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tragedy-of-commons · 2 months ago

Text

a deciduous thing.

scarecrow!boothill x gn!farmer!reader.

summary: Never in your life did you think that your peaceful day-to-day would grind to a halt after one of your scarecrows comes to life. Apparently, his name is Boothill, and he's insistent on making your life 10x harder than it has to be.

contains: modern au, comedy/crack with surreal elements, setting is heavily implied to be american (sorry), reader has depth, possibly inaccurate depictions of farming but i tried my best, country and southern things™, autumn hijinks

word count: 4.5k

taglist: @flower-yi, @moineauz, @aphrodict, @nomazee, @singularity-sam, @harque, @thestarswhisper, @wystiix, @mikashisus, @tetrachrxmacy, @mitsvriii, @akutasoda

notes: written for the @/stellaronhvnters stellaween fest. my chosen prompt was scarecrow! ao3 link here 🎃

The first time you see him, it’s a crisp October morning.

Thank the stars it’s overcast today - the fall weather is just settling in, so of course it’s still hot, but nothing like the suffocating humidity you’re normally used to. Besides that, work is work; meaning that you have to get up just before dawn to go about putting a dent in your endless list of chores.

The pleasant breeze tickles your nose and the forearms flexed under your rolled up sleeves, aiding you in your endeavor of feeding and tending to the livestock. The hens cluck passively as they allow you to take their eggs inside, the cows and goats don’t fuss at all when you milk them, and to your surprise, baths also go well (despite how you’re covered in suds after). To have such an easy morning is rare, but you simply chalk it up to the arrival of autumn.

Ma used to say that fall is lucky, as it signals the start of renewal. You aren’t superstitious by any means, but the sentiment has always stuck with you, engraved in fond memories of stumbling around on your chubby legs through rows of sweet potatoes and watching the colorful leaves hit the ground, balanced on some distant relative’s hip.

Yes, today is gonna be lucky.

The sun hasn’t yet reached the middle of the sky when you drag yourself to the pumpkin patch. Normally you’d wait another day or two until the weather is sunny to harvest the rotund globes of orange, but you’re already cutting it close; Halloween is gonna be here before you know it, and you don’t want the fruit to overripen or become too bleached by the elements. Moreover, you’d like to give away a pumpkin or two to the neighbors.

Every year, it’s the same tradition. Miss Kafka and little (not so much anymore) Silver Wolf down the road have been your only companions since the farm became your sole responsibility. When the season for ghouls and ghosts is upon your little rural town, you help them hoist up gaudy decorations to show off on their lawn, politely shoving a pumpkin or three into their arms, your own addition to their festive display.

According to them, often over sheets of newspaper as you three carve crude jack-o-lanterns with switchblades, your crops can’t be beat. Not by any chain market or grocery store standards, anyhow. You take pride in that; Pa always made you promise him to never overuse pesticides or sacrifice quality by automating the harvesting process - which you honor - even if you sometimes daydream about combine-harvesters and a few other dozen gadgets to make your life easier.

The patch in question is still green and healthy, boasting vibrant fruit by the dozen. The white and orange pumpkins mesh together in a patchwork display of sunset and beige, thick vines acting as their binding agent. You’ve grown fond of the sight, despite the monotony of almost-but-not-quite tripping over each crop bigger than your leather boots. Wiping the minimal sweat from your brow, you bump open the wooden gate with your hip, glove-clad and toting around your giant pruners.

They’re a bit on the heavier side, but you found them on the side of the road for free, fixing the rust issue with a bit of vinegar and baking soda - there’s no way you’re not gonna get your use out of them. Ambling over to the first row of pumpkins, you squat down, feeling the dirt and grass cushion your knees.

The first few you inspect still look pretty good. Firm rind, no blemishes or rot, plump and tough. You decide that those’ll be the ones you give away - they’ll make fine jack-o-lanterns, having plenty of surface area to plunge a knife across, creating spooky faces that’ll scare any miscreant egg-throwing hooligans away. Well, that’s your take on things. Maybe you’re just getting too old for mischief.

The next row is even more promising, housing the largest pumpkin you’ve ever seen. You’ve been monitoring its growth for the past few weeks, sure, but it seems to have bloated overnight - to the size of two human heads! You’re still skeptical, though. If a pumpkin gets this big, this fast, there’s more room for parasites, and it could also hint at some internal mushiness that’ll make it decompose quicker.

But here’s where your ace comes into play: the test.

You ball your hand up into a fist, knocking on the big boy with just enough force. To your surprise (and subdued delight), the resounding noise is hollow - you’d almost describe it as baritone. Even better, it withstood the force with a firmness indicating that of a healthy pumpkin! Today really is lucky, you muse, readying your pruners.

Wrestling yourself over the row, knees on either side of your pumpkin of choice, careful not to damage the fruit - you eyeball about five or six inches of stem, beginning to hack away at the vine diligently. It doesn’t take long before you free the product of your labor from its brethren, victorious.

…it’s, uh, heavier than you anticipated. Lifting it up into your arms immediately, you grunt, quickly discarding your glorified scissors onto the ground for stability. At least these days you don’t make the mistake of picking up the fruit by the stem, as tempting as that is - you learned the hard way as a tween when the patch was a new feature, your first home-grown pumpkin breaking under your mistake of yanking it up so carelessly. Ma had laughed right in your face, the traitor.

You stand there for a moment, straining, electing on what to do next. You could check on the rest of the patch after you get this big boy inside. You don’t want it to spoil too quickly off the vine. After a moment, you reckon that storing it in the drier part of your pantry, perfectly mild and unheated, should do the trick. Yeah, that’ll work just fine until you can take the time to carve your one obligatory jack-o-lantern out of this behemoth.

Alright, it’s settled. You pivot on your heel, ready to make the arduous trek back the house--

And that’s when you hear it.

Your reaction is delayed as you process what you’re hearing. It sounds like distant cursing or something close to it - a coarse voice shouting in rage. It reminds you of those aggravated drunkards that populate the only shitty bar in town, always riled up over some game of football or some argument with the Missus.

