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strangef0x29.bsky.social
Fox 🐙🍵🌿
@strangef0x29.bsky.social
50 followers 52 following 26 posts
20+ || she/her || writer || pfp by reideero 💥

ao3: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AStrangeAndPeculiarFox29/pseuds/AStrangeAndPeculiarFox29
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strangef0x29.bsky.social
something about joints and pretty hands (🍵🔱) (trying to remember to cross-post over here)
Dollfin Drabble (1/3): It’s just a low drone against her back, when she’s examining Ceci’s hand. In rest, it’s simply draped over Gura’s side and sprawled listlessly against the bed, always close enough that she can breathe on it but never quite near enough for her to nose at it. So she stares at it, with her tail curling and bumping into Ceci’s knee, half-waggling. There’s no connecting web of skin between her fingers, nor does she necessarily have knuckles. She has smooth seams near the bases of her fingers, neat little lines where palm and finger connect that are easy to miss at first glance. There are joints there, Gura knows—there must be, if she can ball her hands into neat fists—yet she imagines how stiff they’d feel to move, and wonders if it’d feel strange without her skin in the way. Dollfin Drabble (2/3): she’s cradling her hand, absentmindedly curious. nudges every finger to examine the movement of a joint, before curling and uncurling her index finger over and over. there’s more space for the ball joint at the base of her finger to move from the palm-side of her hand, Gura finds, and the part of her that is enthralled by Ceci’s hands really, really wants her to press her lips against these particular joints, the ones that hide in her hand and barely allow any backwards give. Gura curls Ceci’s hand into a fist, just to catch the tiniest sliver of the joints, no larger than- than the half-crescent shape of smiling eyes, or. parted lips. she presses her lips against it and thinks /that’s about right,/ brushing along each one. touches the ball joint of her wrist feather-lightly, sinking into the mattress with a sigh through her nose. Dollfin Drabble (3/3): she opens Ceci’s hand just to do it to her palm, too, little reverent kisses for the pretty shape of her hand. her tail is moving like it’s searching for continuous skin contact, slipping over Ceci’s shin clumsily. Gura feels a shift in the low drone against her spine, and replaces her lips with the very tip of her nose, breathing. she’s thumbing at her wrist still, embarrassment somewhere in her shoulders.
February 21, 2025 at 7:46 AM
strangef0x29.bsky.social
exclusive(ly leaked priv thing here on bsky .) very very very Mildly suggestive, kind of embarrassing 🍵🔱 (super mild though. not crazy. you might even say it’s nothing really at all)
🍵🔱: her tail curls shyly when Ceci leans over her like this, tracing up her throat with the pads of her fingers, feathery brushing, her gaze dangerously thin. it’s focus. she’s regarding her so carefully, watching. it’s lingering. nothing could possibly escape her notice, Gura thinks, tremulously. she swallows, and Ceci’s eyes trail to her neck, grazing over her lips. dry. Gura’s lips are dry and the butterflies in her tummy fly when she thinks of licking her lips, so she remains still, anticipation buzzing beneath her skin. her fingers begin to follow her jaw, now. there’s barely any pressure; just fabric, the shape of her hand in Gura’s view, the frill over her wrist. just the back-and-forth brush, friction that makes Gura’s tail twitch. it’s the way she feels the path of it in her skin, lightly grinding her teeth. “You have—” Ceci looks at her, pausing, and Gura’s toes curl, a terrible nervous thing twisting in her chest. she’s speaking more quietly when she begins again, a /god awful/ tremor in her voice, “You have really pretty hands.”
January 6, 2025 at 5:08 AM
strangef0x29.bsky.social
🐙🌿 (w/p) [and they will never leave me, never ever ever, even when they leave, even when i put it all behind me; i wrote a reflection on twt but i don’t feel like cross-posting it right now]
There is a drabble here, written in anguish. It reads: At the end of each day—after the shadows have passed and the door has been locked and the counter cleaned; glass bottles organized on shelves, raw ingredients sorted in the pantry and locked shut with a click, candles blown out—she walks upstairs with nothing but moonlight to guide her, and she finds her laying in her bed. The candle by her bedside is always unlit. Moonlight bleeds through a sliver she can see as she walks up the stairs, but the window is always draped shut by a thick black cloth (an old ceremonial cloak that smells like stone and ink). Fauna always smiles. There is never an /always/ for the priestess herself. She lays in bed, sleeping or pretending to sleep. Sometimes, she stands by the window like a patient specter. She is a mass somewhere on the ground, or she is nowhere—Fauna will hear her bathing after a silent moment. “What do you do here throughout the day?” Fauna had asked, once, as she lit the candle by her bedside. “I wait for you,” the priestess had responded, smoothly, and brushed her arm. It had been so unapologetically sincere, Fauna nearly believed her wholeheartedly. “I listen to your conversations, I keep my mind open to divine warnings. I do what I did before, but in your bed.” (“You listened to my conversations /before?/” Fauna had asked, pretending to be scandalized by the thought, and the priestess had given her a faux sheepish expression, amusement folding into her eyes.)
