#been looking at my hard drive

[black-and-yellow]

The walk home from UA

[luck-of-the-drawings]

"I think this is the most inhuman; and human, that I've ever felt.." MUCH CAN HAPPEN IN A YEAR. IN FIVE YEARS. A DECADE. imagine how much can happen in a century. just ONE (1). How will you grow? what phases do you find? even in 5 years, you will find patterns.

[dykedvonte]

The second fic idea is a what-if scenerio where Jimmy dies in the crash due to and altercation with Curly and how Curly would navigate being Captain once he has to notice the little things and how he and Anya's relationship develop as he adopts an identical view point to hers rather than just keeping the peace.

And maybe i will write it but only time will tell tbh but it's stuck in my brain dome for the time being.

[alshaverpressbox]

your 2023-2024 minnesota wild (girls just wanna have fun edition)

[inspired by]

[thelaurenshippen]

the way that silver said "I will stand here with you an hour, a day, a year" to flint and "I will wait a day, a month, a year, forever" to madi....I'm sick to my stomach. who is doing unhinged devotion like this man

[carolperkinsexgirlfriend]

Steddie Upside-Down AU Part 87

Part 1 Part 86

Mom’s hovering in front of the door, a knife in her hand, trying to get the rest of them to get away from the window. It’s not working. If anything, Max’s nose only presses more firmly to the glass with every request she makes.

Will’s hovering just behind her, desperate to keep Steve and Eddie in his line of sight. He can just barely see the wisp of a curl through the side window of the van, bouncing as Eddie moves around inside.

He squints, trying to keep the hair in sight as the movement becomes more erratic.

Will hears glass breaking just as he loses sight of Eddie entirely, wisps and all.

He rushes past his Mom, using the weight of his body to open the door, even as she stands in the way. It’s almost involuntary, a compulsion to follow the thread that Eddie’d pulled him by.

“Will, don’t!” she cries, but it’s too late. He’s out, and through.

Mike calls after him, too, and there’s the sound of tennis shoes stampeding out of the house behind him. Will only hopes he’s not leading them all to their impending doom.

Bodies slump into the driveway, none of them human. They’re like if the Demogorgon had followed a different evolutionary chain. Dustin would find it fascinating. Will just wants Eddie and Steve back.

Wayne’s still standing sentry, looking out across the street, waiting for more monsters to creep in from the darkness, Barbara by his side.

Shielding the entrance to the van, is El.

“El!” It’s Mike, because it always is. He sounds so genuinely elated that something curdles and dies in his throat. He swallows it down, hopes it decomposes in his stomach, so he never has to look directly at it. “You came!”

El smiles, happily at Mike, then around to all of them. “Of course.” She looks over at Max, and she’s frowning now, that way she does when she doesn’t understand something. It used to happen all the time. Now, it’s rare.

Will doesn’t care, can’t when Eddie’s too quiet in the van somewhere Will can’t see. He pushes past her, too.

There’s a misshapen, monstrous foot sticking out of the broken window. He stares at it for a second before swinging the door open. It wrenches the foot strangely, makes it crack and tear with the resistance of the door before it breaks free, black blood flowing like the thing’s still alive. 

It stays still. 

Will looks past it, and finds Eddie’s pale face.  

There’s glass in his hair, and his palms are bleeding where they’re held in front of him, but he’s breathing. Alive. And he’s looking up at El like she’s answered all his prayers. Will and Eddie have been sharing the same prayers from the same broken pews for so long that for a second, Will thinks Steve is back. 

He scrambles over the dead thing blocking his entrance. It’s cold against his palms, flesh barely giving as he crawls hand over feet atop it. But, Steve’s still just sitting there, blinking, Carol huddled into his side like he can protect her, even like this.

“Steve needs your help,” Eddie says, plaintive. Begging with both voice and unblinking eyes, gaze locked on El’s own until she breaks it to look at where Steve still sits, unbothered.

Her brow furrows, eyes squinting like she’s peeling off layers of skin and meat to get to whatever’s underneath. “He’s lost?” she asks.

Carol is squinting at El like the words aren’t clicking for her. She looks back to Steve, then back to El, brow furrowing with anger.

