#i will upload to my ao3 too

[peppermintquartz]

Explicit.

Yes, with the Daddy kink.

*

"God, I hope so."

Tommy can't believe those words left his mouth, but what is a guy to do when Evan Buckley is sitting so close looking delectable?

Evan only gazes at him, smiling in a way that seems to be hinting at something naughty. Tommy refuses to squirm in his seat. He's thirty-nine years old, he's not going to be a shy little prude about what he likes. Been there, done that, bought the t-shirts and the leather cuffs.

"I don't know, Tommy," says Evan slowly, spearing some salad on his fork, "I may need some persuading to, uh, open up to you more about my daddy issues."

He chews and raises an eyebrow in challenge.

Okay, that's it.

"Challenge accepted." Tommy feels a slow heat building at the base of his spine, but tucks that away for now. The dinner is really good and he's not about to deprive Evan of the energy he'll need. And Tommy is going to make sure Evan expends a lot of energy.

They chat about other matters: about flying for the army versus flying for the fire department, about bartending, about how Evan sued the fire department for wrongful termination ("yes, I was on blood thinners, and yes, I'm still very careful"), about the first car Tommy restored.

By the end of the meal, Tommy is less concerned with what they're talking about and more concerned about Evan's wine-stained lips and dark eyes. And from the way Evan's foot is rubbing up and down Tommy's calf, he thinks the younger man isn't interested in conversation any longer either.

"Let's clean up," Tommy suggests. He doesn't mean to drop his voice further, but the words come out in a low rumble. Evan's eyes darken even more.

They load up the dishwasher together, Tommy knowing enough about Evan not to usurp the task. When Evan closes the door to the machine and starts it up, Tommy reels his boyfriend in and says, "Good boy."

Evan swallows, his Adam's apple bobbing. "I just put some plates in the dishwasher. That's hardly difficult."

"True," Tommy allows, then swivels Evan around to face the sink, where the salad bowl is sat. "Wash that now, hmm?" He keeps his hands on Evan's hips as Evan washes up quickly, and firmly pins him against the counter when he takes the bowl, his arms going around his boyfriend to dry the wooden bowl and set it aside.

"Tommy?" Evan sounds a little breathless. "What are you..."

"Shh. Good boys don't interrupt." Tommy turns him around again, noses along Evan's jawline and breathes him in. He flicks his tongue out and plays with Evan's earlobe before biting softly on it. Evan shudders and moans, wrapping his arms around Tommy's waist and shoulder.

Tommy feels his pulse kick up another notch. He pushes a thigh between Evan's knees, and gratifyingly Evan allows it. Tommy needs to get closer, and reaches down to hook one leg up. Evan goes along with it, gasping when Tommy starts licking and sucking on that soft spot under his ear. He's hard against Tommy where their groins are pressed together, and his fingers are digging into the older man's back.

"Alright, baby, do you want it here or on the bed?" Tommy growls. He wants it to be good for Evan, he needs it to be good for Evan. He needs to see Evan undone completely.

"Bed," Evan says.

Tommy begins to move, then pauses. A wicked little smile crosses his face and he leans back to make sure Evan can see it. "That's not how you answer nicely, Evan."

Evan is flushed and his pupils already wide with lust. His mouth - and what a pretty, pretty mouth, Tommy wants to do all kinds of filthy things to it - is open, his breathing labored. "Tommy, bed, please."

Tommy is very pleased that he's strong enough to keep Buck pinned against the counter. He rocks his hips forward, hissing at the pleasurable pressure. "Ask nicely."

"I did, I said please!" Evan protests. He tries to push away from the counter but with one leg firmly hooked around Tommy's waist, he has little leverage.

Tommy leans forward to lick his way into Evan's mouth, unable to bear another second not tasting his boyfriend. "Ask Daddy nicely now."

Evan freezes for a second. His hands tighten where he's clutching Tommy, and for a heartbeat Tommy wonders if he's spooked the younger man.

Then Evan grabs Tommy by his neck and practically inhales him with hungry kisses. With a tiny jump, he wraps both legs around Tommy and, oh, that feels very encouraging, where Evan's hard cock is pressed against his abdomen.

"Take me to bed right fucking now, Daddy." It's Evan's turn to growl, and Tommy is very glad his knees are strong enough to hold him and Evan up.

It takes some tricky maneuvering before they do end up on the mattress, Tommy having had to relinquish his prize so they can both take the stairs without falling and hurting themselves, and they're stripping with the efficiency of men who know exactly what they want right now. Evan grabs the lube from the nightstand and Tommy tears open a condom.

It never fails to awe Tommy that his partners trust him so much with their bodies, and even more so with Evan. The younger man sighs into the pillows and allows Tommy into him with minimal prep, only the faintest of grimaces on his face where it may sting. Despite every nerve telling him to claim, Tommy holds still, chest heaving and arms trembling with the effort not to just thrust into that slick, hot tightness.