December 1, 2024 at 6:22 AM
strangef0x29.bsky.social
things I write that will never become anything
From Priv Twt Thread (1/2): Because of the need for silence, she can’t move. Most days, she’s resting in this room, her key turning slowly, so slowly, her internal mechanisms inching along. Quiet. She’s resting. It’s monotonous. There’s an itch to do something. It was insufferable, before, but Cecilia has gotten used to doing nothing for days on end. Gura could go do something. She could find everyone else and have silent discussions on pen and paper. Through notes, typing slow. She chooses not to do that, most of the time. Most of the time, she’s draped over her, breathing slow, keeping watch, keeping company. She’ll shift at a snail’s pace, careful, so her nose is buried in Cecilia’s neck. Shift so she can curl around Cecilia’s head, nose into her hair. She’ll shift back over her central joint and rest there, like she’s guarding a treasure. keeping it safe. And she knows she’s alert, because the moment there’s a noise—a quiet scrape, a tap against the door, nails on glass, thudding along the wall or over the roof, some distant crash—tension ripples through her stomach, pausing mid-breath, frozen. She’s poised. From Priv Twt Thread (2/2): “I appreciate that,” Cecilia whispers, in the morning, in the midst of a storm. It’s cold, and Gura’s teeth are chittering in short bursts, her hands tucked beneath Cecilia’s central joint. She watches her tail wave. Her chest is tight with that floundering sense that nothing’s coming out right. “I really do.” Gura dips her head shyly, but she’s preening at the same time, “I’ve got protective shark blood in my veins, I gotta protect what’s mine.” She giggles and that, too, makes Gura’s tail wave, so it begins to wag in earnest. She keeps it in her memory. (“Protect what’s yours?” She’d echo, a little teasing. Like a dragon? It’d be more appropriate for /her/ to do that, given her durability.)
November 4, 2024 at 9:12 PM
strangef0x29.bsky.social
more post-birthday party (🐙🍵)
Drabble (1/2): “I’m sorry.” it comes wispy, delicate. her voice is soft, as always, unassuming. like a winter draft. Cecilia does not look at her. she examines the clock hanging on the wall, the only other noise in the room. “I’m sorry if it causes you pain,” she says. the clock ticks on. “To- be in my presence.” “That’s not what it is,” Cecilia murmurs, nearly hissing. she feels dangerous for it. mean. an irrational heat flashes through her arm, and she exhales to expel it. it feels like smoke through her nose. “It doesn’t /pain/ me to look at you, it—“ she meshes her lips together. something venomous sits beneath her tongue, acrid. /you don’t deserve that,/ she thinks, /but—/ Drabble (2/2): “You’ve experienced far greater pain than me,” Cecilia says, slowly. “I don’t think it’s productive for us to discuss this right now.” the widow breathes. when she speaks again, her voice comes solid, snowflakes, “It’s less productive to watch the wall.” magma swells with her breath. she clasps her own hand. “She lied to me, you know,” Cecilia nearly snaps, bitter. the widow’s eyes are cloudy, tired. attentive, nonetheless, creased in this delicately beautiful way. it saps her of some of her ire, her chest heavy and hollow and warm. too fresh. the widow does not say a word. Cecilia breathes. it hurts, the urge to fold in an absurd bid to protect the wound gnawing at her bones. “I’m sorry,” the widow breathes, again.
October 29, 2024 at 8:15 PM
strangef0x29.bsky.social
post-👧’s birthday dinner (not related to the birthday girl in question, though)

for me + 1
scribble (1/2): what is it, to hold her hand? Fauna thinks to act carefully, now. she can feel Cecilia watching from the corner of her eye, this dull gleaming green that’s snapped to their hands. it’s nothing, for now — she has no intentions with this woman, but she feels their camaraderie, deep down. to be wronged by the police. to lose that which you hold so dear. /six times./ Fauna doesn’t think she could ever stomach such pain after the second, after vengeance. she cups a lithe gloved hand with both of her own, tilting her head. “I can find those who’ve murdered your previous lovers,” she says. something passes through Ina’s eyes, old scars, a sliver of hope. “I can serve justice for you, Miss Ina, if such services are of interest to you.” scribble (2/2): Cecilia’s gaze does not flicker. there is no waver. Ina seems to glance in her direction. they lose their sliver, those scars suddenly shrouded by fog. she gives an empty smile, and Fauna soothes with her hands, reassurances. “I believe,” Ina begins, stopping. then, quieter, “I think I need time to- digest what has occurred, tonight.” “Of course.” Fauna brushes her clothed knuckles as she lets go of her hand. “You do have a guest room here, right, Cecilia?” Cecilia’s expression is cautiously guarded. there may be pity, Fauna thinks, as she regards the widow. “Yes,” Cecilia says, gently. carefully. “I wouldn’t recommend going out this late after— after everything, the guest room is just down the hall. First bedroom on the left.”
October 19, 2024 at 5:03 PM
strangef0x29.bsky.social
🍵🔱 (last one)
October 18, 2024 at 3:20 AM
strangef0x29.bsky.social
🍵🔱 (highlight of the night)
October 18, 2024 at 3:19 AM
strangef0x29.bsky.social
🐙🌿 w/p (26 for kiss number: on the wrist)
October 18, 2024 at 3:11 AM
strangef0x29.bsky.social
🐙🌿 / 🐙🪶 (🌿🐙🪶)
October 18, 2024 at 3:08 AM
strangef0x29.bsky.social
🐔🔱
March 3, 2024 at 2:04 AM
strangef0x29.bsky.social
🐙🪶
February 20, 2024 at 2:51 PM