Did a trespasser decide to test your patience today, coming onto your property and bombarding you with the same remarks you’ve always been leveled with? Why are you such a hermit? Why don’t you have any friends? When are you going to settle down and get married like the rest of us? When are you going to get over their deaths and move on?

Not today, nuh uh, no chance. Anger floods your core as you swivel around, searching for the source of your oncoming headache. They’re still yelling, so they can’t be that far.

When your eyes land on the figure in the distance, your first reaction is confusion. The new scarecrow you’d put up a month or two ago in anticipation of harvest season seems to be writhing. Your first reasonable explanation is that a few vermin have burrowed inside of it, making themselves at home and jostling it around as they tunnel and scramble.

That doesn’t explain the utterly human wails and the jerky, purposeful movements seizing its straw arms. You squint, heart rate picking up accordingly. It’s too far away to jump to any batshit crazy conclusions, you know that, but the intuition you were born with, the same instinct that’s saved your skin a hundred times before - is telling you that today might not be so lucky after all.

“The fuck,” you mutter, still cradling the humungous pumpkin in your arms.

You take a few steps closer, straightening up tall on your tiptoes. The scarecrow in question is stood right in the middle of the massive, adjoining field, a statue among the swaying of golden wheat. When it was time to replace the old scarecrow (it was torn to shreds by the talons of crows and other rodents), you’d invested in something cheap but durable, almost forgetting about its existence promptly after.

You’ve been faced by its back this entire time, but what happens next almost completely knocks you off your feet.

Its head snaps at a harsh angle, the left - almost a little too much to be human, but you dismiss that thought readily, sobered by the sound of the voice once more. Since you’ve gotten closer and have been taking small steps towards it subconsciously, you’re able to make out what it (he?) is saying.

“Dagnabbit! Hey, ya hear me? I know someone’s back there!” an exhausted huff followed by more futile struggling, “Y’know how fudgin’ rude it is to ignore yer fellow neighbor?”

Oh shit. Oh shit!

Without thinking, you drop everything - everything just so happening to encompass the pumpkin. It falls to the ground in slow motion, pretty much, and you barely hear the resulting Thonk! of it crashing to the ground and splattering all over your work duds, the bottom caving in despite how robust the thing was.

Your thoughts are a mess. Someone must have stolen your property, tied an unsuspecting man to the barren scarecrow post after, and then left him there as a cruel prank! Yeah, that makes way more sense. Did he just call you ‘neighbor’? People around these parts are familiar, but not that familiar; is it possible that this guy also lives down the road, but you’ve never bothered to introduce yourself? Is this his first impression of you?!

Swallowing, you dig your nails into your fists and pull yourself together. There’s never been a contingency plan put into place for a situation like this, but you’ll handle it somehow. You take one tentative step forward before launching into a sprint, almost slipping on the gooey innards of the pumpkin coating the ground, but you narrowly avoid it. You hop the fence with ease, landing in the wheat field with a thud.

“I’m comin’!” you yell, cupping one hand over the curve of your mouth, frantically surveying the area for a certain object. The man is about the same size as your (likely stolen) scarecrow, and with the force of his thrashing, whatever’s holding him there must be tough as nails. Thankfully, you find what you’re looking for - a hatchet.

Old Blade, Kafka’s friend, left it here a week ago. You asked her if she knew anybody that’d chop wood for cheap; you’ve been busy with other chores - and to be honest, lazy - so you were hoping to get someone else to do it. There were a few dead trees skirting the edge of your property, and firewood is always good to have, but you didn’t expect her to volunteer her pal’s services so readily.

Blade showed up with nothing more than a hatchet and a haunted expression that hinted at some clusterfuck of a story. Still, he was polite enough, drank your freshly squeezed lemonade, and cut down those trees faster than some kid with a chainsaw could. After he wrapped up, he left the miniature axe here. You’ve been putting off returning it for days.

Thank the stars you’re a procrastinator, you think, yanking it off the ground and testing its weight, already moving towards the flailing man again. You’ve got your own collection of tools in the shed, but making him wait any longer isn’t gonna help your case - he has half a mind to report you to the cops as an accomplice!

Finally, you reach him. The mysterious fella is donning the same thrown-together attire of the scarecrow, namely one of Pa’s old flannels and some spare trousers you found laying around weeks prior. Had the perpetrator of this crime really dressed him in these clothes?! He’s even wearing the same rustic cowboy hat, complete with a browning, frayed feather sticking out of its cap.

You round the post with a frenzied pulse, raising the blade in the air with a shaky grip on its handle, ready to cut him down from there--

“Whoa, whoa there!” he stammers frightfully as you tilt your chin up to get a better look at his face, “T-That’s a little unnecessary, don’tcha think?”

You freeze.

The man peers at you through a mane of black and white hair, facial features somewhat… faded? They look to be almost stitched on, lips and bulbous jaw littered with threadbare fuzz, his skin the same shade as a potato sack. Where his eyes are supposed to be, there are instead two X’s, accompanied by a scrawled-on fang hanging just below his mouth in toothy decoration.

In other words: he looks exactly like the scarecrow you put up all that time ago.

Before he speaks again, you spare a measured glance at his stretched out arms - the ones still bound to the post. They’re the same arms you remember attaching to the wooden stake, finding it weird that they were so human-like - the appendages even gave way to makeshift hands and fingers. You were surprised that the scarecrow was so detailed for its price, but you didn’t give it much thought beyond that. A steal is a steal.

But now? It’s come to life, and it’s talking to you!

“You’ve gotta be kidding,” you pale.

He, no, it - tilts its head at you, hat sliding down just a smidge. “I’m not kiddin’. I’m Boothill.”

You don’t think twice before twirling the hatchet around and driving the blunt end of the handle straight into its too-large noggin.