Evan's eyes flutter open. His pupils are blown and his lips redder than before. "Take me," he whispers. "Take me hard. I wanna feel it for days."

Tommy smacks Evan's thigh lightly. "Ask properly."

Evan licks his lips, a look of mischief fluttering over his face. His cheeks are pink and his hair fluffed up. "I don't want to."

The downfall of saints, this one, Tommy thinks, and thrusts, once, to remind Evan exactly who's in charge, and begins to pull out. "Really? Then I guess I'll just take a nap instead-"

"Wait, no, Daddy," Evan gasps, and his cheeks flame even darker with want.

Tommy is shaking inside with desire but he holds still. "Ask. Properly."

Evan blinks up at him. A coy smile curves his lips. "Please, Daddy, may I have more?"

Tommy kisses him. "Much better." He flexes his hips and thrusts into Evan's hot body. It is so much better. He loses himself to the rhythm and the feel of sweat-slick skin. Evan spreads his long legs even more and wraps his limbs around Tommy, breathing encouragement and pleas for moremoremore.

Reaching between them, Tommy wraps his big hand around Evan's hard cock. "Daddy's gonna take care of you," he rasps, stroking fast and firmly, his callused hand wet with Evan's precome. Evan whimpers, fingers raking over Tommy's back. Even in the haze of lovemaking, Tommy hopes Evan will leave scratch marks. It'll be satisfying to have visible reminders of pleasure.

"Please," Evan sobs when Tommy's thumb rubs over the head of his cock over and over, the pad of his thumb pressing into the wet slit. "Please, please, please Daddy please-"

Another soft cry and Evan's spilling hot and slick all over Tommy's hand, clenching down on Tommy's cock. Tommy valiantly strokes Evan through his climax until he's limp and breathless, telling him you're a good boy Evan, such a good boy for me, and suddenly Evan has a hand buried in Tommy's hair and he's squeezing down on Tommy's cock again - whatever Evan has been reading up on to build those muscles, Tommy is going to get a subscription, it feels incredible - and then Evan is whispering in his ear, "Come for me, Daddy, show me how I've been a good boy." And Tommy's vision whites out for a second, all sensation rushing inwards and exploding through his nerves.

When his brain comes back online, he realizes he's lying on his boyfriend like a huge immovable rock and carefully pulls out to roll to the side. Evan makes an unhappy sound as Tommy releases him from his weight, but snuggles closer once Tommy's got rid of the condom.

"I know I liked that," Tommy mumbles, his eyelids growing heavy from the post-coital hormones. "But was it good for you?"

"Yeah, yes it was," Evan replies, sounding just as sleepy. He drapes a long leg over Tommy's. "We'll be stuck together if we don't shower though."

Part of Tommy wants to say he doesn't fucking care, but another part knows that Evan won't appreciate the discomfort. He grunts and levers himself up onto his elbows.

In the dim light, Evan's an adorable, debauched angel with mussed hair and flushed skin. Tommy wishes he were twenty again, just so he can go one more round with Evan immediately.

"We can shower together," he says instead, and gets a sweet kiss. Then he adds with a hopeful bat of his eyelashes. "Shower sex?"

Evan raises his eyebrows. "We'll see if you're... up to it." With another twinkle and smirk, he tacks on, "Old man."

Delighted, Tommy smiles and grabs Evan's wrist. "Challenge accepted."

[ash-and-starlight]

another late @zukki-week entry, for day 2 // skinny dipping

and as a special treat it comes with @erisenyo's fantastic fic And Babe, (What Do you Mean) We Ain't Even Dating that this scene is based on!!

[24-05txt]

In regards to the whole soul mate thing, Soap's been through all the phases.

He'd started curious, then confused, then mournful, then resentful. For now he's settled somewhere in the vicinity of apathy—maybe spite.

He doesn't have a soul-mark. Never has, never will, and that's... fine. He's far from the only one lacking that kind of connection, and that's enough for him to feel understood. Not alone. He's got plenty of good friends besides—with and without soulmates of their own—and he's happy that way. Really, he is; it took him a fair amount of work to get to a place where he could say that and it not be wishful thinking. He's got friends, family, dalliances, motion and company and light in his life despite the lack of a mark that tells him where his place is.

And then he meets Ghost.

The Lieutenant is huge in the sense that his presence alone takes up what space his height and muscle can't. He's quiet, too, at least before Soap makes the effort to worm his way under all that tacgear. (The man is intriguing, what can he say? Who else walks around with a honest-to-fuck skull mask day in and out.)

Ghost seems to tolerate him at first, then inexplicably starts to prickle and grouch whenever Soap comes within six feet of him. He could make up a few reasons for why that is, but instead contents himself with pretending he doesn't notice—pushing the implied boundary until Ghost mans up and tells him off.

