don't believe ondore's lies @ronsenburg - Tumblr Blog

An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works

Summary:

“I mean, I get it, believe me,” he continues. Felix can tell that each step Sylvain takes towards him is deliberately made careful and nonthreatening, as though Felix were the skittish horse who inhabits the stall they’re currently standing in. The implications are enough to set his teeth on edge. “But I was thinking that it might be nice to get to know you better—which is kind of hard to do if you’re set on giving me a fake name here.”

After nine years, Felix returns to Gautier Ranch.

for sylvix week, day 6: historical AU. 11k, rated E.

#the western au that I have not shut up about for 3 months!#sylvix #sylvixweek2025 #felix hugo fraldarius #sylvain jose gautier #pulled an em and hit ‘post’ instead of ‘save draft’ so we can pretend it’s for ‘secrets’ too #ronsenburg tries to write

princilly

ough

transparentcatpngs

helloitsbees

i put him in the saw bathroom

#trying to write the killers name with that outstretched paw

pocchamarz

apollo where did your horns go

finch-friesss

funstyle

Gaga couldve just said lets have some fun this beat is sick i wanna take a ride on your penis dick. But she went with disco stick because shes a what? poet.

rosefinchie

how it all feels lately

rosy2k

Popteen 2004

#AYUMI ❤️

twistedangelboness

having friends is cool until they worry too much and get in the way of your self-destructive tendencies

rpfwasfine

it takes 10 layers of the water filter to completely drown a tumblr screenshot if anyone was wondering

rpfwasfine

delinquentbookworm

one time I went over to a friend's house and their housemate was making paper in the living room, and we saw this big tub full of water they were using to dissolve old scrap paper into a slurry, and everyone was immediately like "oh, you need scrap paper?" and started turning out their jacket pockets and producing expired coupons and bus tickets and crumpled receipts and old shopping lists and whatever else they'd been carrying round with them for no good reason, and passing it all to the paper-making housemate to make sure it was suitable before it got torn up and dropped into the tub, while people took turns stirring the slurry with a big wooden stick. it was strangely ritualistic, like presenting an offering to some kind of temple elder for inspection before placing it in a watery shrine to be devoured and reformed. pulp for the pulp god.