It takes a moment to realize that you’re screaming, and that the… the fucking scarecrow has gone still. Can you even knock sentient dummies stuffed with straw unconscious? Are you hallucinating? Have you lost all of your marbles, slipped on them, and then fallen into a feverish coma? Is this a night terror? You have been drinking too much of that damn coffee--

Your chest heaves as you take a gigantic, gulping breath.

…then you drop your weapon, curse the heavens for ruining your perfect autumn morning, and then you scream some more.

So, things have not been going well.

Your autumn morning has turned into autumn afternoon, and your kitchen floor practically has a hole seared into it from your nonstop, neurotic pacing. It’s soothing - the only thing keeping your shot nerves at bay. Your feet ache, heeled boots grazing the raised surface of the brick over and over.

Think, think, think.

Well, that’s kinda hard to do when you had to bring him inside.

You stop in your tracks to stare at this ‘Boothill’. After he’d gone limp (and you assume comatose), you’d panicked for a little, thinking that you’d committed murder - before remembering that he is a scarecrow and that you have no qualms with ending a life anyway. Oops. You’d cut him down like you’d planned to, dragged him inside, and… sat him at your dining table.

When you freed him of his bindings, you were reminded of how light he was; despite seemingly gaining consciousness out of nowhere, he is still a scarecrow - traditionally composed of hay, leaves, rags, hell, whatever you can find. His breadth didn’t exactly make it effortless, but you hauled him to the house, up onto the porch, and right past the beaten up welcome mat. The manners ingrained in your mind from an early age stuck with you, so you welcomed the ‘guest’ to sit at the table.

But he - this thing - is not welcome!

Boothill hasn’t, um… woken up yet. It’s been about three hours of playing the waiting game, and you don’t even know what you’re going to do when he does start to stir.

You’re not gonna call the authorities, that’s for sure; everyone in town except for a scant few already believe you to be off your rocker. Even if you did call them and they showed, what kind of media attention would follow? Paranormal investigators? Scientists? People with cameras and news trucks that’ll camp just outside your acre of land, trying to pester you with their questions? Absolutely not.

Deflating, you know what you have to do.

Would burying an inanimate object alive even work? Can you even use the symptom ‘alive’ to describe what’s going on with him? I mean, you could try putting him in the ground anyway. Your good shovel’s in the shed, and--

…and he really does look like a man from a distance. Boothill, a fitting name, if that’s what truly he calls himself, is keeled over the wood. He’s limp, but you suppose having no internal structural support will do that to you. Such an intricate, intentional design. It’s been a while since anyone’s visited, really, and a part of you maybe feels bad for whacking him earlier.

God, is this what you’ve become? Soft?

Apparently so, because you don’t retrieve your trusty shovel just yet. Instead, you trudge over to your wall-mounted landline that you pray will pull through one more call. It was pristine white years ago, but now it’s yellowed and considered too ‘old school’ by the kids of today. Not like that hurts or anything. Definitely not.

You punch in the familiar number, gaze drifting back to Boothill. If he gets up, will he try to murder you? That remains to be seen, you suppose. He seemed pretty animated (if not a bit smart-mouthed) before you decided to temporarily ice him. Listening to the crackling static of the line ringing, you hold your breath and pray.

Pick up, pick up, pick up--

A juvenile, annoyed voice finally answers. “Hello? Geez, why are you calling us on this thing again?”

“Silver Wolf,” you sigh, relieved. “Is Kafka home? Can you put her on? And I told you, it’s ‘cause I don’t have her cell number. You can give it to me again later.”

You’re honestly surprised that anybody is home at all. That family of sorts (which sometimes includes that Old Blade) is on the road traveling most of the year. The house you’re calling right now is just one of their many vacation homes around the world, left vacant for several months out of the year. But then again, maybe it’s not all that surprising… they’re usually home for Halloween. Usually.

You can almost hear her wrinkled nose and sour face. “You sound sweaty. But yeah, she just got back from shopping. I’ll get her, one sec.”

Kids these days never mince their words, huh.

The familiar muffled shouting and shuffling of her passing the phone to someone reaches your ears. You tap your foot, attempting to gather your thoughts. How are you going to explain this without sounding crazy? You come up blank, twirling the wire cord idly with your index finger.

“Hey,” Kafka greets, dulcet as usual, “something the matter over there? You never call this early.”

Ugh, if she only knew the half of it. You swallow, uncharacteristically anxious.

“Hypothetically, if one of your scarecrows came to life, what would you do?”

Silence. Actual tumble-weed blowing, deserted ghost town silence. Does she know? She has to know, right? You’ve never been particularly good at hiding things, and you swear that woman can read anybody like an open book, even if their pages are clumped together with superglue. The longer no one speaks, the worse you feel.

Finally, Kafka gives her verdict. “Hm. If it were me, I’d try to have a conversation with it.”

“You’d do what with it?” you ask, incredulous.

She chuckles, the noise broken up by the poor connection. Despite how she always catches you off guard, you certainly didn’t expect an answer like that. If anything, you expected her to encourage you to torch the thing and not look back - by the same token, she isn’t outright dismissing your ridiculous notion either.

“It’s not everyday you get to talk with a living scarecrow,” she hums. “I wonder what stories they’d have to share. Maybe we’d even become good friends, you never know. Does that answer your little riddle?”

Well, you tried.

“Uh, yeah. Sorry for springing that on you,” your grip tightens on the receiver. “Tell sweet Mx. Firefly I said hello, ‘kay?”

“I’ll be sure to do that.”

Before you can start the ‘I’ll let you go’ formalities, you hear rustling. Your head snaps back up from the floor that you took an acute interest in staring at, panicked. Boothill is moving - well, trying to, by the looks of it. He sluggishly picks his head up, and you’re met with that stitched expression once more. How can he see? Should you even question it at this point?

You hang up hastily, nearly cracking the artifact of a landline in the process.

“Uh,” you stand there, dumb. “Does your head hurt?”

Right after the words leave your mouth, the regret and embarrassment settle in nicely. Of course it doesn’t hurt! He probably can’t even feel pain--

Boothill then suddenly springs out of his seat, making your hackles raise on instinct. You don’t know what he’s trying to pull, so you stiffen.