He never does, though. And it's not long at all until Soap's found that the boundary has given way and Ghost is—well he's actually pretty pleasant to be around. He's funny, and patient, and gives way too much of a shit to be in a career that pretty much ensures the death of everyone he works with. (He likes to pretend he doesn't, but there's no other reason he would have been waiting up in that church for Soap—in fact he shouldn't have still been there at all, since he'd already scoped an escape route. The bastard's soft, is what he's saying.)

And that's when things start to backslide just a little.

They're sitting in the mess—only three of them, the Captain unable to grace them with his presence—and Gaz is talking about his sister's husband's new boyfriend being the result of a late-discovery soulmatch.

"Could you imagine," he says, pausing to chew his mouthful before he continues. "Going thirty years knowing there's someone out there for you, and not seeing them until after you're already married?"

"Could be platonic," Soap pointed out, not bothering with the same courtesy of chewing his food. Ghost kicks him under the table for it, but he honestly can't be asked to care for only three words worth.

"Could be, but still—could you imagine?"

"Nope." Soap pops the 'P' and grins. Ghost doesn't kick him this time since he hasn't taken another bite yet. "I'm a wee bit hopeless in that department."

"Ah, brother." Gaz reaches out and they clasp hands for a moment, then he nudges his shoulder. "You and me both. Never much got the fuss about it, but that does seem like some sort of cosmic irony yeah?"

"Issat irony?" Soap asks. "Don't think that's right."

Obviously, that incites a short argument that ends when Gaz pulls out his phone to look up the actual dictionary definition of 'irony', and Soap grasps to change the topic to literally anything else to avoid Gaz gloating on the off chance that he's right.

"Lt, what about you?"

Ghost blinks at him as if he hasn't been staring at the both of them through the whole conversation.

"I know what irony is, Johnny."

"No—" he can't help the scowl, and talks over Gaz's sudden jeering as he shoves his phone under his nose. Soap lifts his chin to avoid it. "You got a soul mark?"

"Read it and weep, Soap!" Gaz cheers, only slightly subdued in respect for every else in the room.

"I do." Ghost says at the same time, dipping his head in a tiny little nod, and Soap's world ends just a little bit, right there in the mess hall. Curls up, withers, and dies without so much as a squeal.

He's not able to ask if Ghost knows who it is, or if he's met them, or if they're still alive, or if it's romantic or platonic; he's not sure if it even matters, because Johhny knows right then that he will never be as close to Ghost as they are.

And it hurts.

It hurts in a way he wasn't entirely expecting.

He must hold it together well enough through the rest of dinner, and then through walking with Gaz back to their rooms, but once he's got the door locked behind him he feels the smile fall off his face. He sits down on the edge of his bed.

Ghost has a soulmate.

Ghost has a soulmate and Soap is pissed about it. Because that soulmate isn't him—it can't be, since he doesn't have a mark of his own.

It's just—it's unfair. They work so well together, on the field and off. He knows for a fact no one else can read Ghost as well as he can, no one else talks to him like he does, he doesn't hang around anyone else like he seems to hang around Soap. If anyone should be Ghost's soulmate, it should be him.

But he's not. Which means there's someone else out there that can watch his six better, understand him more, have more satisfying conversations—and it seems fucking impossible, because he doesn't even know how it could get better given the time they've known eachother... and yet.

And yet Ghost has a mark, and Soap doesn't.

It takes him days to get over it—at least enough to act himself when he's in company. Ghost tries to get him to talk about it three separate times before he can manage to get his shit together. He won't *lie* to Simon, nor is he about to admit to what's eating at him, and it leaves him snappish. Leaves the vitriol closer to the surface than it ever has been around Ghost and he hates to see how he reacts to it; he doesn't cower, doesn't flinch, doesn't avoid him, just stares—in a different way than before. John's temper will flare and Ghost will freeze a little, tilt his head, furrow his brow, and fucking stare at him until the moment passes. It might be better if he raised his voice in return, let it escalate into a proper fight—or even if he shut Soap down hard and told him to cool off. Instead Ghost looks at him like he's gone and become a stranger; like he's confused where he doesn't expect to be, and that hurts almost as much as finding out his place isn't next to Simon—or at least, he doesn't have any rightful claim to it.

[myokk]

Eloise is really, really bad at chess😐

(this is a scene from my fic & I typed it up here:)

"Milady, you cannot send him there! He will surely die a terrible death, and Murdoch is our finest knight!"

Eloise blinked her bleary eyes at the wizarding chess board, not really comprehending what the tiny pieces were yelling at her. The one that seemed to be doing the most talking was gesticulating wildly and jumping up and down, trying to get her attention. When she had taken the pieces out of the box Sebastian had lent her, they had immediately recognized her and started protesting, appealing to 'their benevolent lord's innate sense of goodness', but their protests fell on deaf ears. Eloise was positive that Sebastian took some sort of perverse pleasure at watching her lose at chess.