Eddie nods. Will clears his throat. “Not like last time,” he clarifies. “He’s here, but his mind isn’t.”

El nods, decisive. “I will help.”

“What the hell are you all talking about!” Carol demands, even as people scatter around her, setting up for El’s latest rescue mission. “He’s right there!”

She’s not looking at Will, though. She’s looking at Eddie like it’s all his fault. Still, when Steve doesn’t say anything, her lip wobbles as she turns and asks, “right Steve?”

He doesn’t answer, even as she calls again. Will looks away when she bites her lips, eyes wide.

It’s easier this time. They don’t have to break into the school, don’t have to find a pool. El just sits cross-legged in front of Steve on the carpet, careful to stay away from the broken glass and the dead thing. Mike covers her eyes with Wayne’s flannel while the man himself switches the radio dial until he finds one with enough white noise to satisfy.

He can’t quite tune out the murmured conversation between Eddie and Carol, though, no matter how hard he tries. Eddie explains, in clipped, emotionless words, that something, one of the monsters from the other place she’d just gotten a taste of, has taken over Steve. 

“But we’re getting him back?” she asks, voice shrill and breaking, contrasting with Eddie’s own even tone. A veteran to the newbie in the warzone. 

Will, suddenly, feels terribly old. 

“Quiet now,” El demands. 

Eddie looks away from Carol without answering. There is no answer to that question when they’re all subsisting off hope, and not much else.

“Tell him we’re coming, okay?” Eddie asks. He’s looking down at his own bloody palms now, like he can’t bear to look at their last bastion of hope and wait for it to flame and go out. 

“Ask ‘im how to stop the thing taking ‘im over,” Wayne interjects. 

Eddie’s lip wobbles. Will knows how he feels. He doesn’t want Steve to know, if he’s in there at all, that they don’t know what to do. Neither does Will. He wants to save Steve. He always wants to save Steve.

But, Eddie finally looks up, meeting Will’s eyes before nodding. The movement knocks a tear free, but his voice sounds clear when he says, “Ask him how we kill the fucker.”

El nods, shoulders settling as she reaches out to take Steve’s hand. The white noise blankets them all. Will settles down to wait. 

That’s what they always do, when Steve is dying: they wait. This time is no different. 

Part 88

Taglist: @deany-baby @estrellami-1 @altocumulustranslucidus @evillittleguy @carlprocastinator1000 @hallucinatedjosten @goodolefashionedloverboi @newtstabber @lunabyrd @cinnamon-mushroomabomination @manda-panda-monium @disrespectedgoatman @finntheehumaneater @ive-been-bamboozled @harringrieve @grimmfitzz @is-emily-real @dontstealmycake @angeldreamsoffanfic @a-couchpotato @5ammi90 @mac-attack19 @genderless-spoon @kas-eddie-munson @louismeds @imhereforthelolzdontyellatme @pansexuality-activated @ellietheasexylibrarian @nebulainajar @mightbeasleep @neonfruitbowl @beth--b @silenzioperso @best-selling-show @v3lv3tf0x @bookworm0690 @paintsplatteredandimperfect @wonderland-girl143-blog @nerdsconquerall @sharingisntkaren @canmargesimpson @bananahoneycomb

[seepingfrommyskin]

“I don’t belong with you, I never did.”

hi yes my first time posting my art here and I come bearing fanart for @hella1975 ‘s amazing atla fic The Art of Burning, you can find this specific scene in chapter 28! if you haven't read it yet I highly recommend.

(click for better quality)

[kurtsascot]

Ugh, As If!

read klueless, a klaine!clueless au, on ao3!!!!

HQ Version of Cover Art ; Art Ref Image

Summary: It’s 1995. Kurt’s a senior at McKinley High, and he’s looking to lose his virginity and get his love life in order before he goes off to college.

Unfortunately, Blaine, the pretentious son of Burt’s ex-wife, is in Lima to intern for Burt’s congressional reelection campaign, and Kurt is stuck dealing with him until the election is over.

Art: alice / @warblercore @mistyintherivers

Rating: M*

Key Tags: enemies to lovers, but its more like, oblivious idiots to lovers, kurt’s more oblivious than blaine, romcom shenanigans, 90s slang, humor, virginity, falling in love, forced proximity, first time*, pining, hurt/comfort, fluff, slowburn, kind of ?, internalized homophobia, period appropriate homophobia but like…as little as possible, klaine endgame

Soundtrack (updated as chapters go live)

closeups under the read more !!