“Nope, I’m right as rain,” he says, stretching his arms above his head, like he’s emulating an aerobics instructor. There are no sounds of joints popping from prolonged slumber, reminding you that he’s still entirely inhuman.

He continues, oblivious to your plight. “You scared the fudge outta me with that hatchet, though. I reckon you thought I meant you harm?” A pause. “S’nice in here. You got AC?”

He surveys your kitchen, curious and looming. Something about it rubs you the wrong way - he’s acting so familiar despite you 1) knocking him out (debatable), and 2) not knowing you at all. Well, he certainly fits in around these parts. Clearing your throat and watching him with narrowed eyes, you formulate a response and motion with your hand for him to sit again.

“Just…” you pinch the bridge of your nose and walk over to the opposite side of the table, never turning your back to him completely. “Sit down. Don’t try anything.”

Boothill complies with a halfhearted shrug. You follow suit, now staring him down at the opposite end. How do you start, and with what? You’ve never been great at talking to people, not that it bothers you.

Well, he’s not really a person, so maybe it’ll work out in your favor.

“What are you? Do you remember how you got here?”

Good enough; the former’s answer will determine how self-aware (and by extension, dangerous) he is, while the latter’s might give you the slightest context on his supernatural circumstances. Baby steps, you remind yourself. Baby steps. You and him seem to be tackling this in stride. Good - the sooner you have this conversation, the sooner you can put this all behind you.

“Ah, well…” he scratches his head with a moth-eaten fingertip, “I can’t say I remember much. Also, I’m gonna choose to overlook that first question! I’m Boothill, and those birds were peckin’ the crap outta me. I woke up at sunrise, very confused, might I add - can’t say I’ve ever been on this farm before.”

You sigh. He isn’t gonna give you any clues whatsoever, huh. “Okay, well--” Boothill cuts you off, “Well is right. Not so fast, now. I haven’t even got your name yet! Someone who’ll run an axe through ya without hesitation must be of a different caliber for sure.”

Is that… admiration coloring his tone? Even though his disposition practically screams it in your face, he’s definitely a weird one. You spit out your name, hurrying through the introduction in favor of processing this information.

He’s articulate, and you don’t mean just verbally; he idles like a 1930s toon, bouncing and animated, brimming with life. He’s more of a mannequin than a scarecrow, as if made for the sole purpose of waking up all antsy and making it your problem. With all this in mind, you blurt out your first immediate thought:

“You need to leave.”

You don’t need this burden sitting across from you, so you tell him as much; some people would see that as cruel, but it’s more fair if anything. You have your small, tight-knit group of friends that you talk to sporadically, and you have your farm. That’s it.

Boothill deflates, bravado waning when you turn the tides. “Leave? Bud, where else would I go?”

…that’s true. He has nowhere to go, no memories, no social or life skills (probably), and you doubt anyone else will have a kinder reaction than you unless they’re plain stupid. You want to tell him to get lost in that same tone you use when someone encroaches too far on your lifestyle - it works wonders. If you get loud and unpleasant enough, it’ll send him packing, you’re sure of it.

So why aren’t you getting started? Why can’t you tell this too-human-non-human to just scat already?

“I got nobody,” he hums, all too casual for the implications of those words. “Unless you count those crows that seemed more interested in havin’ me for lunch.”

He has nobody.

This guy you barely know whatsoever doesn’t have a Kafka or a Silver Wolf. He doesn’t have any memories of makeshift tire swings and underage driving; he doesn’t have any souvenirs of late parents and old flames. He doesn’t have anything. The world is bound to chew him up and spit him out (if he even gets that chance).

Boothill reclines against the dark wood of his seat rest, as if permanently cementing his spot there. His features are a bit hard to read, but the material of his face crinkles, at odds with the strain of his smile.

Damn this stupid, traitorous heart of yours.

“Boothill,” you hate how your house voice softens, “Can you work? If you’re going to… remain here, only for the time being, you’re gonna have to pull your weight.”

He laughs again, this time much more human. If you cared more, you’d call him out on his palpable relief.

“Guess I’ll learn, huh?” he flicks the brim of his hat. Then, surprising you once more, he hunches over, stomach pressed flush against the table.

“What--”

Boothill uses this new position as leverage to outstretch his arm to you, and by extension, his hand. His open palm, also inlaid with crude stitching, barely reaches your wary form.

Swallowing your hesitance, you don’t leave him hanging too long. You wrap your hand around his own, fiber of his beaten up flannel (or maybe that’s just him) tickling your skin. He’s warm.

Boothill shakes your hand firmly.

“Thank ya kindly.”

You pull away first as he returns to taking up his own space. God, what have you gotten yourself into?

“Just… whatever.”

As late afternoon arrives, you go about stress-cooking up a big meal to get your mind off of your neglected chores and this entire nightmare at hand. It’s extremely hard to ignore Boothill, though, especially when he can be compared to a lost puppy in terms of his curiosity.

(He also tries to sample some of your cooking. It does not work, on account of him not having a tongue. Or real teeth. Or a stomach. Or a digestive tract.)

It’s going to be a bumpy road ahead. You sigh.

#stwf : pumpkin patch!#boothill x reader #hsr x reader #honkai star rail x reader #boothill hsr #boothill x you #hsr boothill x reader #boothill hsr x reader #boothill x y/n #honkai: star rail x reader #✧ my writing

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starshideurfics · 4 months ago

Text

Thirsty Thursday - Shut up and dance with me

steddie, omegaverse, a little bit of fun during my angst-fest to celebrate some follower milestones 🥰

Steve keeps saying he feels goofy wearing a suit, even if he’s happy to do it for Robin. It’s non-traditional, sticking an omega in black-tie. But neither is an alpha like Buckley having an omega as her best man. Her mating ceremony is beautiful, Chrissy absolutely sparkles, and Steve cries through half of it because he’s so happy for his best friend.

Eddie might cry a little, too.