In the background, she could hear Ominis's laughter echoing through the Undercroft. His own pieces were quite happy at the moment, preening and occasionally sending rude gestures towards Eloise's, much to Sebastian's amusement. He was narrating their every action to Ominis, whose laughter was egging on his soldiers even more.

"Eloise," Sebastian said, propping his chin up by one hand (entirely too amused, infuriatingly so, why did he have to look so handsome when she was trying to be annoyed at him?), "maybe you should move the knight..." his other hand pointed to an empty space on the board, "...here."

This declaration caused an uproar. There were shouts of betrayal, tiny pieces gesticulating wildly to the carnage surrounding the board as they shouted in vain. She didn't see any other viable moves, so Eloise sighed and ordered the brave little Murdoch to where Sebastian had suggested. Chaos immediately ensued and Ominis's queen gleefully knocked his head off with a violent swing of her scepter. Eloise's pawns all doubled over, sobbing as their most valient knight fell, and her remaining bishop shook his tiny fist in outrage up at her.

After a few more minutes, much to Eloise's ashamed relief and the boys' disappointment, her pieces refused to move for either her or Sebastian. They solemnly collected the remains of their fallen comrades with as much dignity as they could muster and marched off the board and back into their box in a mourning parade of sorts.

Sebastian joined Ominis's pieces as they jeered the losing team off the board, causing Eloise to glare fiercely at him. "You were the one telling me what to do, and they're your pieces! Show some loyalty."

He shrunk away from the intensity of her gaze and held up his hands in protest. "I was suggesting the moves as a joke! After last week's fiasco, I didn't think you'd fall for it again."

Ominis was laughing so hard he was gasping for breath, and the two of them turned to watch him. Even through her irritation, Eloise couldn't help but smile at him - he was always so solemn and these bouts of mirth were few and far between. He managed to speak between bouts of laughter. "I...I couldn't...I couldn't believe it when you sent your bishops one by one into my trap! It was so obvious! And then...and then you..." Ominis dissolved into fits of laughter again and couldn't finish.

Eloise turned her angry glare to him. "We can't all be chess geniuses!"

"I've tried teaching you and you don't listen! For the next time, I'm only going to give you one piece of advice: don't listen to Sebastian." He chuckled once more to himself and then turned slightly to the board, addressing his men (and queen) and giving them a debriefing. He always did this after he won the matches; it was a strange sort of ritual that he seemed to look forward to.

[lullaebies]

Hi, I love this acc sm!

Just asking if you could do a Jaehaera lives and Daenaera marries Viserys ii au? thanks sm!!

“You can eat it still. I’ll manage, Daenaera,” Jaehaera tells her good sister. Daenaera prances around the room as if she is a lady-in-waiting still, taking the fish dish she had been eating and putting it on the balcony for the morning birds to gobble up. 

“Your words are most kind, your Grace, but your scrunched nose betrays you,” Daenaera grins as she sits back down on their tea table. They most often have their tea times at the gardens, but Jaehaera’s fatigue had not allowed them such luxury. Daenaera had combed her hair, but they both agreed she is better off remaining in her comfortable nightgown for the day. “The smell of the Strumm fish wards off Viserys, too. Regretful I must give up my defences, but I’ll manage for my Queen.”

Jaehaera lifts her teacup to her lips, a thin smile stretched upon her tired face. “Newlyweds should be sweet on each other. Should I worry you want my good brother repelled already?” 

Daenaera laughs, her pretty smile accompanied by a playful gaze. “Oh, there are no concerns there. Should he have been any sweeter, he may have not allowed me to attend my duties to you on this fine day.”

Jaehaera shakes her head with a soft chuckle. “You are going to make Viserys resent me,” she says. They’ve come a long way since their initial meeting and the accusations of her ‘bewitching Aegon’, but Jaehaera’s matching of her good brother and Daenaera bridged them true. She hopes that it won't go to waste. “Regardless, you are not my lady-in-waiting anymore. You must remember to enjoy your own bliss; you needn’t attend any duty.”

“On the contrary, your Grace. You are my good sister now, and my duties are attended from the depths of my heart,” Daenaera says as if she is speaking out a poem, smoothly, and leans forward to bring a hand over Jaehaera’s palm. “On such exciting days I couldn’t bear not to see you, Haera.”

Jaehaera smiles gently, bringing her other hand to her belly. She had been anxious when the signs had started to show. The maester Daenaera brought from Driftmark in preparation for her wedding had also been the maester that confirmed Jaehaera is with child. The Grand Maester would’ve had to tell Aegon — but she had wanted to know for herself, first. They only made headway with their own intimacy this year. The changes are coming with such haste she hasn’t managed to internalise either her fears or her excitement. 

Swift knocks are heard from behind the door. “King Aegon the Third and Prince Viserys are at the door, my Queen,” Ser Willis Fell announces. “May they enter?”

