#installation shot

[strangersatellites]

AU where steve and eddie’s six year old daughter is threatening to run away because they make her come inside when the sun goes down.

to deter her from doing so, they make her favorite dinner and pretend to sit and eat it without her while she packs her bag full of toys and crayons.

she stands by the door sighing all melodramatic, waiting to get their attention when the doorbell rings and she swings it open with a flourish to reveal max.

the redhead squeezes around her and heads straight for the kitchen.

“hey red! glad you could make it!”

she scoffs and shoulder checks steve on her way past. “please. you made my favorite, i wouldn’t miss it!”

eddie fixes her a plate and they go on and on and on about how delicious it is.

“stevie, sweetheart! this might be your best mac and cheese yet!”

“thanks eds. i just wish ronnie were here to have some….”

max pipes up from her seat. “yeah that’s too bad she ran away. i guess it’s just the three of us then.”

ronnie drops her bag and kicks off her shoes and comes running into the kitchen and barrels into steve’s side.

“daddy! papa! i’ll stay!! please don’t have max and cheese without me!”

au august day 4: runaway

[izaanagi]

There is a moment of panic when you knock on the door, your nerves giving a jolt - before a curt ‘Come in’ seals your faith. 

As the door creaks open, exactly like it would in a horror movie, you step in only to have the man sitting at his desk and typing away at laptop fill up your vision. He does not look up from the task he is completing, but even the clacks of his drawn out fingers sound elegant and useless to argue with. The aura that Barou exudes is simply that of complete devastation and utter dominion: there is no way to fight such a beast and even for a second hope you could come alive out of it. 

“I have the documents you asked for earlier. I am going to leave them on the desk, sir,” you put out, as the boss has not spared yet a glance, and you don’t  have enough time to waste. 

He does not answer, and so all is left to do is to pace forward, place the pile on top of the flawlessly arranged working desk and turn around to leave. But you still have to make a step towards the door, when the clacking stops. 

“Wait,” he snaps, as you hear him getting up and cross over to go towards the door, and shut it close. 

It’s not a good sign, and you swallow the clump of saliva just formed inside your mouth. There is anticipation and dread, and they’re both equally as powerful. 

As Barou approaches, all you can do is step back - but there is nowhere to go, as soon your back hits the desk and his splayed hand trap you right where you would not like to be at this time: right in his cage, his eyes fixed on yours, his cologne being overbearing of the citrus lemon ambiance diffuser he has somewhere hidden on one of his shelves. 

“You thought you could simply go like this after what happened yesterday?” He asks, almost curious. “Did you think that it was a one-time thing and that now we could just go back to working in the same space with no repercussions?” 

You swallow again, and shake your head. “I did not dare to think so, sir.”

Then, he comes closer and closer, until your mouths are a breath away and his deep red eyes are the only splash of colour you can focus on. 

“Then you can get on your knees and make me forget that for a second you did, little peach,” he whispers, as a grin tries to appear on his mouth. 

There is already a knowing pool of wetness forming over your grey panties, your hands slightly trembling both in fear and anticipation of what his newly formed connection will be like. It does not matter that Barou’s cock was inside you not even twenty four hours prior, this is a place of work and tainting it with the smell of sex is not something that you could have imagined. 

Almost on autopilot, a dull throb possessing your faults hidden beneath a layers of clothes, you sink on your knees, your face landing directly in front of your boss’ crotch, a tent in his pants evident. He’s semi hard by the time you pull down his zipper and his pants. 

Your nose bares close to his cock, a small smear of pre cum staining the white boxers - when Barou’s hands grabs your neck, almost enveloping it, and presses your face against himself. 

“This is all your fault. I’m sitting here and all I can think about is how tight your pussy was,” he almost moans. 

Your lick his shaft through the fabric, the firmness of his member weighting on your tongue. The fabric gets in the way, wet under your ministrations, until Barou gets tired of it and with a small “Fuck this,” simply tugs at his waistband, and draws his dick out, red and swollen. 

You lose no time to envelope his tip inside, sucking on the soft skin and trailing your tongue over his slit, salty from the precum. Your left hand then wraps around his length, from the base up to the middle, as your struggle to let your fingers meet, given his girth. There is a ton of Barou and your mouth is simply too small to take him all in. 

“You look good on your knees with my cock in your mouth,” he says, as he pushes your head once again, his tip almost hitting the back of your throat with the power behind it. “Make use of that mouth wisely.”

Your head starts bobbing up and down, taking as much of him as you can, as your tongue swirls around his vein underneath, his glans and wherever it reaches. You almost gag before you can remove yourself from him, a thread of saliva connecting you to the majestic statement of manhood. You look up only to find Barou Shouei flushed, one hand still on the desk to support himself and the other ready to take advantage of you again. 