He’s seated in the front row, with Robin’s family, since he and Steve are ‘capital S’ Serious, and Steve has practically been adopted by Robin’s parents. Melissa catches him crying and smiles; she’s certain to ask when he and Steve are going to tie the knot themselves.

He’s nowhere near ready to answer that one. Especially without Steve to help. Eddie hasn’t wanted to rush things, even being friends so long beforehand. Knows that he loves Steve more than anything. But they’ve barely been dating a year…

After the ceremony, Steve catches his eye from the reception line. “You good?” Eddie mouths, quirking a questioning brow.

Steve makes a dumb face—pretends to cry—gives him a thumbs up, and it’s like everything rearranges, his whole world shifting a couple inches to the left.

He knows.

All his worries about it being too fast float away like so much dust on the wind. He’d be happy enough watching Steve from across the room for the rest of his life, to giggle and mime at one another.

But after the reception, he gets to take Steve home.

Not being in the wedding party, he should honestly head over to the venue soon—after going through the receiving line. He kisses Chrissy’s cheek, tells her she looks stunning, high fives Robin for locking down her perfect omega, and whispers, “I’ll be waiting for you with a cocktail,” in Steve’s ear.

He manages to cop a feel, squeezing Steve’s ass before pulling back, earning him a tiny whine as they part.

Forcing himself to keep walking, Eddie hates leaving his m—

Hates leaving Steve. He wants to run back and scoop him into his arms. To keep him close.

Instead, he gets in Steve’s car and drives to the reception, grabs a scotch from the open bar, and distracts himself from missing Steve by chatting with Jonathan who is just as in need of the company since Argyle and Nancy are also in the wedding party.

Eddie’s on his second scotch when he hears whispers that the limo has arrived, and he goes to order a Manhattan for Steve with extra cherries. He’s barely got the coupe glass in hand before the DJ is announcing the new Mr. and Mrs. Buckley.

They’ve changed into their reception outfits: Chrissy’s dress short and frothy, Robin in metallic pants and a shirt unbuttoned halfway down her sternum, both of them already dancing as they make their grand entrance.

The whole room hoots and hollers as they burst into cheers.

The rest of the party has changed too. Nancy’s in a slinky dress, the depth of the black of it the only thing hiding the outline of her dick. Argyle is in shorts that make him seem ridiculously tall, and Heather is in a romper covered in rhinestones.

Then there’s Steve.

He’s dressed to match Robin in silver-sequined pants, trading the button-down for a loose tank top that shows off too much of his golden skin, freckles and moles like so many stars in the sky.

Eddie’s mouth waters as he makes his way over to him, drink in hand.

“Damn, sweetheart!” he says, eyes locked on Steve’s tits, needing to hold him by the sides and slip his thumbs in to tease his nipples.

Steve grips hush chin, tilts his gaze up until their eyes meet. “Thanks, babe.” He smiles into their kiss, uses his teeth a little.

Eddie offers him the drink, and Steve happily accepts, plucking out a cherry and popping it into his mouth. Another kiss, this one cherry-sweet, and Steve downs his drink, holding his extra cherry between his teeth for a long moment, grinning as he bites it in half.

“Why is it so hot when you do that?” Eddie rasps, his dress pants suddenly a little too tight.

Steve smiles, pulls half the cherry from between his lips, and presses it to Eddie’s mouth. “Shut up and dance with me, Munson,” he says, laughing, barely containing his delight.

He drags Eddie onto the dance floor, the alpha going willingly, hands easily finding their way onto Steve’s hips. Falling to the beat, into moving with one another is easy. So easy, Eddie nearly forgets his revelation from earlier.

And he’s distracted again by Steve’s chest.

“You okay there, Munson?” he teases, using a single finger to direct Eddie’s gaze back up to face him. “Keep your eyes on me.”

A purr rumbles through Eddie’s chest as he leans in close. “Why d’ya still call me Munson all the time, Stevie?” he murmurs, then kisses Steve’s ear.

“Like the way it sounds. I like everything about you, Eddie.” The words are soft and vulnerable, barely audible over the pulse of the music.

It makes Eddie brave enough to be vulnerable, too.

“How do you like the sound of Mrs. Munson? Or Ms.” He smiles. “Whichev-”

Steve cuts him off with a kiss.

“I like the sound of that a lot.”

#steddie #omegaverse #fanfiction #omega steve harrington #alpha eddie munson #ficlet #stranger things fic #thirsty thursday

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mcnostril · 1 month ago

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Sometimes, I play them videosgames

I've been trying a bunch of Steam Next Fest demos and I must crown three kings:

I've had my eye on Mohrta for a while and it does not disappoint. A little bit of collision jank and some performance quibbles, but great levels, satisfying gunplay and very intriguing setting. The sound design deserves special mention, it really sells the weird worlds you're traipsing through.

HARK THE GHOUL has the chonky graphics I crave, and is also a fantastically weird setting that is very compelling. I find King's Field type games usually a bit on the simplistic side mechanically, but with the kick and the various items/weapon types, this one spices thing up and I want to see where it goes.

Poke ALL Toads is a decent puzzler and I enjoyed solving how to avoid retribution while annoying all amphibians, but what really got me was the wonderful animation work. Just peak charm on every frame that had me failing on purpose so I could see every animated interaction of this smug little pest of a fairy (gave me that Battle Chess nostalgia, but better because toad-based puzzling).

Not quite a king, but Project Silverfish gets honorary Baron status:

It's got very good atmosphere and I think it's shaping up great but I feel like it's missing a *something* to really take off, just not sure what (it could just be a polish thing, this is apparently quite the early build). Keeping an eye on it though, it's got the potential for kingliness.

