Might Delete Later - Blog Posts

finally worked up the self confidence to post this! :D

You are the author of your reality

Every thought, decision, and belief shapes the story you're living. You have the power to revise the script.

Entre moi et elle

« Suis-je vraiment cela, la fille que cette amie décrit ? »

Dans des excès de colère elle nous décris comme « sans cœur, arrogante, sadique »

Est-ce vraiment moi ?

L’adolescente de 13 ans qui était en colère contre l’humanité toute entière car ils ne la comprenait pas

serait-elle devenue ça ?

Je voudrais me dire que ces commentaires ne me font rien

mais mes yeux rouges comme le sang et les larmes coulant le long de mon visage me disent le contraire

En la détestant, ne suis-je pas hypocrite ?

Car nous somme les mêmes personnes

Je vois l’adolescente que j’étais se refléter dans ses paroles

Celle qui se sentais attaqué au moindre rire et regard

Celle qui ne croyais pas à la religion du « futur heureux » 

Suis-je un monstre de me délecter de son malheur ?

Par prétexte qu’elle est une bulle de négativité s’immisçant dans ma vie quotidienne,

Une ingrate qui n’aime pas ces parents, une souffrante clamant avoir trop de travail alors qu’elle en fait moins que nous à la maison, une folle ayant des lubies étranges,une favorisé repassant des contrôles alors que je n’aie même pas le courage de parler yeux dans les yeux à un professeur

Mais d’un autre coté je vois

Une fille qu’on a moqué sans raison

Une personne qui doute de ses capacité

Un être vivant voulant seulement être heureuse et vivre ses rêves les plus fous

Est ce que je la déteste car elle me rappelle la moi que je voudrais effacer de l’histoire ?

Ne suis-je pas devenue la personne qui se moquait de moi ?

Est-ce que je ressemble aux personnes que j’ai tant maudit ?

I've been listening to "Rogues! The Podcast" for a while (which is fucking amazing and super heartwarming for my little cold heart.) And I felt inspired, so I decided to sketch Dr. Jonathan Crane (at least how I picture him in my head).

grian!

kittyyyyyy

my drawings of humans arent looking too good so lets draw kitties instead! :3

helloooo! apparently tags aren't working for me so Ima do a test hehe

· ·͙ ❀ *̩̩͙˚̩̥̩̥ ¡! navigation ¡!♡༉‧₊˚✧ 

<<<<< on hiatus >>>>>>

➪dark theme recommended

twenty // she/her // infp

¡! read before requesting ¡!

rules + requests + match ups

masterlist

tags:

#[☾︎] moon rambles

#[⌫] might delete later

#[✯] character ...

#[𑁍] anon ...

#[☀︎︎] dear @ ...

#[❥︎] match ups

#[⚠︎] 18+

genre:

fluff // angst // comfort // mdni

I don't know why I'm doing this WIP help- (Uncanny Warning?)

Might delete this after I finish it, but considering how long the Alfred Whopper drawing took, it'll probably be at least a week... If this is the first thing that pops up on your dashboard today, I'm terribly sorry. Me elaborating won't make things better, trust me.

I don't know why I'm hyperfixated on Sway3PO again, but I'm more concerned about the fact that I'm drawing him like the uncanny Jerma Streamer Awards photo oop- Rendering this is gonna make it worse, I hope. Wish me luck!

Is this even Breadwinners fanart anymore??? I swear, I'm pretty much just the entire Sway3PO fandom with a sprinkle of B2D2 on the side 🙃🙃🙃

Here's a close up of the arguably worse sketch I did at work to cope with BS- Sorry, I'll shut up now.

Lowlife

CHAPTER 1 : THE QUIET BEFORE THE STORM

5-8 x oc

Words : 2K

Summary : During a heated sparring match with 5-8, Mirae’s skill and sass draw more than just attention. Tension and a shift neither of them fully acknowledges.

Warnings : none

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The training hall was already alive with motion by the time Mirae stepped in.

Barefoot fighters moved across the mats in pairs—some trading swift punches, others locked in quiet grapples. There was no music, no shouting. Just the soft thuds of bodies hitting padded floors, the occasional grunt of exertion, and clipped instructions from senior deliverymen helping some rookies with form.

The air was warm—humid with sweat and recycled oxygen—but not unpleasant. Familiar, in the way all necessary routines eventually became.

Mirae hovered near the doorway, yet quickly moved away towards some benches. Dropping her bag, tugging off her jacket and rolling her shoulders. She scanned the room, eyes flicking between familiar faces until they landed on one that made her pause.

5-8 stood near the far end of the hall, arms crossed, gaze locked on a pair of rookies sparring like he was running probability equations in his head. Motionless, except for the slow rise and fall of his chest. But somehow, he was still the most kinetic thing in the room. Mirae found herself watching him longer than she meant to. Not because she was assessing threat or form, though both were impressive, but because she wanted to. Because something about the way he held himself, grounded and alert, made it hard to look away.