Blowing him is a hard job, as you twist your hand around the parts you cannot reach with your mouth, licking his shaft up and down with your tongue, and then sucking in his tip, cheeks hollowed up. 

As his cock hits the back of your throat again and you gag for the umpteenth time, you can feel Barou’s cock twitch. It reverberates throughout your wet pussy, looking for some kind of release, but Barou’s hands are soon on your head and all you can do is grasp his hips as he thrust into your mouth with ferocity, seeking a climax. 

There is an abrupt “Holy fuck,” as cum flows into your mouth, thick and hot, the taste of sea water. There is no time to spit out as his hand closes your mouth and all you can do is swallow his semen, make a disgusted face and wipe your mouth. 

“I hope you enjoyed your meal,”he says as he shoves his dick once again in your mouth, in order for it to be clean. But that’s as far as it goes, as you stand up, your knees hollering at you from being in that position a minute too long and wobbling at the door, mentally scanning your desk to remember whether you brough some water with you. 

“Close the door as you go,” Barou adds, as he zips himself up and goes to sit back again at where you found him when you came into the office. 

“You are such a dick,” you mutter to yourself as you bang the door after you, and can all but see the satisfied shit eating grin that Barou Shouei has plastered on his lips. 

[zarla-s]

Do/for you have to make references for any other characters in Handplates? Like the mouse or pterofractal? The same goes for the characters that have canon designs in Undertale. Did you ever need a ref for them?

Honestly I like never make reference sheets until something forces me, haha. With the mouse I just go back to the first comic he appeared in and just ref off of those. I might have mentioned this before, I forget, but originally that mouse was supposed to be the mole in the MTT comedy club but then I looked up their speech pattern and it didn't fit, so instead I made them a Rathbone cameo from The Lost Mind of Dr. Brain. :B

I had to improvise his lower body so I just gave him big wading pants lol.

As for Pterofractal, Jaz gave me this!

I do have a folder for canon refs, mostly screenshots I've taken to get colors and layouts for certain areas in the Underground, haha. And some sprite sheets if I need them.

Nothing really official or purposeful though, just screencaps and snips from other files I end up reusing.

[illegalvampire]

An old(ish) doodle page of my favorite guys :)

[utilitycaster]

after much computer setup and downloading of things I have in fact started Veilguard. by which I mean I made a character who I think is accidentally like. now that I think about it, Vax if he were pure paladin in build, white femme Gideon the Ninth in backstory (this was not on purpose). Varric, to whom I personally have zero emotional attachment, said many things that I sort of knew, and I was agreeable with the bartender and used my words instead of making threats, and then promptly saved the game and quit bc I want to go to bed at a reasonable time. follow for more Person Who Literally Doesn't Know How To Play Video Games Playing A Video Game.

[cybernomads]

I think I slipped the net, but I cut myself free, I'm not losing yet, so don't forget me.

[cicadacelebration]

📞

[watcheraurora]

Fun fact: I had Ice Walls Part 3 (title pending) vaguely-but-mostly plotted out before I was even done with Strong Walls. I knew how it would end before I knew how to start it. And all my "hmm, that idea might be interesting to use" thoughts all ended up weaving themselves together into a nice little cohesive narrative that ended up working really nicely all together. So hopefully this is going to be good!

[sourkitsch]

Shot Silk, 2024 — J. Adam Bee

Oil on Panel

[strangersatellites]

pride, envy, wrath, sloth, gluttony, greed, ao3

Seven Deadly Sins Series (NSFW 18+)

lust (noun) - a shortcut to sexual fulfillment, but it doesn’t actually get you there. When you lust after someone, you are objectifying that person for your own selfish pleasure. 

The summer heat beats down with a strength that must rival that straight out of Hell, Eddie thinks. 

The thermometer Wayne keeps on the porch outside reading somewhere between ninety degrees and the devil’s asscrack and Eddie can feel all of it. 

Sweat rolling down his spine even where he’s sat in the shade, sunglasses and baseball cap on and a glass of ice water pressed to the back of his neck. 

You couldn’t pay him enough money to set foot in the grass, to feel the sun hit his skin and start burning it instantly.

The only thing keeping him even outside is Steve. 

Steve who is washing his car like it's the most important job he’ll ever have. He’s paying attention to details that Eddie’s never even noticed, let alone noticed were clean.

But that’s not what Eddie’s paying attention to anyway is it?

No. There might be one thing in the steamy July air that is hotter than the sun, and it's the thoughts running through Eddie’s head. There’s nothing cool about those. 