Jaehaera snorts. Ser Willis wastes no opportunities to show his allegiance. Should Aegon have stood there alone, he could not make them ask for permission, but Viserys standing outside the door means he must mind her chastity. 

“Speak of the devil,” Daenaera’s smiles from ear to ear, turning her body around to the door. 

“Daenaera,” Jaehaera exclaims softly, amused. She clears her throat to raise her voice. “Let them in, Ser Willis.”

The door opens for the two brothers. Aegon’s dark amethyst eyes fall on her tenderly, and the hand that brushes on her belly moves to her lap. She nearby told him yesterday, when he embraced her to calm sleep, but had found him lulled to sleep before she could find the courage. It is always on the tip of her tongue.

“And here I thought you’d keep me out, good-sister,” Viserys says, walking over to Daenaera in steps that seemed more reflex than thought of. “Wife,” he says, planting a full kiss on her silver locks.

“If it was up to me, she would,” Daenaera answers, giving a kiss of her own to his chin.”The council went well, I’d hope?”

“As well as you’d expect from a council all due to be swapped,” Viserys says. “They take too long to make decisions as simple as deciding what establishments to be patrons of for The Smith’s Day. The answer is in the day’s name, for heaven's sake.”

“The Smith represents all labourers, good brother,” Jaehaera chimes in, leaning back against her chair. “There is some merit in that discussion, I fear.”

Aegon drags the chair beside her to sit down. “Let him complain. We all know the true reason he does,” he says. “He has been tortured to keep a charming smile for the entirety of it. A wonder the corners of his lips are not set in it permanently, by now.”

“Should you budge a smile for once, I wouldn’t have to blind the room with mine,” Viserys says, taking his own place with his wife. “Dear sister, I implore you to have him practice his smiles. He cannot leave you to endear the realm to the crown on your own.”

“I am certain the realm will soon be overwhelmingly endeared to her and The Crown in tow. His Grace is only aid, one way or another,” Daenaera chuckles to herself. 

“Pardon?” Aegon asks, tilting his head. The goblet of wine he poured for himself is held by his chest as he stops to comment. He poured herself one, too; she had been the wine fan of them two, but alas, she cannot allow herself to drink much. “I don’t think my wife needs any assistance in these matters.”

Jaehaera smiles. A few years ago all would doubt that claim entirely, but she supposes all things are due to change. She ought to embrace this possibility and make it true; the son or the daughter that are growing in her belly deserve to be loved by the realm, as they deserve to be loved by their father.

She looks at Aegon midway his sip, at the line of his restrained lips. Jaehaera raises herself on the chair, fixing her posture, hand coming back to her belly. “Perhaps, but assistance will come anyway. The babe will be of great aid, if my husband will not.”

Aegon’s wine spritzes from his mouth like a rush of rain. It stains the teal of Viserys’s doublet and furthermore his face, to Daenaera’s great laughter. Jaehaera cracks a wide smile at the display, and especially when Aegon turns to her whole. 

“Truly?” his goblet is left aside, reaching out to her wrist. Jaehaera nods gently, letting her eyes crinkle at Aegon in hopes his will return the favour. The king does not disappoint, his face coming to her own for a swift kiss that stamps his smile on her own.

“I am all congratulations for the both of you, and the realm,” Viserys says, trying to clean off some of the wine on his doublet while Daenaera brushes away his wet fringe from his face, still struck with giggles. “But you most definitely will have to rely on your wife and child in charms, dear brother.”

Aegon shakes his head, kissing her one more time before he turns to his brother. “We will see how you will take it when such news comes to you.”

Feeling at her utmost bravery, Jaehaera hums. “My aversion to the scent of Daenaera’s beloved fish dish had been a most important indicator. Perhaps we should check if you are due alongside me, dear brother?”

“Those damn fish,” Viserys’s ears turn a shade of pink. “I take it back. My nephew or niece will have to do the work for you both.”

Daenaera kisses Viserys’s flushed cheek; soon enough his face brightens. Aegon brings a hand to Jaehaera’s stomach too. Jaehaera hopes the son or daughter within her hears the joy they already brought forward.

[syb-la-tortue]

Hi there! Ik you're not into homestuck anymore, but I was wondering if all your old piratestuck art is posted anywhere else, since your original blog got deleted? I used to spend so long just going through that tag, cause I love your art so much. It rly sucks that Tumblr is so hellbent on censoring everything to the point of just trashing a decade or more of someone's hard work :(

sadly at the moment no, tumblr was the only place where the great majority of my Homestuck art was (along with some One Piece art and a good chunk of my early bnha art) and even though I don't think much about Homestuck and Piratestuck these days, I wanted to share these art back then and the sentiment is still true today, I really want all my old arts to still be accessible for everyone to find, even if looking at them today myself might make me cringe due to it being old and seeing all the flaws in them lmao

anon asked: Hope you’ll be able to reupload your art! Everything you make is gorgeous!