#mcnostril #steam next fest #mohrta #hark the ghoul #poke all toads #project silverfish #videogames #first impressions

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fivealarmfest · 7 months ago

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🔥 WELCOME TO THE FIVE ALARM FEST! 🔥 Is it getting hot in here, or is it just us? Five Alarm Fest is a 9-1-1 and 9-1-1: Lone Star NSFW Fic & Art Week open to all 18+ participants. We'll be burning it down from July 15th to July 21st with a different prompt for each day. Please check out the RULES before participating. Prompts for the week are as follows:

DAY ONE: Coda or Missing Scene DAY TWO: After a Dry Spell DAY THREE: Intercrural (No Penetration) DAY FOUR: New Experiences/New Kinks DAY FIVE: At the Firehouse DAY SIX: Rare Pair or Solo Play DAY SEVEN: Creator’s Choice

Please tag all posts with #fivealarmfest2024 and post each piece to the AO3 Collection. Any questions? Feel free to send us an ask. Please reblog to signal boost and we'll see you in July!

#fivealarmfest2024 #911 fandom events #911 abc #911abc #911ls #buddie #bucktommy #tarlos #henren #madney #bathena

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unnamedpebble · 4 months ago

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White Hole Station

Ramblings below

Day 6: Space Station for @outerwilds-events <3

One of my favorite visual moment of the game is when you exit the white hole and the station is appearing as a silhouette against the Sun. Also I wanted to draw some stars and small planets soooo-

And since I'm rambling, I want to point out that in the beginning I was only going to do one day of the fest and now I'm actively planning my week around it so that I can submit art everyday. This event boosted my motivation + inspiration so tysm to the Outerwilds Event mod !! I'll probs post a late submission on monday that would've fit the day 1 prompt I missed.

Bonus little Hatchling + meme

#campfire fest 2024 #campfire fest #outer wilds #outer wilds fanart #outer wilds art #outer wilds ventures #do not steal #unnamedpebble #outer wilds hatchling #outer wilds spoilers #rlly small hatchling in situations

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wonderlesch · 11 months ago

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Can’t Miss February 2024 Events

Can't Miss February 2024 Events shares a travel destination guide to fill your February with concerts, festivals, cruises and more. Get your calendar ready and start planning all of your February adventures. #wednesdaywonders #wonderlesch #blogpostalert

Hello and welcome to my latest travel destination guide sharing Can’t Miss February 2024 Events. Start filling your February calendar with events like Alaska Craft Brew & Barley Wine Festival. They had me at craft beer. Aggie Con, it’s the oldest student run convention in the United States. Texas A&M sure knows how to throw a party, convention. I meant convention. ShipRocked is a music festival…

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#A Few of my Favorite Things #Aggie Con #Alaska Craft Brew and Barley Wine Festival #Cali Vibes Fest #Can&039;t Miss February 2024 Events #February Getaways #Fort Worth Music Festival and Conference #Gallifrey One #Music Festivals #New Blog Post #Palm Tree Music Festival Aspen #Sci-Fi Conventions #Shiprocked #Star Trek The Cruise #Things to do in February #Travel Destination Guide #Vacation Plans

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emmyarts7 · 2 months ago

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The end of a saga.

OOOOHHH BOY. I got a lot of words. First off yes I did make an Eight styled poem for this. Second, This silly little series about squid people has left me in a chokehold. I remember looking at the trailers in 2015 as a little 8/9 year old and now I’m close to finishing high school.

I remember missing the my first splatfest (pokemon splatfest) because I wasn’t home…. I also remember being so sad during the Callie and Marie splatfest and team Callie losing because that’s what I was on. I remember me and my sisters attempting 100s of times to beat Octavio in the original single player. the joy from hearing color pulse for the first time and seeing pearl and marina. I had the song playing as we were fighting Octavio.

Can’t forget seeing the octo expansion for the first time and rushing downstairs to buy it. Then all the videos I watched from snorth93 on YouTube when octo expansion was coming out listening to his theories curled up in a ball in the front of my room. Wishing octo expansion would come out.

Oh god I went crazy when “coming tomorrow” was announced. Of course I Can’t forget fighting for team order on final fest. (I still have my old art from then if anyone’s curious) I remember being in denial when splatoon 3 got revealed and quickly running like a track star to my phone to look up more when my sister showed me the trailer. Now here we stand in time, I’ve fought hard for team future, it was great fighting along so many people! Good job to everyone on future and the other teams!

IM EXCITED TO SEE WHATS NEXT FOR THIS SILLY LITTLE SERIES

#splatoon #splatoon 3 #nintendo #thank you #love this silly game #agent 3 #original art #splatoon art #splatoon fanart #captain 3 #splatoon promo kids #i wanna cry #so many memories #just saw the splatfest celebration video too #crying like a baby

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raven-at-the-writing-desk · 7 months ago

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rabbit costume + luxe couture miss raven

Because I love the Alice in Wonderland aesthetic and White Rabbit Fest is running in EN right now… 😭 I decided to make a Rabbit Costume for my OC! Figured I’d also do the same for the event running in JP at the same time, Tapis Rouge in the Shaftlands.

Special thanks goes to @peripheralsanity for the super adorable bonus drawing of Miss Raven in her Rabbit Costume 😭 I wanna cram that bunny into my mouth like an Easter marshmallow…

My own doodles are below the cut, along with various design notes 📝

First up, the Rabbit Costume!

It takes a lot of inspiration from Alice herself: the bow in her hair, the dress, the apron. Miss Raven’s Heartslabyul dorm uniform design also pulls inspiration from Alice, so I tried very hard to make this look unique from that!

There’s a lot more bows, frills, and huge, goofy-looking accessories—like the rabbit ears + tail plus the shoes. The outfit also features a lot of pastel checkerboard pattern and shimmery makeup, like what is featured in Deuce’s Rabbit Costume. Upon closer inspection, there’s even more intricacies! Raven’s apron has heart-shaped pockets, the apron’s top has card motifs stitched into it, and the corset belt has a rabbit slowly dressing and then taking up a bugle to play. The transition demonstrates her own adaption to living among non-animals 😅

The rabbit on her skirt, chain, prize ribbon, and earring aren’t the White Rabbit but a cobbled together rabbit that’s missing an eye. The XO Rabbit poses as and stillinvokes the image of the White Rabbit, especially when it’s right next to a pocket watch. It fits Raven, who is someone not “organically” in the world of TWST (since she’s an OC).