“Caught staring again?” 4-1’s voice was dry and close, her presence sudden and smug. Mirae didn’t flinch. “I was just checking if his scowl’s deepened since last week. You know, scientific curiosity.” 4-1 smirked. “You’re not slick.”

“Never claimed I was.”

They stood together a moment, the hum of motion and training filling the space around them. Then 4-1 bumped her elbow gently. “He asked for you today.” Mirae blinked, pausing for a second before looking at her, her confusion evident. “What?”

“For a demo round, said he needed someone who could ‘keep up.’” She chuckled before quickly adding “His words, not mine.” She shrugged, eyes glancing towards where the man in question had not moved from his spot. A slow heat curled in Mirae’s chest, part challenge, part something she didn’t want to know. “Since when does he make personal requests?”

4-1 just shrugged, but there was mischief written all over her face. “Since you started wiping the floor with everyone else?” She smirked refocusing on 3-9. Mirae rolled her eyes and moved toward the center mat, weaving through other fighters. She didn’t need confirmation to know 5-8 had seen her coming, felt their gazes as he turned before she was even within earshot.

“3-9” he said simply.

“5-8” she quickly shot back as she folded her arms over her chest. “Heard you were looking for someone with fast reflexes for an intense workout.” She quickly glanced at him before she started stretching, getting ready to spar with the taller male. “I need someone to demonstrate advanced technique.” She raised a brow. “And I’m your best option?” she questioned him “You’re the only one who keeps on challenging me.”

That shut her up for half a second. “Fine. But if I end up bruised, I’m stealing your protein bars.” He said nothing, but rolled his eyes and just gestured to the open mat. As he turned to walk towards the mat, 3-9 turned around towards where 4-1 still stood, before walking backwards and mouthing ‘HELP ME’

As she duck under the elastic bands and stepped on top of the sparring mat where 5-8 already stood, the rest of the room seemed to instinctively give them space. Conversations quieted. Pairs paused. Even the rookies stopped to glance over, shifting back with subtle awe. Everyone respected 5-8. But 3-9? She’d earned a different kind of attention.

Mirae bounced lightly on her heels, loosening her limbs and rolling her shoulders. “Don’t go easy on me just because I’m pretty.” She smirked at him, trying to see if she could break through his shitty attitude today. 5-8 blinked once. “I won’t. Something about his tone made her skin prickle. Then they moved.

He was on her in an instant—no warm-up, no test hits. Just a fluid, practiced strike aimed straight for her ribs. Mirae blocked it with her forearm and pivoted, responding with a sharp jab that nearly grazed his chin. He tilted out of reach, not wasting any energy.

She pressed in, foot sweeping low to throw him off balance. But sadly he saw it coming and jumped it easily. “You’ve been practicing,” he pointed out between exchanges. He took a deliberate breath before going after her, feinting a jab at her shoulder before changing its direction to her ribs. She grunted as she barely dodged, this riling her up, her need to win rising with every move they made.

“Hard not to when you get jumped by hunters.” Grunted the womanwhen she ried to hit a kick to his Shi that was blocked. They continued in a blur of motion—fists, feet, and muscle. Mirae moved fast, nimble from years of real-world fights with people who didn’t care about form. But 5-8 was something else. Efficient. Predictive. Like he was already five steps ahead of her every time she moved.

Still, she kept him moving. They broke apart briefly, circling eachother,bouncing on the bals of their feet. “Come on,” she goaded, “I thought this was supposed to be hard?” 5-8 sighed softly at her impatience before responding. “I’m pacing myself.”

She scoffed at him in disbelief. “As if, you love moving fast and now you wanna slow down? That’s a first.” Clenching her fists before anticipating his next move. He struck again. This time, she didn’t dodge in time. His palm hit her shoulder and spun her off balance—but she caught herself, dropped low, and surged upward with a punch that reached it’s destination between his ribs.

He didn’t react. Just nodded. “Good.” Mirae narrowed her eyes. “You saying that to throw me off?” she grumbled at him. “No, You’re improving.” He simply acknowledged, insinuating that its was becoming more of a challenge for him to keep up very time the sparred. “Is that the best you can do?” She asked him circling around the mat.

There it was again, that flicker in his expression. Something just shy of a smile. Not quite warm, but aware. The fight picked up again. Her breath came sharper, sweat curling at her temple. Her arm was still stinging from a blow she blocked earlier. But she paid it no mind as she grinned through it, her need to win taking over.

Then she caught him with a surprise feint and jabbed toward his shoulder. He blocked, but not fast enough to stop her from getting in close—close enough to see the way his eyes flicked down for a split second.

Not to her fists. To her. She almost missed his counter because of it. He twisted, grabbed her wrist, and swept her feet in a motion so smooth it left her on her back before she could blink. She groaned, staring up at the ceiling.

“I’m starting to think you just enjoy tossing me around.” She muttered, still catching her breath as 5-8 extended a hand. “You’re the only one who keeps getting back up.” She glanced at his extended hand before taking it. His grip was firm. Steady. Their hands lingered for a second too long, the space between them crackling with the kind of quiet energy neither of them acknowledged.