See, Eddie’s covered in a layer of grime and his hair has gone frizzy and he’s sprawled across the couch in a way he knows makes him look less like a man and more like a deflated balloon.

But despite the heat, Steve looks like a vision.

He’s got on a tight little pair of cut-off shorts that do absolute wonders for his thighs. 

He’s ripped the sleeves off and cropped one of Eddie’s old band shirts, a white one at that, and Eddie’s eyes can trail all the way from his shoulder to his happy trail, view unobstructed. 

He’s got his hair pushed back with a pair of sunglasses that started on his eyes but were apparently hindering his vision too much. Whatever. Eddie’s not complaining. He looks sexy with his hair pushed back.

It started out innocent enough. With Eddie mentally making a note to tell him he looks cute the next time he’s close enough to the porch.

But that was before he took a break from scrubbing to douse himself under the hose. 

Because now Eddie’s old, white band shirt is stuck to his skin like glue. Like it was painted on just for him. Eddie loves Steve’s strong arms, he does. But he’s never going to pass up an opportunity to watch the way the muscles in his back ripple under his skin. The “Metallica” stretched across his shoulders is just icing on the cake.

When faced with the wrath of the sun, Eddie’s skin turns pink and tender. But Steve goes a beautiful warm golden and his freckles seem to multiply. 

Right now Eddie’s eyes are glued to Steve’s legs. The way his muscles go taut when he squats down to scrub at his hubcaps. If he squints hard enough against the harsh afternoon light, Eddie can almost make out the indentions of his own teeth on the underside of his thigh. The fading purple bruise he’d sucked into soft skin, sweaty for an entirely different reason. 

He thinks of the way he’s made those strong legs tremble and shake. The way he’s had them wrapped around his waist, his head. 

Steve shifts and sits on the grass, leans back on both of his hands and throws his head back with a sigh. Eddie’s gaze gets redirected to the shirt clinging to his chest, his soft, but still strong tummy. 

He wants to lick his collarbones and leave bruises on his neck. More bruises, that is. There’s already a few mottled across his skin because Eddie just can’t help himself. How could he? How could anybody help themselves with Steve in their lap whimpering their name like a prayer? Eddie gave up trying to hold back a long time ago. 

When his eyes come back into focus Steve is stretching to reach across his windshield, back muscles stretched long and strong. If Eddie closes his eyes he can imagine the feeling of the welts he’d left across his skin. Claw marks drug all the way down his back. Can almost imagine the feeling that elicited them. The groan he’d pulled out of his boy in turn. 

Eddie snaps his eyes open and is met with Steve’s lazy smile looking his way and he really can’t be blamed for the heat it sends dipping into his stomach and the strained huff he grits out. 

The way Steve throws his head back again, this time in a laugh at Eddie’s distress, doesn’t help his case. 

It gets the worst though, when Steve sets to detailing the hood. 

Now he’s got his back directly facing Eddie. He’s bent over at the waist, hips popped back and his spine dipped low and Eddie’s not a praying man, he’s not. 

But he’s about to send up one of gratitude because sometimes he can hardly believe Steve’s his. 

And Eddie’s not stupid. He knows Steve’s onto him. He knows because he’d laughed. Because he’s peeking over his shoulder every few seconds to see if Eddie’s eyes are still on him. He knows because he’s tugged his little shorts up enough that the crease of his ass and his thighs sits right below the frayed denim hem. 

There might’ve been a time where Eddie would’ve tried valiantly to redirect his train of thought. To stop himself from making a fool of himself. But now Steve’s his boyfriend. And Steve knows Eddie’s thinking about getting him naked more often than he’s not these days. He’s just as bad. 

So Eddie lets himself sink into it. Into the visions of the bounce of Steve’s cheeks when Eddie smacks him. Of the tiny freckle just shy of his hole and how he loves to sink his teeth around it. The tiny heart tattoo on the back of his right hip that Steve totally should not have let Eddie give him, but they both love nonetheless.  

He thinks about the way his normally strong voice, breaks and goes soft when Eddie fucks him. The way he squirms when he rides Eddie’s face. 

The goosebumps that break out across his skin on the comedown and his glassy eyes and soft smile. 

His eyes are wide open but he’s so lost in the memory of his boy’s ass pulled against his hips that he misses when Steve stops washing his car and climbs the steps of the porch. Doesn’t see him until he feels his weight drop down across his lap and hears Steve ask what he’s thinking about in a sultry whisper.

So Eddie really doesn’t feel all that bad about his thoughts burning hotter than the summer sun when he says, “Nothing, baby. Just you.”

