complete opposition to how drarry!draco is often written these days:

The look on Malfoy’s face was not only troubling, Harry realized, but familiar. At once activated and dead behind the eyes, like an invasive species in an ecosystem that could not check it. It was the look of the meanest fucking teenager Harry had ever known, giving in to his urge to bully.

-

What Malfoy wasn’t good with was people. Despite his repeated insistences that his upbringing had equipped him with impeccable manners and a facility with society intrigue, the truth was that he rubbed almost everyone the wrong way. He was, undeniably, annoying. Witnesses were put off by his snide, dismissive tone, and he didn’t know how to coax out information with curiosity, warmth, or strategic silence.

that's not to say unrepentant cunt draco is the only one for me!! i DO enjoy the classic redeemed drarry draco!! i love a quirky draco, à la wwpwcs or maya's drop dead gorgeous. gallaplacidia's draco is sooo painful for me to read (complimentary) that even though i adore her fics, i still haven't read them all bc i have to space them out, for my health. and i'm sure there are dozens more dracos that i'm forgetting how much i like – basically, as long as he isn't super suave, absolutely gorgeous and/or obviously tom felton, i'm on board.

[malzykins]

I thought about Wally purring once and it's ruined me. It's now a headcanon that I must share before going insane and I thought you'd probably get enjoyment out of the idea too idk

Too pussy to send off anon

are you me.... no honestly I. I am a simple creature. ive had THE exact same thought before and also what if it was just some scraggly animal that got toted around and it plagued me for like a week. im not sure ive fully recovered. how could you

(because i feel the need to draw something for almost every ask

[marcelineuntitled]

i like this one a lot :)))

[saturnniidae]

Small introspection of sorts surrounding Astrid, Hiccup and their initial conflict in the first movie. Through the lens of them both being autistic, because it is so much more fascinating in that context.

Rating: general audiences.

Characters: Astrid Hofferson, Hiccup Horrendous Haddock III

Cw: implied internalized ableism, very brief mention of mild self harm in the context of a meltdown

Words: 1,394

Chapters: 2/2

Summary: Hiccup Haddock is different, he always has been and always will be. But he is not alone. He has his best friend, his other half, and he has a new friend. One who understands.

First chapter is from Astrid's pov and second is from Hiccup's. There's no dialogue because I was more focused on their feelings/thoughts

[crossbackpoke-check]

inspired by @colap1nto <3 and posting here to hold myself accountable: writevember! attempting to write something every day no matter how much and what it is

i am however inventing stipulations for myself so i cannot weasel my way out of it, which includes a valid definition of “write”:

actively put words into a document in the form of a proper fic!!! too many wip not enough hands!!

poems (actually laughed at me coming up with this but maybe i will go back to my roots)

research/meta/primers

tag stories are permissible IF i actually compile and edit them into a readable document that day

editing to post to ao3 (the optimism) is also valid. it takes me so long

i do have concrete arbitrary deadlines for one and a half fics that i would LOVE to finish and post in november (dewey^2 and [redacted :)]) so i’m hoping this helps!! also, this is secretly just a sticker chart where i get to put down emojis for each fic i worked on and check off boxes but a win is a win

day 1: 🪻🐈‍⬛

day 2: 😇🤭 (🕒 -> 🕜)

day 3: 🫃2️⃣

day 4: 🍎

day 5: 🫃2️⃣

day 6: 📑, 💌

day 7: 🫃2️⃣ AND ☁️💧. who is she

day 8: 🪻🐈‍⬛

day 9: 🫃2️⃣

day 10: 🫃2️⃣

day 11: 🫃2️⃣ we are on a STREAK and also a countdown 🫡

day 12: 🫃2️⃣

day 13: 🫃2️⃣

day 14: 📬💍

[riacte]

don’t talk to my burner or my burner’s burner or my burner’s burner’s secret third burner or my other wholly unrelated burner ever again

[sugarskies]

thete wtf did the lunch lady do to u drax what hasn't she done to me thete no srsly what did she do to u

A collection of short stories inspired by and set during The Deca (Series One). Chapter 1: "why did they boycott breakfast anyway"

[ronsenburg]

tactility - prologue

a sylvix star trek au, ~2500 words. (read on ao3)

chapter notes: this scene contains descriptions of (trek) canon typical violence and injury. I don’t think you need to be a trek fan to understand any of it, but do let me know if I’m wrong!