I think my favorite part of this design is the super wacky and big hair. You may recognize it from the Hatsune Miku x Cinnamoroll campaign that was popular a while back. The shape reminded me of bunny ears, so I thought it would be nice to incorporate into Raven’s Rabbit Costume.

There’s so many strange things in clock town to observe! Miss Raven would have a fun time hopping around and seeing the sights… documenting them with Ortho, picking out clocks and other souvenirs with Silver, chomping through the local specialties with Epel. Ah, and as for Deuce 🤔 “Your son is trying very hard in his studies, ma’am,” she’d tell Dylla very seriously. “I commend him for his efforts.” (She very tactfully focuses on his improvements and personal growth over the actual numbers he produces.) Students of 1-A gotta look out for each other, right? Deuce fist bumps her behind her back or something to signal his thanks.

Miss Raven isn’t the athletic type, so I don’t think she would run in the relay race with them. (It would be hard to run in that dress anyway.) She can stick on the sidelines and cheer for them…!

Next is the Luxe Couture!

I actually made two variants. One is more inspired by the Fairest Queen’s raven and the other is similar to the SR and R boys’ huntsman-inspired designs.

The first has more of an old-fashioned movie star feel to it… which isn’t really what Vil invited the other students for so it falls outside of canon 😂 I just thought it would be cool to have a more personalized, glamorous fit for Raven.

She has much darker and more excessive eye makeup in this version. A bold, more confident look outside of her usual wheelhouse. Her hair is also curled into her face to resemble feathers, and her bun also has strands spiked up to look like feathers too. The dress itself is also very feathery, forming a train behind her wherever she stomps in her heels. The top of the dress also acts as a feather boa, making her appear larger and more intimidating than she actually is.

If you’re wondering why tiny skull earrings, it’s because the Evil Queen’s raven falls into a skull at one point in the movie 💀 since it’s so taken aback by what it is witnessing… That “wow!” but also somewhat scared feeling is very similar to how Raven feels entering Fairest City, so I wanted to include a skull in some way. If I made the motif too big or too obvious, then it might clash with the whole ensemble so I chose to go with an understated accessory instead.

This look is definitely the most “different” of the group, but I tried to keep some elements in common with the others. For example, Raven still has the lace curtain which appears from where her dress is slit. She also has sheer gloves that have been studded with little white rhinestones. The jewels aren’t as big or colorful as Vil’s, but that’s the point: to not outshine the star. Miss Raven is nothing more than the shadow that clings to its queen 😌

The more group-cohesive outfit is last!

It’s a similar double-breasted beige coat as Jamil’s, but it fans out into a dress + slacks at the bottom and has different sleeves. The puffiness of the sleeves at the shoulder and wrists make her seem large and in-charge! The buttons on her coat are large pearls.

I tried to maintain the huntsman’s color scheme throughout the outfit. Because of this, Raven’s belt is red and the lace in her dress is green. Her boots are similar to hiking boots (just picture them fancier in your head OTL I’m not great at drawing footwear).

We get her forehead in this design!! Her hair is pulled back into a “fancier than usual” ponytail, with her hair bunched into one loop before resuming as a normal ponytail. The clasp she uses is similar to the one Vil wears in his school uniform. Originally, I thought of just shoving an arrow through instead but decided against it since it makes the huntsman theme too obvious. The same reasoning came up when I considered giving Raven a small cocktail hat that looks similar to what the huntsman wore. Her head just looks so naked without something there 😂 but in the end I managed to refrain, and I think that helped the outfit look more clean and elegant.

Raven would be excited to visit Fairest City—it’s the capital of the entertainment industry! Though her main medium is quite different than that of films, she’s always wanted to visit for educational purposes. (Maybe she can learn from the scriptwriters there!) “At least one of you cares to learn,” Vil would tut. The trip’s a little stressful, trapped between Jamil and Azul’s petty remarks at one another and Ace teasing her for being the “odd one out” of the group—but hey, it’s all worth it for the experiences made there! I’d imagine that Raven loves all the pampering they get and all the important people they meet, it makes her feel like a real princess. Everywhere she looks, the streets and stores are shining too! Her raven blood is soaring. “I didn’t realize you had such excitable juniors, Vil,” Eric would chuckle. (“Waaaah, so cool! Like a prince!!” Raven would gush, earning eye rolls from her classmates and a groan from Ace.)

Walking on the red carpet wouldn’t interest her that much; she doesn’t like the attention so she tries hard to just fade behind the others and play support as best she can. Carrying Vil’s things or helping him with his makeup is no problem, just don’t thrust her under the spotlight and all the flashing cameras!

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hazbinshusk · 2 months ago

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This one is so interesting! A kiss out of spite for Husk? 👀✨

oh, love, it took me a few to figure out where I was going with this, but I love it lol. between my laptop being an asshole and life kind of sucking, I'm just so happy to finally have this finished :)

prompt #41: a kiss out of spite.

“Ooh! And we can set up a flower arranging class over there…” Charlie points towards the far end of the hotel lobby excitedly, and you hurriedly circle the same place on the floor plan on your clipboard and mark it with a flower.

You almost trip over your own feet as she suddenly changes direction, clasping her hands together excitedly. Alastor, walking beside you with his hands tucked demurely behind his back, notices your slip with an irritatingly condescending smirk. He takes Charlie’s rerouting in stride, watching her go with the same blandly indulgent expression as a father pretending to care about their toddler’s half-gibberish rambling.

“…And over there we can host a seminar on building healthy relationships!” the princess declares, clasping her hands together and bouncing happily on her heels. Ahead of you, Vaggie is working on hanging a banner that declare the Hazbin Hotel a ‘Home for Happy Hearts!’, the flap of her wings rustling through the plants Niffty had just finished watering below her. “What d’you think?”