I know I won't reupload them on tumblr (wouldn't be able to post the sexy here anyway and I refuse to skip it), or twitter or wherever, one by one like they were posted in the past, because we're talking about hundreds, possibly close to a thousand pieces of art and doodles

what I intend to do is to sort them into a few .PDFs (by fandom? by year?) and make those available for download

it's just that. the task right now is a bit daunting, that's a lot of art to sort through! and I would also like to write some level of commentary, you know like captions to give some context, maybe some of the lore and headcanons for Piratestuck, that kinda thing! but yeah, lot of work that I'm currently a bit afraid to start on so that might be a while...

[saysflora]

If you ask Mush, winter is one of the best times of the year, but it seems he's one of the only people in the lodgings that feels that way. What starts as a way to take Blink's mind off of the now cold, dark months ends up being a bigger scheme than even he was imagining, and he's more than happy to take the opportunity to plan a celebration that'll have everyone raring with holiday spirit. With help, of course.

OR: Mush throws a Christmas Party.

[silliest-sideblog]

I made a podfic for the lovely graveyard shift AU by @aliferous-ly and @vesperaink for the fic chasing crimson, beta read by @dibs2win one of my favorite rancher fics <3

While I've done readings of fanfiction before I have never really made something that was recorded and edited and everything so I am quite proud of it :'D it's just the prologue but I'm fairly sure I might do more since this was a ton of fun!

Anyway, here is the link!

Everyone should also go read chasing crimson, it is seriously so good and will always have a special place in my heart <3

Link to the audio is also here, under the cut (I do not trust that I did it correctly on ao3 lol)

[luxeberries]

now on ao3

One day, in mid August of ‘85, Dustin shows up at Steve’s front door, completely unannounced. It’s the middle of the night and Steve has half the mind to reprimand Dustin about curfew and biking alone in the dark. But when his vision finally focuses on Dustin’s expression, Steve sees panic in his eyes; fear. At first, his heart plummets and he thinks not again, not so soon. But then Dustin says-

“I killed that guy. Didn’t I?”

And every other thought in Steve’s mind crumbles like ash. 

“The Russian,” Dustin clarifies in Steve’s silence. “The doctor.” 

Steve remembers. 

Bald, round glasses. 

Stale coffee breath. 

Pliers pulling his nail. 

He can’t speak, throat closing up. 

Dustin keeps talking, rambling like Robin does when she’s panicked. “They used those cattle prods to stun demogorgons, Steve. Do you have any idea how many volts that thing held? He- He fell, like-”

“Dustin,” Steve says - rasps it out because his throat is dry but he needs to stop Dustin’s spiral. 

Rendered silent, Dustin looks up at Steve with wide, glistening eyes. He’s expecting an answer, but Steve doesn’t have one. He can’t think beyond the sight of Dustin standing before him in a matching pajama set and untied shoes, like he didn’t have the time or mind to fasten them up because he was in too much of a rush to come here. To seek out Steve, in the middle of the night. Steve, who should be able to help because that’s his job; he’s the protector, the older brother Dustin can come to for comfort. 

Except that Steve was woken with a start just five minutes ago when Dustin started pounding on his front door and he thought it was the Russians coming back for him, his mind still half lost to the nightmare he was having; all blood and bone saws and Robin’s screams. Part of him is itching to call her, like maybe she somehow died back there and Steve has been imagining her this whole time and he just needs to hear her mom answer the phone and say, ‘Yeah, she’s right here, honey’. 

But he remembers Dustin charging in, remembers watching him strike the doctor right in the chest and how he fell to the ground, limp, and didn’t get back up. Knows that everyone is safe, no matter what his brain tries to tell him. Robin and Erica are sleeping in their beds, and Dustin is standing on his front door step, bike discarded on the ground next to the Bimmer. 

Steve takes a deep breath and says, “Get in here.” 

He ushers Dustin in with a hand on the back of his neck, locking the door behind them, and heads to the living room. Dustin just keeps looking at him, like Steve has all the answers. Like Steve can make it all better. Can say the voltage wouldn’t have killed him, as if the possibility that he’s still out there wouldn’t send himself into a panic attack. 

“Steve,” Dustin says, and it sounds like a plea; the way his voice lisps, wet and small. 

He’s only thirteen.

“I killed a person,” Dustin says. 

And Steve gets it, sort of. It doesn’t matter that the person Dustin killed was evil and cruel, just like it didn’t matter that Billy Hargrove was about to kill Lucas when Steve stepped in between them. He still didn’t want to hurt someone. Each punch felt like too much, like if he punched any harder, he’d do some serious damage. And Billy would have deserved it - as horrible as it feels to think that after his sacrifice - but Steve didn’t want to be the one to do it. That’s not who he is. He’s a protector, not a fighter. Not a killer. That breaks something in a person, as is made clear by the crack in Dustin’s voice. It took something from him. The little bit of innocence Dustin had left. 