STARDATE 68569.7 (2391)

This is the way Sylvain’s Starfleet career ends—at least, this is the way he remembers it. 

The bridge is flooded in red light and the sirens have been wailing in the background for so long now that Sylvain has stopped hearing them all together. He's not hearing anything, really, except an unnatural, high-pitched whistling from somewhere behind his left ear that seems to get louder if he stops to think about it too hard. His back is flat to the floor, eyes staring up at a ceiling he’s definitely never thought to look at before. There’s not much to see, anyway, just seamless panels of smooth, shiny metal arching out of his direct line of sight. Did he pass out? Must have—why else would he be laid out on his back here instead of at his station? Sylvain frowns, trying unsuccessfully to focus his thoughts, until—out of the corner of his eye—the flash of a combadge, a glimpse of jet black hair. 

Sylvain turns his head just a fraction of a rotation to the left. 

It hurts. 

Hurts badly enough that, swift as a slap across the face, the rest of his senses come rushing back: too fast, and then, too loud. There’s the red alert sirens back again, now punctuated by the frantic shouting of a host of different voices and the sharp cracks of discharged electricity. The acrid scent of electrical smoke hangs heavy in the air; melted plastic melding with scorched metal and what’s likely the smoldering tips of his own hair. Sylvain can feel the humming of impulse engines beneath his back, pulsing steady under the more erratic vibrations of feet thundering against a metal ground. 

And then, Sylvain remembers.

It comes to him in an abrupt and jumbled burst: a direct hit to the shields they’d been too distracted to raise. The spectacular flash of a plasma conduit ejecting its charge through the very console that Sylvain had been frantically attempting to navigate. The sound of Ingrid screaming something that sounded very much like his name—and then pain. So much pain. 

The rapid influx of stimuli makes Sylvain want to vomit. His vision wobbles, tinted dark along the edges. It’s—yeah, it’s probably not a good sign. 

But he hadn’t been hallucinating before, at least: Felix really is there. Sylvain catches a glimpse of his face hovering at the edge of his line of sight—pale and wide-eyed—just before losing focus again. His vision blurs, then doubles, and Sylvain can’t help the low groan that escapes him. The only thing that keeps him from fading into unconsciousness right then and there is the sudden sensation of Felix’s cold and uncharacteristically cautious fingers ghosting over the top of his left hand. And with just that barest bit of contact, something settles into place: the swaying stops and steadies, his heart rate slows to something less frantic. He knows better than to assume some sort of Betazoid mind-manipulation on Felix’s part—as far as Sylvain is aware, Felix couldn’t manage that even if he’d wanted to. This is just the way it’s always been for Sylvain: things are better when Felix is nearby. He stopped questioning the ‘why’ of it all ages ago. 

Felix looks like he’s been through it, himself. There’s a nasty looking gash above his right eyebrow, only just barely starting to scab over. Dried blood is smeared down the side of his face where he’d clearly pushed it out of the path of his eyes, hair plastered to his forehead with sweat and grime, and it’s still the most perfect sight that Sylvain has ever seen. 

Sylvain smiles, lopsided and probably more than a little pathetic. “Hey, beautiful.” 

It’s the first time he’s tried to speak. The words come out in a clumsy sort of mumble, inarticulate like someone shoved a bag of cotton balls under his tongue while he was out. It feels just like the kind of really bad hangover he hasn’t had since he gave up Aldebaran whiskey a few years back. A head injury, then. Great.

The look of bewilderment that flashes across Felix’s face lasts for only a moment—he always has been quicker on the recovery than the rest of them. No way to tell, then, if it’s the slurred speech or the pet name that causes the reaction when Felix’s features have already collapsed together into the familiar frown that Sylvain knows and also inexplicably loves. This particular look is one that he might normally interpret as ‘concerned’ if he had the mental capacity for that kind of deliberation now. It doesn’t matter; the chirping of a combadge activating effectively interrupts any coherent line of thought. Felix’s voice is deceptively even. Ever the good little soldier. “Med team to the bridge.” 

“Mm, that bad, huh?” Sylvain asks. 

