11 Works by testosterdile
Listing Works
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And for a brief moment, we were superluminal by testosterdile
Fandoms: ウマ娘 | Uma Musume - All Media Types, ウマ娘 プリティーダービー | Uma Musume: Pretty Derby (Video Game)
25 Apr 2026
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The year is 2026. You’re in a kitchen steeped in the scent of tea and chemicals and decay. You’re in a hamlet in England, in a cottage built just on the cusp of an infinite wilderness, bare branches reaching for the exterior like press microphones.
And you’re not alone.
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Hi-Touch by testosterdile
Fandoms: ウマ娘 プリティーダービー | Uma Musume: Pretty Derby (Video Game), ウマ娘 | Uma Musume - All Media Types
24 Dec 2025
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"The only logical conclusions are that you harbor some secret contagion transmitted exclusively through uma-to-uma contact, or—” Tachyon reached a hand toward Digital. “It’s me.”
Her fingers were nearing the soft of Digital’s cheek when Digital noticed. She pulled back, hard, falling onto her tail and dragging it across the floor as she scrambled away. If it wasn’t for the fascination growing hot and wolfish in her chest, Tachyon might’ve felt somewhat hurt.
Instead, she laughed.
Or; Digital feels unworthy to touch the skin of other umas. Her girlfriend helps the only way she knows how.
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The Outside World (Is for Lovers) by testosterdile
Fandoms: Shoujo Kakumei Utena | Revolutionary Girl Utena
09 Sep 2025
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Anthy stirs awake to something sharp jabbing her ribcage. In the breath of space between dream and waking, where overripe roses pucker and silhouettes prowl and pad like princes, she braces herself for the inevitable slip of steel into her skin, only to be jolted into consciousness by an ugly, thundering snore inches from her face.
Written for Two-Girl Revolution zine.
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Outside the World We Dreamt We Built by testosterdile
Fandoms: Soul Eater (Anime & Manga)
07 Aug 2024
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“Hey, Soul?” Liz started. “Have you ever considered what you were going to do after this?”
“The gala? Go back to Death City, I guess.” He flicked a rhythm on the can’s tab before bringing it to his lips. “Maybe try to bleach the image of Black Star’s bare chest from my brain.”
“No, I meant,” she made a vague sweeping gesture in the air, cigarette ash dusting her jeans like freshly fallen snow. “All of this. Everything.”
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Three years after the Battle on the Moon, the Shibusen kids go on a road trip and think about what comes next.
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There was a quiet and ineffable sort of insanity that paved the open road, they learned, one that displaces the soul and reminds it of its own brevity. Luckily for them, all that was needed to best its thrall was the endearing distraction of friendship, greasy road food, and a well-tailored Journey mixtape or two.
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Maka liked words, liked the sprawling secrets they kept locked away in symbols and code, the sound of their lilt and cadence as she read. She liked happy endings engraved in ink and coaxed from reams of yellowing paper.
The only words Crona knew dripped snake venom. The only stories they knew were tragedies, not the type studied in classrooms, but grotesque tales derived from a lifetime of violence. There was only one other person who was familiar with that type of darkness, who knew how to tame and weave it into something— someone— that Maka could truly love.
(Or: Crona wants to write a poem for Maka’s birthday. Soul helps.)
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Piano Lessons in Downtown Death City Area
$35 per half hour
Jazz, Classical, and more!
Contact [email protected] if interested.
Serious inquiries only! -
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She hated her hands. Their bruteness overcompensated for her inexperience, palm and stubby fingers unmarred by the tribulations of life. It didn’t matter how tight or how long they could hold on when what mattered most slipped between them like grains of desert sand.
He hated his hands. When they made music, it was tinged with a darkness that furrowed judges’ brows and shook parents’ heads. When his spindly fingers danced along the keys, they reminded him of a dying spider’s legs.
His spider fingers swallowed her knuckles whole and she gripped him tight enough to leave indentions on his skin.
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Nobody dares tell them that this wasn’t what Crona would’ve wanted.
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She found it while looking for something to wear to her middle school’s graduation party. It was a dark and drooping dead thing, pushed against the left-most wall of her parents’ (parent’s, she corrected; singular) closet as if it didn’t want to be seen. When she grazed her hands against the fabric, it left dust on her fingertips and streaks of oily night on its surface. Large silver buttons shone in the lamplight like cat eyes: two on its front and one on each cuff. One. Two. One. Two
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Maka inherits a coat. -
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Every inch of Crona’s flesh was on fire. Maka’s breath warmed the space where her head laid, each soft exhale cutting into their skin like tempest winds, reminding them of the air that they undeservedly shared. Crona could feel every drop of black blood in Soul’s body gallop through his veins and capillaries through their touching shoulders, cells racing to the heart that beat just underneath the mountain range of angry scar tissue. The movie in front of them was barely comprehensible through the searing heat. Crona almost missed it when the main character started speaking again in passionate vibrato:
“We are all fools in love.”