[artemis-73]

Suptober Day 15: Sigils

By the time Dean gets back to the hospital, Mary is sitting up and begging her parents for a pudding cup. Her skin looks less sallow, her eye bags less pronounced. Dean knows that Castiel made good on his deal. The test results that come in over the next three days prove it. By the end of the week, Mary's back home.

Everyone says it's a miracle. A gift from God.

If Dean sends a thanks to Castiel through prayer, he's the only one who has to know. He's not even sure if demons can hear prayers.

Then with that uncanny itch under his skin that tells him the crossroads won't be the last time he sees the demon, he gets to researching. He knows he can't waylay his debt. In ten years, he'll die. But before that, he needs to keep the demon away from him and his family. Kansas State University's library has a small collection of scans of old religious texts. Some of them have pages of sigils they claim will keep all manner of creatures away.

He paints them behind the pictures that hang on his walls and carves them into the window sills. He puts a devil's trap under the welcome mat. He even gets a tattoo of the symbol that claims to ward against possession. It's small and hidden on his hip. He almost feels safer with it.

When he comes up for air, he finds Sam and Jess have adjusted to a new normal. Mary doesn't need them as much, and at a sage nine years old, she wants some space. For the first time in years, she has sleepovers with friends and gets to go on field trips. It takes almost six months for her to demand a weekend at Uncle Dean's. He doesn't take it personally; for a long time, he was just an extension of her parents, a safe place for her to stay if Sam and Jess were both busy.

Now, she gets to eat too much pizza and stay up past her bedtime. She's on her third slice—impressive for her size—when she blinks big blue eyes up at Dean and says," Thank you, Uncle Dean."

"For what, kiddo?" he asks absentmindedly. He might be a little too invested in Frozen 2.

"For getting the angel to heal me."

His blood runs like ice in his veins. "What angel?"

"Cassie-el." She trips over the name, but she says it like Dean should just know, and he does. He does. "Mommy and Daddy were in the hallway talking to Nurse Layla, and he sat on my bed and said you talked to him all about me and that you loved me so much he wanted to heal me for you. And then he touched my forehead—" She places two greasy fingers above Dean's right eyebrow. "—and I felt all better…except I was hungry."

"Have you seen him since the hospital?"

"No," she says around a mouthful of pizza. Then she turns back to the TV, like she didn't just send Dean's world reeling. He wrangles her into a crushing embrace that she whines and wiggles her way out of.

She doesn't say another word about it, and he can't bring himself to push, so he sits staring at the TV but not seeing a damn thing. She's half asleep by the time the movie ends, and it takes some convincing to get her to brush her teeth and wash her face, but finally, he tucks her into bed in the guest room.

With his mind still a 100 miles away at a crossroads in the middle of nowhere, he cleans up the living room. He's straightening the pillows on the couch when he feels it. He's not alone.

"Next time you start messing with sigils, make sure the scan is high enough quality to get all the details right."

Castiel is standing by the window, tracing one of the carvings with his finger. He looks the same: rumpled over-sized suit and sex hair.

"What are you doing here?" Dean asks. He angles himself so he's between Castiel and the hallway that leads to the guest room.

Castiel watches him shuffle across the room with what Dean thinks might be amusement. "I won't bother her. She's not who I'm here to see."

"Well, forgive me for being a little suspicious. First time she's spending the night, and suddenly you show up?"

"Oh, that's a coincidence. Our schedules just happened to line up."

Dean's not sure how he knows the demon's lying, but he feels it in his gut. And when Castiel's eyes dart around the room, he almost think it's not malicious.

"What do you want, Castiel?"

"A new boss, a branch transfer, some reprieve from the paper pushing…" He slips the tie from around his neck and crumples it in one pocket. As he undoes the top two buttons on his shirt, he says, "But I'd settle for a beer."

Dean weighs his options—he doesn't have many—and considers the time. He'd just be sitting up alone anyway.

"Fine. One beer. Then you leave."

Castiel ignores him, opting instead to start rooting through his movie collection. Dean leaves him to it. He grabs a couple of beers as quickly as he can. He's not a complete idiot; he's still wary of leaving the demon alone in his home, especially with Mary.

"You can stop worrying about her," Castiel says as he takes the offered beer. "I'm not going to hurt her. Or you, but you seem strangely unconcerned about that part."

"Forgive me for not believing a demon."

"I haven't lied to you yet."

"That I know of."

In a surprisingly human gesture, Castiel rolls his eyes. "You humans are so suspicious."

"You did short my dad eight years."

"I didn't lie to him for that. I told him if he wanted more, he needed to give more, and he agreed gladly… Or as gladly as I imagine he did anything. He was a miserable asshole, wasn't he?"