Felix doesn’t answer immediately. The ink might only barely be dried on their commission orders, but they’re Starfleet Officers, now, with regulations for every conceivable occasion. Implementing trauma triage protocol on your oldest friend isn’t a novel situation by any measure; there’s likely a subsection written into the official Starfleet Handbook covering it at this point. Right now, Felix’s attention is turned to examination, fingers skating up Sylvain’s abdomen and over his right shoulder. Sylvain can barely feel them, which is probably another bad sign, but he’s too preoccupied by a line of dark soot smudged underneath Felix’s eye to really acknowledge it. 

“You know,” Sylvain prompts, tongue gaining some maneuverability with each word, “if you don’t tell me, I’m just gonna assume the worst.”

There’s a pause, too long for anything Felix says in reply to be a comfort. When he does answer, his tone is terse. “Don’t try to get up.” 

And it’s kind of funny, actually. Sylvain laughs—or at least, he tries to, his voice so rough that it sounds more like a cough. “Don’t think that’s going to be much of a problem.”

It’s funny because Sylvain can’t move his right arm. He hadn’t realized until now, at this very moment, when the urge to reach up and run his thumb along that streak of grime on Felix’s face was too overwhelming to keep ignoring any longer. Instead, his fingers twitch uselessly somewhere near his side. Prophets is he fucked.

“I mean, I wouldn’t leave you even if I could,” Sylvain continues, and begins flexing the muscles of his left arm and legs experimentally. The reciprocal pain nearly steals the breath away from his lungs completely. He grimaces. “But I definitely can’t. Do you think you—“

“Stop moving,” Felix snaps with enough ferocity that Sylvain does exactly that, mouth included. “I need—Wait here.”

Felix’s face disappears from Sylvain’s sight—the involuntary noise of protest he makes ignored—until the whine of a medical tricorder joins the ambient noise around him, its high pitch rising above the sound of the sirens. But Felix has never been one for combat first aid; his frustration shows in the clench of his jaw and the way he slams his hand against the badge on his chest for a second time before biting out, “where the fuck is that med team.”

The sound of unintelligible shouting from the direction of the turbo lift is the only response he gets. 

“Busy night,” Sylvain supplies. “Should’ve made a reservation.” 

 “You’re not helping.”

“I am legitimately—“ a cough punctuates the statement, tearing at Sylvain’s throat until there’s tears collecting in the corners of his eyes, “—trying my best, here.”

And though Felix ignores that line completely, Sylvain can see his grip tighten around the tricorder sensor, his fingers even paler than normal with the force of it.

It’s not until sometime around Felix’s third call for medical assistance, urgency truly breaking through the forced control of his voice, that Sylvain realizes Felix might actually be afraid. By this point, the shock has really dug its teeth in; Sylvain can feel it in the sluggish processing of each and every thought, in the suddenly erratic and shallow quality of his breathing. That’s why he misses it, probably. Or maybe it’s because fear isn’t really an emotion he’s used to seeing on Felix’s face—a face that, by now, he knows better than his own. Even when they were young, when Glenn was alive and feelings were something Felix still allowed himself to openly show. Once Sylvain knows to look for it, though, it’s obvious. It’s the increasingly aggressive hunch of Felix’s shoulders and the equally painful looking clench of his jaw. It’s the slight shake of his hands that Felix tries to disguise and the contempt that filters across his expression when the tricorder clatters to the ground, useless, beside him. There’s nothing here that Felix can fight back with a well aimed phaser or the Romulan dagger tucked into his boot. Sylvain’s known him long enough; the helplessness is likely eating him alive. 

For that reason alone, Sylvain should say something reassuring. Remind Felix of the pact they made as kids, maybe make some new, equally starry-eyed promises not to die here without him. But that’s the problem with someone like Sylvain: even when it matters—especially when it matters—he can’t. Sylvain has long been convinced the sincerity was never actually in him to begin with. And anyway, it’s always been more effective to be the asshole, hasn’t it? To give the rest of them a reason to direct all that inwardly accumulated anger onto Sylvain instead of themselves. Why bother trying to change that now? 

“Look on the bright side, Felix,” he says, instead. “If I die now, they won’t have anyone to court-martial for killing the captain.” 

It’s an admittedly shitty thing to say, but Sylvain isn’t expecting Felix to recoil as though he’s been struck.

“You thought you—“ Felix starts, frowning even further when he meets Sylvain’s eyes. “You didn’t. He’s stunned.”