“Yeah,” Steve says, quiet and almost apologetic. “You did.” 

Dustin’s face falls, as if he really did want Steve to say otherwise. But avoiding the truth won’t help anything. 

“But- But you saved me, okay?” he says, like he’s asking if that truth is enough.

Dustin’s eyes flash with something Steve can’t identify. 

“Me and Robin,” Steve continues. “You saved us. If you hadn’t done what you did- What you had to do…”

His nightmares have answered that hypothetical too well. 

He shakes it off, puts his hand on Dustin’s shoulder instead.

“You saved us. You did good, Dustin. Okay? That’s what’s important here.” 

Dustin's face crumples and before Steve can blink, he’s got an armful of the kid. He’s still bruised, ribs only just recovering from the break, and it hurts. But he wraps Dustin up in his arms and lets him cry into his shoulder, wetting the thin fabric through. 

"Hey, it's okay," Steve soothes, voice low. "You're okay. I've got you, buddy."

He’s not coddling him or trying to get him to stop crying- he just talks so Dustin knows he’s there. Tells him how grateful he is for Dustin taking care of him and Robin when they were messed up, for being so brave when he busted into that room. He talks until Dustin is quiet against him, left with his arms wrapped around Steve’s waist and his face pressed into Steve’s shoulder. He doesn’t move for a while, but Steve doesn’t mind - just rubs his back and rests his cheek against his curls. 

“Your mom know you’re here?” he asks softly. 

Dustin shakes his head. 

“You wanna stay here tonight?” 

Dustin nods. 

Steve checks his watch over Dustin’s shoulder. It’s almost midnight. He sighs. 

“Remind me to send her flowers or something as an apology for waking her up right now,” Steve says, light-hearted, trying to make Dustin laugh.

But Dustin just sniffles, guilty. “Sorry.”

“Hey, no. It’s fine. Take your shoes off and head on upstairs, yeah? I’ll call your mom and tell her you’re with me.” 

Dustin pulls back, wipes his wet nose with his sleeve and Steve tries not to cringe. 

“Thanks, Steve.”

It’s not entirely selfless, calling Dustin’s mom. If he calls Mrs Henderson, he can call Robin right after without Dustin knowing. He has a feeling she’ll be awake at this time too anyway. He thinks he might call the Sinclairs as well, wants to make sure Erica is okay. 

And as long as Dustin stays the night, Steve knows that at least he’s safe, spread out right beside him, taking up the whole bed. Can make sure Dustin sleeps through the night, can be there if he has a nightmare that his mom wouldn’t be able to calm him down from. 

Steve ruffles Dustin’s hair, smiling at how he pushes into it like a cat. “It’s no problem.”

[peekychu]

Quitting my fulltime job to frost cupcakes at Sugarcube Corner and take naps in the clouds. Take my hoof, bestie.

[actuallyjustabiscuit]

…I finally did something again

Summary:

After completing the Candy Carrier Chaos adventure, Ragatha was certain that Pomni was finally coming around to her new life at the Circus. She had even made a new friend! It felt like things were finally going to be ok between them!

Then Gummigoo was deleted...and suddenly all of her hopes came crashing down.

Losing people is starting to take its toll.

[money-and-dandellions]

Of cold nights, slushies and how good it is to breathe; one-shot about Sunflower Siblings.

Less than 30. Sunset is less than thirty minutes away, and the sun has already gone behind the clouds. As if it hadn't spent the whole day there.

In addition to how lazy the sun really was, other thoughts flashed through Lester's head; most often they were lyrics from songs that, with annoying buzzing in his head, played on a loop for a few hours straight.

"...It seems to me that when I die,

these words will be written on my stone...

And I'll be gone, gone tonight

The ground beneath my feet is open wide.

The story of my life..."

The finger while not thinking much about the recent events, tapped out the rhythm of the song, words of which had glued to the skull.

Speaking of skulls, then it's better not to think about them at all, because he has managed to see of too many skinless heads in the last two weeks. This experience is finished for at least three eternities. No exaggeration.

Lester swerved to the right, trying not to hiss at the sharp surge of pain in his right temple. The black-blue dots continued to dance in his view.

Well, at least they weren't tap dancing. He hoped so.

"...There'll be nothing left for me to yearn.

Think of me and burn..."

'Burn what?'

There was no such event as highly-pitched scream, thank you very much.

Meg's eyes, somehow reflecting the rapidly decreasing in availability sunlight, were shining with candle-yellow which did not go along at all with her red, dimmed by a light layer of dirt, tip-tops. Her hair were as wet as the top of her bright green dress, lovingly handed by Ms. Sally Jackson.

Despite that the rain had stopped more than an hour ago, no one would say it if only looking at his master's clothes. Weren't she asleep, like, just now?