[sesamestreep]

“requiem for methuselah” crazy ass episode for many reasons. Kirk is being fully insane, like I don’t actually think, even controlling for how quickly and easily and readily he seems to fall in love with anybody at the slightest encouragement, that he’d go that bonkers for that android woman he just met while everyone on the ship was this close to dying, but that’s neither here nor there, because in the background you’ve got an equally but much more subtly insane episode for Spock, who extremely uncharacteristically admits to experiencing an emotion (or nearly experiencing, whatever) and that emotion is ENVY of all things. And then spends the rest of the episode warning Kirk away from this new love interest (something that doesn’t usually happen, even when Kirk has very inadvisable love interests) and is, in the end, the person who accurately identifies that Rayna’s competing love for Kirk and Flint is ultimately what overwhelms and destroys her with the most killer line in maybe history???

And then to wrap it up we get an equally uncharacteristic sort of denouement scene (TOS loooves to cut an episode off right after the actual climax, leaving little time for falling action or character reflection, or to stick a sitcom-y button on the end where the gang all smiles and laughs at their misadventures and everything resets to zero, which is not a criticism, it’s just the style of that era of tv, honestly) where Kirk is literally miserable over Rayna’s death (again, kind of unusual for a lot of his love interests, he tends to be able to move on pretty quickly) and Spock goes to see him and he falls asleep right in front of Spock (also odd) and then when Bones comes in to give the final word on Flint, Spock waves him off from waking the Captain (tender) and Bones gives him that awful speech about how it’s sadder that Spock can’t even imagine the love Kirk felt for this random android woman than it is that Kirk lost her in the first place (debatable but also rude) and how his great tragedy is that he can’t love at all like they can and how all he wishes is that Kirk could forget about all of this and move on. AND THEN, to have Bones leave and Spock go over to Kirk and very gently, tenderly, reluctantly touch him and put his hand to his forehead and tell him to forget and HAVE THAT BE THE END OF THE EPISODE??? What am I supposed to do with that??

[stonestan]

literally everyone: i hope robotnik and stone kiss in sonic 3

me, crying, crossing my fingers, praying to god himself: I WANNA SEE THEM DANCE TOGETHER, PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE

[starry-bi-sky]

*grips Shen Qingqiu by the shoulders*

aren't you tired of being nice? Don't you want to crack under the pressure of the system and the robbed autonomy of being forced into a role you had no choice in but have to play anyways? don't you want to buckle under the realization that, to you, no matter what you do your life is going to end in a horrific death? Whether that be under Luo Binghe's hands or the System's?

Don't you want to realize that no matter all the good you have done and the lives you have changed and saved, you're still standing at the ledge of a cliff with a sword to your disciple's chest?

Shouldn't it be you at the edge instead? Balancing on the crumbling dirt's end of death on either side, and you can either walk into it or be forced?

don't you want to go apeshit?

[skunkes]

i dpnt want to go hoooome

[bloodofgrapes]

I received about a million and one requests for Franziska, and I’m pretty glad for it. I haven’t drawn her in all this time because I could never settle on a “design” for her, at least until I made myself work on it again tonight.

I’ve talked a little bit about Fran before, but it’s so good to come back to her. When I was a teenager playing these games, I LOVED Franziska, and I still do. She was easily my favorite, and while I relate to her less these days, I still think she’s an amazing and underutilized character in the trilogy

[missluthorwillseeyounow]

👉👈 soooo.... sharing my OCs. please be nice?

The Trio

Rado/Radomil AKA Radomillia: a cinnamon roll; childhood friends with Merisalia — she was bullied as a child by her family and peers, and Salia was the only one who defended her and made her feel seen. When Salia becomes a living goddess to the Faithful then goes missing, Rado hires Miras, an expert hunter and tracker, to look for her.