And, despite the shock and the pain, Sylvain isn’t far gone enough to miss the relief that pours into his own veins at those words, like a river’s worth of guilt bursting the seams of a downstream dam. 

Sylvain hadn't checked, then. There hadn’t been time for even the thought. He remembers Dimitri, transformed from the straight-backed admiral’s son they'd known from infancy into something ferocious, looming over Felix’s tactical station as the computer counted down the photon torpedo charge. Felix, collapsed on the floor beside the console, strangled sobs of agony escaping his shaking form as he’d clutched at his head. Ingrid had been shouting something while the Professor flitted past in his periphery. But Felix, and all that pain, had been the only thing Sylvain could focus on. There was no thought, only action. 

He’d grabbed for the phaser at his hip. He’d fired. 

And when that did nothing but direct Dimitri’s eyes, unfamiliar and wild like an animal, to Sylvain? 

Well, he’d fired again. 

Back in the present, Sylvain drags his gaze away from Felix in favor of blinking back up at the ceiling. There’s a stinging in the corner of his eyes that he tries gamely to ignore. 

“That—that’s good,” he says around the exhale of one long, shaky breath. “Not sure it’ll make much of a dent in a mutiny charge but I’m—“

Felix interrupts him. “You’re an idiot.”

Sylvain doesn’t argue. With the way Felix says it, quiet and lacking the extent of his usual hostility, he’s not looking for a fight, anyway. “Probably.”

“You shouldn’t have done it.”

But should or shouldn’t doesn’t matter. Sylvain thinks of the little rivulets of blood still trickling over the bony knob of Felix’s wrist from the force of digging his nails into his palms too tight. He can still hear the sound Felix’s body had made crumpling to the ground beside his console, the way Felix’s voice had broken as he’d begged for the pain to stop. It’s something Sylvain is going to be thinking about for a very, very long time. 

He swallows, thick in his ragged throat. “Didn’t have much of a choice.”

“Yes, you fucking did,” Felix insists. He sounds exhausted, the words drawn out of him like a rough sigh. “It was because of me.”

It’s not a question, but Sylvain treats it like one anyway. While he’s fairly sure none of them would’ve enjoyed the consequences if he hadn’t stopped Dimitri from firing on what had then appeared to be a freighter full of civilians, it’s a disingenuous answer. He’d barely thought of those people at all. 

He nods, eyes finding Felix’s face once more. The pain feels distant, now, like his body is somewhere far away from his thoughts. 

“For you,” Sylvain says. The distinction seems important, somehow. “Yeah.” 

For a moment, Felix’s expression goes unreadable, caught somewhere between two emotions that Sylvain can’t easily define. Felix asks, “why?” 

And Sylvain could almost laugh, again. The truth isn’t as simple as the ‘because it’s you’ that appears immediately in his head, but it feels like it should be. Because it always has been Felix, hasn’t it? For nearly twenty-two years, now. The emotions behind it might have changed, but the devotion hasn’t; Sylvain would follow Felix to the very edge of the universe, probably even further, if Felix asked. The circumstances didn’t matter—in the end, he’d choose Felix every time. Over his family, over Starfleet, over Dimitri, especially over himself. How could Felix not know that? 

That kind of sentimentality isn’t something Felix would normally allow. Sylvain decides to say it anyway. 

“You know, for a Betazoid, you really suck at this whole understanding emotions thing,” he says. And then, when Felix’s glare remains stubbornly confused, “I’ve been telling you for years, Fraldarius. You just haven’t been listening.”

What the hell, right? If he somehow manages not to die right here in Felix’s arms, things are going to change whether he wants them to or not. Might as well embrace it with a bit of honesty. Turn over a new leaf, be a better man, all that. And if he does die? Well, it’s better that Felix knows, isn’t it?

But Sylvain doesn’t get the chance. The words are right there, on the very tip of his tongue, when the sound of Manuela’s arrival sweeps through the space between them. The melodic tones of her voice mingled with the whirring of the tricorder and then, just as abruptly, the rush of a hypospray pressed firmly against the raw skin of his neck. 

The last thing Sylvain sees before the darkness of unconsciousness overwhelms him is Felix’s eyes, dark and wide and, finally, understanding. 