'Why would—' A pause. They will, for sure, discuss all the ups and downs of Bastille but Lester doesn't recall what was the last time he have seen the [liquid poison] fluorescent lights of any convenient shop, so—

'Were are going to be in Arkansas in an hour, near some gas station - in 10 or so, because the road is wet, who thought it would be a good idea to... Anyway, in 10 or so minutes. Any wishes?'

'A blue slushie and fries. With salt.' Meg answered, kicking the tips of her legs together with a soft bup.

A slushie and fries it is.

And aspirin, before Lester's brain will wave a white neckerchief, wishing all the best.

———— ———— ———— ————

As it was said before, the liquid poison of lightning bulbs is the least expected thing to happen to anyone, who is crossing the United States of America, even in a company of girl with unicorn-obsession. Even, if you were a god.

Alas, the gas station's advertisment was not so merciful to every unlucky person that ever visited it would it be a mortal, demigod, or a monster.

It would be unpleasant if it would be merciful to monsters.

Sitting on the hood of the car, Meg McCaffrey was very much pleased with apple-strawberry flavour of brain-eating (okay, not the best choice of words) cheap freezer also known as a slushie. Kicking the air, she looked almost peaceful, even counting the pinkish cut on her cheek, which, of course, was already healing.

The clouds were not so peaceful. The dark-gray, wet and multiple layered mass of water looked too intimidating for simple liquid.

Everything started to have a significantly huge amount of ozone smell in it. Choking, cold and crystallized pieces of something sharp scratched Lester's chest, tightening it.

Like rings of lubricous, narrow as cut dried wax, scales that would not stop and would be very much satisfied with crushing him until the last, shaky breath—

'It's cold.'

'What..?'

'I'm freezing, let's get in the car, dummy.'

Yes, breathing is good.

———— ———— ———— ————

Five minutes, ten fries and one boring song listened after, the sun had fully sat, shining at last in the front window of the car. For the next eight or so hours, headlights are going to be Lester's best accomplices.

Meg, her fingers suspiciously shiny, put knees to her chest, head - onto the cold window. Her glasses shifted a little, sliding more onto her right eye.

From time to time, taking his eyes off the road, Lester casted a glance at her, trying to figure out if his young friend is indeed asleep.

Judging by how strong was her grip onto recently bought blanket, she was not.

In twenty or so minutes, the girl shifted, wrapping herself further in the soft cloth.

'I'll go sleep.' The mumble was almost barely audible, but it was still there.

'Have a good night.'

'Don't tell me what to do, du—' She yawned, interrupting her own speech.

"All this time I was finding myself, and I

Didn't know I was lost.

I tried carrying the weight of the world

But I only have two hands..."

'You too.'

Lester smiles tiredly, staring at the infinite dark road ahead.

It's going to be a long night.

[harmoniouseclipse]

Half bird Jean character design sheet wip for a silly little project I'm doing 😋

[rubra-wav]

I'm back from the grave rahhhhh 🗣

Feeling a hell of a lot better and am ready to write again, my brain was not healthy before 💀 /lh

Requests will probably be opening soon, but rn my main priority is reordering this blog and remaking the aesthetics so it's not such a cluttered odd looking mess

Also, it's not my usual sort of post, but I have a radiosilence fic from what I hc as more Alastor's perspective in editing stages rn that'll probably be out soon 🙏

[melit0n]

From a fic writer, please don't say 'I wish there was a second part to this!' or 'part 2?' to writers, like, ever, because it is unfortunately not the compliment you think it is.

Don't get me wrong, I love every person who's taken the time to comment and make sure I reply to them, but it always brings me down a bit to see people asking for a second part, especially if it is quite clearly stated as a oneshot. It's half of 'oh hey! They think my writing is good and want more of it :D', so I recommend the other stuff I have on my page, and half 'They just want more.' because, when it comes to those comments, there is nothing else but asking for more.

In a general sense, the author has put time and effort into making that fic//oneshot happen! Might've been inspired by a song and written out in two days, or it could've been intractably planned over weeks! It is still time and effort and self indulgence! Don't ask for more when there is obviously nothing else planned.

I think, nowadays, even with fic reading, it's become a matter of quantity; basing whether to read a fic off of kudos:reads ratio, only being able to read fics over 50k words and not accepting any less etc. People also have seemed to forgotten that fic writers are apart of fandom as well; they aren't influencers farming out massive fics every two months, and, when it comes to a oneshot, quite possibly want to leave it as that. A oneshot.

So, instead of asking for more, maybe compliment what is there! Talk about a favourite line or scene, or give some constructive criticism if the author allows it. Fill your belly on the food served and don't think of the extra plate you could have.

[mamuzzy-creates-stuff]

What is the genre of those fanfics, where nothing really happens, not even sure if it's funny, and people literally just talking about nonsense? :DDD