When he let go, her fingers tingled. “You smiled,” she said, dazed. “Didn’t think it was possible.” She chuckled to herself

“Get back to drills,” he rolled his eyes , turning away. But just before he left the mat, he looked back. And Mirae, still catching her breath, felt like she’d won something no one else had even realized they were playing for.

The clatter of bodies and clipped commands picked back up as the sparring ended, but Mirae stayed bend over with her hands leaning against her knees on the mat for a few moments longer, before rolling her shoulder out and quietly catching her breath.

4-1 appeared at her side with a bottle of water, already smirking. “You’re making a habit of that, huh?” 3-9 glanced up at her, straightening herself out and softly pulling the bottle of water from her hands. As she took sip of the water, cooling her down and quenching her thirst. She tried not to look embarrassed knowing fully well what she was on about. “Of what?”

“Looking like you’re about to get your ass handed to you, and somehow turning it into a public spectacle. You do realize the rest of us need to use this mat later, right?” Mirae stretched her arms over her head, then brushed away the sweat that was dripping from her forehead with her wrist. “Please, they should thank me. I’m raising the bar.”

“Raising the bar?” 4-1 scoffed. “That wasn’t a bar, that was tension thick enough to slice with a rusted ration knife.” Before Mirae could argue, someone approached them—a rookie, by the look of the barely-scuffed boots and the anxious, too-eager to please expression.

“3-9, right?” the rookie asked, voice overly casual. “I was wondering if you could help me with a hold I’ve been struggling with. It’s one of the close-contact grapples—upper body positioning?” He questioned her quickly looking her up and down.

Mirae blinked. “You sure you don’t wanna ask 4-1? She’s better at the up-close throws.”

“Nah,” he told her and smiled. “I’ve seen you in the ring. You move like you actually enjoy it.” he quickly added. 4-1 arched a brow, clearly unimpressed. Mirae tilted her head, then shrugged. “Sure. Let’s see what you’ve got.”

They stepped a few feet over to the side mat. Mirae adjusted her stance, showing him what he did wrong, and showing him what he should be doing instead. “You’re telegraphing too early. If your opponent sees your shoulders turn, they’ll never let you close in.” She explained to the rookie, looking at his posture before she decided it was easier to just let him do it and correct him.

He quickly took the stance when she stepped in to correct his posture, reaching out to adjust the angle of his elbow. He chuckled, and Mirae frowned slightly—confused, until she felt the light, deliberate weight of his hand settle on her shoulder. Too casual to be an accident. Too familiar to be nothing.

Before she could say anything, a shadow loomed behind the woman. 5-8’s voice cut in, flat. “7-4. You need help with grip transitions?” He inquired, raising his brow and crossing his arms.their position looked almost fake as the tall man towered over Mirae, who’s back was still turned towards 5-8.

The rookie startled, pulling his hand away like he’d touched something hot. “Uh—no, sir. I mean—yes. Just needed help with the grapple technique.” The poor boy tried to explain himself.

“Then you’re on the wrong mat.” 5-8 said, stepping in between them with effortless precision. His expression hadn’t changed, but the tension in his jaw was unmistakable. This one is solely used for sparring, and she can’ t help you with this anyways, 4-4 is way better at that.” Liar. She has beaten him several times on the mat using grip transitions. Yet she was curious as to where this would lead, so she let 5-8 just talk.

Mirae blinked, waiting for his response as 5=8 started glaring at the guy. The rookie, who mirae now learned his name was 7-4 cleared his throat awkwardly. “Right. Sorry. I’ll, uh, go back to my section.” He nodded to no one in particular.

He backed off fast, nearly stumbling over his own feet in the process. Mirae turned to glance at 4-1, who was very, very visibly biting back laughter. “What?” Mirae hissed, narrowing her eyes. “Oh nothing,” 4-1 said innocently. “Just wondering how much pressure it takes to make a rookie sweat that hard in under ten seconds.” She chuckled, not able to hold her laughs in completely before quipping back in. “You should ask 5-8. He seems to have it down to a science.”

Mirae opened her mouth, but then noticed 5-8 wasn’t walking away yet. He was still just standing there, not able to take his eyes off of her as she conversed with her friend. But the air felt charged again, the same way it had during the fight—like they were in motion, even while standing still. “You didn’t need to scare the poor kid off,” she muttered under her breath as she stepped past him, walking over to the benches where her stuff was messily thrown on the floor.

“I didn’t say anything threatening,” he scoffed, his footsteps quiet as he followed her to her stuff. “That’s the problem. You never have to.” She muttered under her breath.

He didn’t respond, but as she started packing away her stuff, she swore she could feel his eyes glued to her back. A few seconds later she could feel his burning gaze leaving her as he returned to the other delivery men who were still training.

Worst thing about it? She didn’t hate his burning gaze following her almost everywhere she went

The masculine urge to delete Tumblr because honestly the Tumblr side of the HoA fandom scares me away from the fandom more and more.

"A merchant?" - "Of spices."

Roche, why are you so hard to draw?