Dean grits his teeth. "Don't talk about my dad like that."

"You know, when John Winchester's son summoned me, I thought I knew exactly what kind of man I'd find. You are nothing like him. It's almost a shame to only give you ten years."

"Hey, if you want to give me more, I won't complain." Dean's voice wobbles strangely. He doesn't like the way Castiel almost sounds fond of him.

"Sadly, I can take more years, but I can't give them." Castiel actually seems disappointed. He shakes himself. "Let me fix the sigils."

"What, you trying to keep yourself out?"

The way Castiel looks at him makes him feel like a baby bird staring up at a hawk. "None of these will bother me," Castiel says finally. "Besides, there are things far worse for you out there."

Dean watches as Castiel fixes all the sigils he'd put up. He even does the ones in the guest room, and Mary doesn't so much as twitch in her sleep while he does. He adds some more and ignores Dean's questions about what they're warding against.

They're back in the living room, and memories of their first meeting are nipping at his heels when Dean says, "Thank you, by the way. For…you know."

"For Mary? No thanks needed. You did sell your soul for her. Besides, I heard your prayer."

"Oh. I wasn't sure if you would."

Castiel smiles then ducks his head to try to hide it. "Yes, well, I did." He fiddles with his half-empty beer bottle.

When they'd first met, in the middle of the night at a crossroads, Dean had known Castiel's eyes were blue. But now, standing in his living room with the lamp beside the couch on, he can appreciate the exact shade, like a summer day when the sun's just hot enough to bleach the sky a lighter blue.

He practically leaps backwards. He's not sure when or how they ended up so close to each other in the middle of the room. He pretends to study the sigils on the windowsill—the same one Castiel had been tracing not an hour before, he realizes belatedly. He can feel Castiel behind him. He knows that Castiel has gone back to looking at his movie collection. He closes his eyes and starts counting down from ten. When he gets to one, he'll kick Castiel out.

He gets to five when Castiel asks, "Is this any good?"

Dean turns to find him holding up a copy of Tombstone. He can't help but scoff. "Is it any good? It's one of the greatest Westerns ever made, man."

Castiel hums thoughtfully and goes back to studying the cover. And the thing is, it shouldn't matter. The demon can watch an old Western on his own time in his own cozy little corner of hell.

But.

But Dean loves showing people Tombstone, and he's never gonna say no to a rewatch. They sit on either end of the couch and burn through an entire six pack before the posse is even formed. Castiel's focus never wavers from the screen. It's like he's expecting there to be an exam at the end of it. Dean's pretty sure he spends more time watching Castiel than the movie.

He nods off before Doc kills Ringo. The last thing he remembers is Castiel taking the beer bottle from his hand. He wakes up the next morning in his bed with a glass of water on his nightstand.

[jojea]

plays with durgetash like barbies

[marisarenee]

You Were My Best Friend Pt. II (on Instagram) from Secrets I Tell the Trees by Marisa Renee

📷: Mamiya RB67 🎞: Kodak Ektar 100 120

Each letter of this phrase was hand-cut from pressed oak leaves and hung on hemp twine to create a conceptual art installation. This photo was shot in fall 2021 in Thornton, Colorado.

[paperhatcollection]

An AU of an OC belonging to @breadbox-draws that we wanted to get a little experimental with. We've known about this guy for a relatively short amount of time but he's already skyrocketed to such an utter delight every time we see something new with him in the tags

(Sketch of this piece under the read more)

[hakusins]

WE GOTTA FUCK BOOTHILL'S PUSSY AND KNOCK HIM UP

YOU'RE SO CORRECT !!!!!!!!! YOU'RE SO RIGHT !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! ANON WHOEVER YOU ARE YOU'RE MY COMRADE....MY FRIEND IN ARMS !!!!! MY PARTNER IN CRIME !!!!!!!!!!

mark my words, he WILL be pregnant!!!!!!!

[aoxizu]

if the genius society rewards depth then the intelligentsia guild (or maybe just dr ratio) strives for breadth

the genius society seems to be a lot more picky about its members, choosing only those who actually revolutionize their field instead of just people who are at the top

whereas dr ratio's whole thing is about increasing accessibility of knowledge to all life in the universe as long as they want to learn

i don't know enough yet about the intelligentsia guild to tell whether this is an opinion shared by the entire organization or if it's just dr ratio

but dr ratio has more or less completely diverged from the specific path down erudition that the genius society treads, and is going alongside the intelligentsia guild to make another

or in other words nous is a minmaxer with a glass cannon build and dr ratio is a generalist who levels up everything equally