Salia AKA Merisalia AKA The Goddess: a tough one to crack; childhood friends with Rado — she earned Rado’s loyalty by being her defender as a child. Also the first person to call her Radomil. Became a living goddess according to the tradition of f the Faithful (then later “the mother of life”), and was prohibited from contact with Rado, because she was isolated from commoners. She was never able to tell Rado about her developing feelings because the Goddess is not permitted to love or be known by anyone other than her counterpart, the Father of Life. She also discovered how hypocritical and corrupt their religion is when she became the Goddess at thirteen, and this is part of the reason why she went missing when she got pregnant. She wants to tell Rado about all the lies, but Rado is a devout believer and is brainwashed like the rest of them. Disillusioned and a little bitter, this dramatic bitch's theme song is You Must Love Me (out of context of Evita the musical, mostly bc of the lyrics).

Miras AKA Esmiras: one of the Heretics, which is what they call people who grow up outside of the religion. Abandoned by her mother, she was raised by her father for the first five years of her life, until he died from one of the raids instigated by the Faithful to either convert or wipe out the Heretics. Then she grew up mostly by herself, moving place to place, with some help from the well-meaning Heretic communities she encounters. Because of her nomadic lifestyle, no one knows the land more than Miras does, which is why Rado hires her to help find Salia. A tough cookie. Insists she doesn’t care, actually cares the most. Loads of mommy issues (which Salia exploits then, uh, helps with the more they get to know each other). Just wants to be loved.

BONUS (if you’ve made it this far): spicy little snippet below the cut.

RADO

I lift the tent flap to check on Salia and the baby, but the sight inside stops me in my tracks.

Even in the dim light, pale skin glows as if haloed by fire. One sleeve has slipped down over a [pale] shoulder, and shadows from the lantern play on elegant curves, molding themselves to rounded flesh. My mouth waters like a slavering beast, and I swallow my shameful hunger.

The infant’s head is nestled on Salia's breast, shielding her from my inappropriate line of sight. He is asleep now, and I force myself to turn away, my duty done.

But Salia's low murmur keeps me rooted to my spot. “Wait.”

Reflexively, I look back at her as she puts the baby down on the small, makeshift cradle. My mouth drops as Salia straightens and turns toward me, letting her dress fall open further. I want to look away, but my own eyes are out of my command: instead, they trace the soft, heavy rounded weight of Salia's breast and enviously rove over the slightly reddened skin of a pink nipple from where the child had supped.

I wet my lips instinctively, jealously wanting to soothe the inflamed skin, to lap at the beads of moisture pooling beneath, and the jewel hues of Salia's eyes disappear, swallowed by the gold of her pupils.

A lone finger swipes at the moisture on her breast and I feel as if I am in a trance as I watch Salia hold out her hand to me. Her finger is stained with her milk.

“He is asleep, and I am still full with milk. Will you suckle from me?”

My breath stops and I am frozen in place. It is as if something has [exploded] within me. The only movement I feel is the pounding between my legs.

“Radomil?” Salia whispers, her voice low and thick, an echo of her voice in my darkest fantasies.

My feet are first to move of their own accord, unable to deny her anything. Then my hand, the traitor, accepts her offered finger and brings it to my mouth. I close my eyes and taste the sweet flavor of her.

And just like that, the battle is over. Nothing in the world has made more sense than this.

I surge forward, letting go of Salia's hand in favor of cupping her breast. I obey her and myself, and let my lips close over the pink nipple, drinking as deeply as I can.

“Yes!” Salia breathes above me, a gasp I have longed my whole life to hear. Her fingers thread into my hair, pulling me closer. “Yes, drink, my love. It is for you.”

I obey dutifully, sucking and laving with my tongue, mapping out the flesh that I have longed my whole life to touch and taste. I can hear Salia's moans, can feel her chest rising to meet my mouth, can feel her hands fisting in my hair and pulling. It sends me into a near delirium.

My hand finds her other breast weeping enviously and I soothe it with one palm, making Salia moan louder. Her milk stains my hand, and my mouth leaves her breast long enough to lick the liquid off my palm.

Our eyes meet over my hand, and I see the naked hunger glowing in Salia's eyes. In one smooth motion, she rips my hand from my mouth and surges up to replace it with her lips and tongue.

Vaguely, as our tongues tangle together, I realize that this is our first kiss. The thing I have wanted since I was a child, watching my best and only friend grow into her power and become a goddess.