It’s the last time Sylvain will step foot onto a starship, the last time he’ll see the blanket of the galaxy stretching out before him on the view screen… and the last time he’ll see Felix. 

Until now. 

[svnrisess]

i've made a oneshot series of my last life smp!mcyt au, mainly surrounding pizzacrust duo because i miss them way too much (guys pls collab soon i'm begging-)

figured i post some of it here as well :D

[boxwinebaddie]

miss ninaaa why did u delete the kyley b origin story jewelery ask, i was IN LOVE with ittt

Anonymous asked:

wha happened to the kyley b post i miss iy already nina :(

AAAAAAAAH. :'( </3

so when i went to bed last night, i saw this first anon and already felt bad, but now that this second one has come in, i just want to say...

...that i am so, SO sorry, my loves.

and to quote every bad movie breakup scene ever:

it's not you, it's me.

( and specifically my very fucked up brain. )

HERE is the link to the kyley b (jew)elery origin post.

i plucked it out of the lost and pound just for you.

i'm...sorry, i deleted it.

**and heavily edited it; it was bugging me.

the short version of my answer is that i developed a very poor coping mechanism for stress/perceived inferiority where even though i love my ncu content, i convince myself that it's bad and i hate it, to the point where i 'make it disappear' so that it's no longer an eyesore.

the very long, personal mental health uncle nina psychological eval with a lowk frightening beginning and hopeful ( i think? ) end is below. tw for depressing thoughts and mentally-ill framing.

I Hope You Heal. <3

because, unfortunately, as a bipolar two girlie, i am extremely prone to spells and spirals of depression ( especially in the summertime ), which, when combined with my already self-confidence cannibalizing anxiety disorder creates a very toxic, negative, medieval torture chamber of a headspace which makes makes my brain…

Very Unwell.

in essence, because of how frighteningly fragile i become, even tiniest inkling of doubt in my mind can poison the entire inkwell...and when that happens, even though i know, deep down, in a healthy, reasonable place, that the content i curate is well-composed, well-received writing that i am passionate about and should be proud of...the cracks and fissures that form in my heart and pysche from the broiler room of pressure i put on myself to preform create several vulnerable visceral openings for My Imposter Syndrome to worm into.

but instead of whispering sweet, sweet nothings, it's doomsay screaming awful, awful Everythings! that this thing you wrote that you love? not good enough. Everyone Is Going To Hate That. the people who liked that post? they just feel sorry for you and if you had any remorse, you would feel sorry for subjecting them to something so underwhelming, stupid, embarrassing and beneath them.

You Should Delete It.

[ DELETE. ] IT.

...aaaaand because the sirens are going off in my head, i feel like the walls are closing in, i frantically press the panic button ( delete post ) and think that i am doing everyone a favor bc not only are you no longer having to read what my extremely overloaded and anxiety corroded brain has classified as "EMBARRASSINGLY BAD" work, but i no longer have to feel ashamed bc it's

Gone.

or well...Privated. ( in this case. )

because i DO work so hard on everything i post that even when i think that it is extremely underwhelming no matter what i do, it is Hard for me to delete it because of the brain-power, intensive-typing and heart that went into making them...so like...it's a strange thing because i know that it's just an echo-chamber of evil lies and untruths, but when i'm rocking back and forth, with my chest eating my knees, and my entire education degree goes out the window when i can't teach myself how to breathe because of how bad i feel...

it's hard.

but...like i tell my kindergarteners everyday.

You Can Do HARD Things.

life is not easy, but it is worth it.

loving yourself is not easy...

But YOU Are Worth It.

unfortunately, i am a better at preaching than practicing. but a large part of my irl job is modelling good behavior and on here, i was deeply moved and touched to find that so many of you think so highly of me, so i also want to model good behavior on here.

which hinges on honesty...and hope.

so, basically, i did delete my post, which is made me feel good in the moment, but overall is not kind to myself ( or to the people who enjoyed reading the thing i randomly killed with knives and hammers because it wasn't 'Perfect' ) and i do not like modelling avoidant behavior, but it is also important to show you that i struggle, that it is okay to feel strange and sad, but that i am working on...not deleting my posts because i am a perfectionist/scared of letting you all down.

which...was clearly not the case? Wowza.

i really did not realize so many people cared about that, aha! but please feel free to ask me anything about kyley b kyle ( i have been trying to generate my thoughts and form some hcs actually! i love him being a sardonic, smart alecky delinquent boy in giant ed hardy jeans and a million different street fighter gta rings on his fingers )

also feel free to ask me anything, flashback related, random hc related, personal or otherwise! i know i've got a ton in the box, but i promise that just because i'm going through a lot and posting sporadically, doesn't mean you have be a stranger...