You scrawl the words ‘healthy seminar’ on the floorplan before looking up to meet her expectant expression. Valentine’s Day is coming up, and Charlie had recently come up with the idea to host a weekend-long event to promote building healthy connections among Sinners.

Choosing your words carefully, you give her a small, encouraging smile. “It sounds great, Charlie, I just… I don’t know if flowers and a seminar is enough to compete with the Vees.”

Every year since Valentino had claimed the title of Overlord, he’d been throwing annual fuck-fests here in Pride – an easy cash grab for him and his partners – that were supposed to emulate the bacchanalias of the Lust Ring. Mostly, it was just one big, weekend-long orgy with questionable rules about consent and overpriced merchandise.

Charlie deflates slightly. “Really?”

You shrug a shoulder apologetically. The three of you make your way towards the bar, where Husk is polishing a glass. Upon seeing the change in your trajectory, he reaches for the bottle of rye he keeps for Alastor with a sigh.

“I just… Valentine’s Day has such a… specific vibe here in Hell. I don’t think the whole sexless group lessons on communicating is going to draw the crowds you think it will when there’s a straight up orgy happening a few blocks away.”

You take a seat at the bar, color rising in your cheeks as Husk's eyes flicker up to meet yours just as you mention the orgy. You clear your throat, missing the small smile that touches Husk's face. He turns away from the three of you when he catches him, replacing the rye on the shelf, lest Alastor notice his reaction.

Forcing yourself back to the conversation at hand, you continue, "Especially since we won't even have the draw of Hell's hottest porn star to bring people in on the day."

Angel was of course contractually obliged to help host the depravity for the Vees; he’d reluctantly left a few hours ago to go and shoot the promo pieces for the event.

“Oh.” Charlie pouts, and you immediately feel worse about voicing your concerns. Her brow furrows for a moment as she considers what you’ve said, before she breaks in to a grin. “Oh! I know! We need to film another advertisement for the hotel!”

Husk deflates slightly at the idea, setting a glass in front of you. You hadn't even noticed him making you a drink. When you smile at him by way of thanks, he shrugs a shoulder, that smile reappearing. This time, you return it.

"I don't know if that..."

"We can get some decorations up and everyone can dress up," Charlie continues, and Alastor is swirling his drink idly, looking annoyingly entertained by your inability to get your point across. "And maybe if we get some of our single residents and staff to appear in the ad..."

She gives you and Husk a pointed, hopeful look, and he holds up his hands immediately, ears falling back against his skull. "Leave me outta it, Princess. I ain't got any interest in bein' paraded around like some kinda show pony. 'sides, you might need to find someone a little younger if you wanna actually get people through the door."

"Awww," Charlie coos, and Husk rolls his eyes to the ceiling.

"This ain't self-pity, Princess." he continues. And he genuinely sounds as though he means it. Resigned, maybe, but not self-pitying. "'m bein' realistic."

"I'm afraid my old friend Husker is right, my dear," Alastor pipes up, rolling his cane between his fingers in a show of idleness. "As much as he may have mastered the art of pouring a half-decent cocktail, he hasn't the same... finesse when it comes to seduction."

Husk glowers, and you can't help yourself. "And how would you know?"

Alastor's smile twitches wider as his tone turns to one of faux-pity. "Oh, dear girl, I have known our bartender a long time. And even before he came into my employ, I think you'll find-"

"Al." Husk interjects sullenly. "I think they get the point."

"-that he didn't have too much luck in romance." The radio demon's grin takes on a wicked tilt. "Long-term, anyway. Hm, Husker?"

The bartender grunts noncommittedly, color staining his muzzle.

Charlie's still pouting sympathetically, and you swear it's making it worse for Husk. Hell, you kind of wish you could just get up and leave to spare him the audience, but somehow that feels worse - like you'd be judging him somehow. Sure, you don't know much about Husk's past, but as curious as you are, you're positive this isn't how the bartender wants his issues aired to any of you.

"I'm sure that's not true, Husk," Charlie says, and she makes move to reach out to touch his hand for a moment before reconsidering. "I'm... uh, I'm sure you could still-"

"Please don't." You have to stop yourself from smiling at Husk - he just sound so fucking done.

"Yes, Charlie..." Alastor continues smugly. He is really starting to piss you off. "We'd hate to embarrass our dear bartender any more, would we? If he's a little over the hill, it's all the-"

"Oh, for fuck's sake-" you roll your eyes, leaning over the bar and grabbing ahold of Husk's suspender. He manages a surprised flush and wide eyes before you crush your lips against his.

The kiss is abrupt and has a rough edge to it that makes your stomach swirl, but Husk relaxes into it after a moment, his paw coming up to cover the hand you have wrapped around his suspender. The other touches your cheek gently, claws sliding through the hair behind your ear. His tongue teases against your bottom lip for a moment before he remembers himself and pulls away. Still, you swear you hear the first low thrum of a purr rolling through his chest before you separate.

Both of you are blushing deeply and you snatch your hand away as you set yourself back on the stool. Charlie is staring at the two of you with hearts in her eyes and a slack jaw, and you swallow back the way your heart is in your throat to turn to Alastor.

"I don't know, Al. Seems like Husk still knows what he's doing to me." you shrug, desperately feigning detachment. You turn to Charlie. "I don't know if another ad is the way to go, but I'm sure we can think of something. Maybe you can get Alastor to talk about it on his broadcast. Maybe he could even use that famous voice of his to host events on the day."

Alastor's ever-present smile twitches, his eyes narrowing as Charlie gasps excitedly. Standing, you meet Husk's eye again. There's amusement in his gaze, and still-lingering shock. And something else that makes your heart dance against your ribcage. Forcing yourself to remain calm, you wink at him.

Husk smiles in return.

Oh, this was totally worth pissing off the radio demon.

send me a prompt and either husk or blitzø

#hazbin hotel #husk #hazbin husk x reader #husk x reader #husk fic #my fic #husk x you #husk hazbin hotel #hazbin hotel husk #hazbin husk #hazbin hotel husk x reader #hazbin hotel x reader

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