I grip her tightly, wanting to savor the moment, but then I hear the baby stir beside us. I pull away unwillingly, turning slightly toward the cradle. Salia shakes her head. “He won't wake.”

The sounds from the cradle stop, and Salia is satisfied, but a stirring of guilt makes me turn toward the flap of the tent, in the direction of Miras's bed, and I stop, hesitating.

“Please…” Salia breathes beneath me, her hips writhing under mine. Still turned toward the tent flap, my last remaining scrap of thought shaped like Miras, I drop my forehead onto Salia’s. My breath is shallow and my clit throbs between my legs. Salia takes advantage. “Please, Radomil… please, I want you inside me. Where you belong.”

Her words force the breath from my lungs, and I forget all else. Salia’s glowing eyes burn into mine as she takes my hand and leads it to the cleft between her legs. Her wet heat bathes my fingers as I draw a line from her clit to her entrance. I hear her moan my name, and I exhale shakily.

She’s right, and we both know it. This is where I belong — where I have always belonged, because I have always been hers.

But as our eyes meet and I enter her, it dawns on me that perhaps the reverse is also true.

This is where I belong, because she is mine.

MIRAS

I can hear them in the stillness of the night.

The sound of their breathing so close it feels as if I am in the tent with them. My legs shift restlessly under the blanket even as I try to keep them closed. A low throaty moan that cannot be anyone but Merisalia as I hear fabric shift, and I grit my teeth. Despite my envy, my dislike for the woman, the sound sends a bolt of arousal straight to my core and I flip over to my side to keep my legs from spreading.

Then finally, her.

“Salia…”

This voice is unlike any I've heard from Radomil before. Raw and yet velvet at the same time, like leather rasping across my skin, it makes my spine tingle and my cunt clench. Rado has never spoken to me like this. This is for Merisalia alone.

I turn my head into the cloak I'd been using as a pillow, as if it could hide the envy that must be plain on my face. I pretend, as I always do nowadays, that my heart isn't caught in this woman’s vice grip.

Across the camp, I can hear the groans coming from Rado's lips, and I pretend I'm not imagining her groaning into my own skin. My cunt is wet and aching and empty. I hear Merisalia cry out, loud and wild. I can almost see that perfect face contorted in pleasure, and I can't bear it anymore.

I flip over onto my stomach, and my hand finds its way between my legs, trying to soothe the building ache there. I lift my hips to give my fingers access, and if I don't think about it, it could almost be Rado aligning my hips to hers. The thought has my fingers dancing on my clit before I can even push it away. Thankfully, the cloak swallows my own moans.

The sounds from the other tent become louder and more heated. I can hear Rado's whispers, too low for me to understand the words, but the quiet, firm command in her voice is enough to break anyone’s willpower. I slip my fingers inside myself and pretend.

That my fingers are not my own.

That the low murmur from the other tent is for me.

That my hips are grinding on a strong thigh rather than my own arm.

That I was the one desired, chosen. That I was the one who had known Rado before she was Radomil, when she was still a young Radomillia — surrounded by family, but lonely and alone, like me.

That I was the one who held Rado’s devotion all these years. Such deep and powerful devotion that she would cross oceans to find me.

I hear Rado’s voice break over a whine, and I shudder. Merisalia’s rising moans spur me on, my fingers burying themselves deep within me. And when she comes, Rado’s name a cry of pleasure wrung from her lips, I come with her and echo the same scream into my cloak so neither of them can hear.

[dennisboobs]

Dennis says the L word

[rubenesque-as-fuck]

Anyway I got notified that I'll be getting a nice $$ bonus from work today and I wish that I could celebrate with someone in a way that didn't just feel like obnoxious bragging. Like beyond the financial aspect, it's just nice to be recognized for good work and I actually feel... good?? about this job??

But it feels so silly to say I want to celebrate when I just got back from what felt like my first real vacation in a very long time and am doing cool comic con stuff this weekend and am scheduled for a new tattoo next weekend. I am already doing lots of things to try to make myself feel good! It feels selfish to want more!

But I guess even with all of that, there's just still a hunger for external validation from trusted sources. Will I ever grow out of wanting someone to be proud of me?