Just Be Gentle.

with me and as always,

with yourselves.

-uncle nina, doing her best <3

[harudnae]

Sorry for disappearing, it will happen again

(but not before I post my latest fic)

[riddlingwife]

my little doll.

. . . Where Choromi gets a make-over from her girlfriend for the first time after transitioning.

Contents: Transfem!Choro (Choromi), Makeup, Fluff, Sort of emotional.

Choromi felt nervous.

Growing up, Choromi felt a strange connection to femininity. She always confused her feelings towards women in the magazines, mistaken envy for attraction. Sure, she did feel attracted to them, but felt an unknown envy as well. Their curves, the clothes that hugged their figure so well and the way they looked so beautiful in make-up - making her wonder if she could ever look so beautiful in make-up one day as well,  even if she would eventually shake the thoughts away as they only felt wrong. 

She had been experimenting with gender for quite some time. When Choromi told her to start using the name “Choromi” around her and feminine pronouns, Lily, besides being ecstatic, promptly offered to do her makeup and dress her up in her cutesy feminine clothing - so, Choromi felt nervous. 

As someone who always wanted to dress up in her mother’s clothing, Choromi was excited, but also anxious, a wave of what-ifs hitting her. All worries, however, vanished once Lily showed up with her box of makeup, a few pieces of clothing and a curling wand - something for her hair that had grown out a bit in the last months - with a large smile. 

“Tonight you’re my little doll, Choromi dear!” Lily sat down in front of her on the bed. Choromi giggled, pushing away anxious thoughts.

Then, the whole makeup routine starts. It feels strange - the wands touching her face, the eyeliner that poked her eye, but mostly, the feeling of finally being free to do makeup. It was strangely comforting to finally be an adult, free from her parent’s prying eyes and without having to hear that she was too young to know all of that. 

“Is there too much to do left?” Choromi blinked after putting on mascara. Lily giggled, noticing how eager Choromi was to see herself in the mirror.  

“Patience is a virtue, my dearest. We’re almost finished!” Lily said while picking some lipsticks and lip tints from her box. “Alright, would you rather have a lip tint or lipstick?”

“Is there any difference..?” Lily only laughed once he heard her question. “Just pick the one you think would look nicer on you.”

Choromi stared at the many options on Lily’s box. Cherry, pink, wine, vibrant red colors flooded her vision. After a few moments, Choromi’s eye was catched by a warm-toned pink lipstick. “T… This one?”

“Ah, pink! Great choice, it’s going to go well with your clothes,” the other woman mumbled, opening up the lipstick and proceeding to lift up Choromi’s chin. “Pout for me, love.”

“Really?” Choromi laughed. “Yes, really! I need it to apply lipstick.”

Once more, she laughed, but did as Lily asked. “Cute,” Lily said under her breath as she applied the lipstick on her beautiful girlfriend’s lips. Once she was done with that, Lily backed up a bit, admiring Choromi in makeup for the first time. She looked… Wonderful. More than she always did. 

“Alright, now… Take a look.” Lily picked up the mirror for Choromi. Choromi audibly gasped as she stared into her reflection. She was speechless for a moment, wide-eyed and with a small smile hanging on her lips. 

“Lily, darling, oh my God. I look…” “Beautiful.” Lily completed. “As always, my dear girlfriend looks beautiful.”

Choromi felt tears sting her eyes. Thank God for waterproof mascara and eyeliner. She admired herself closer - Choromi never had felt so pretty before. “You will feel even better once we do your hair and clothes.”

All of a sudden, Choromi drops the mirror onto the bed’s cushions and hugs Lily tightly, who could only gasp and giggle at the surprise attack. She hugged her girlfriend tightly. “You look amazing, honey. My princess.”

At the praise, Choromi could only cry now, careful to not ruin the fresh makeup. “It’s okay, angel. It’s okay,” Lily cooed and comforted Choromi in her arms.