#my goddamn fic

[kitamars]

lovey dovey (alt ver of the first one under the cut!)

[not-rab]

[dont-leafmealone]

Something to commemorate the downfall

[emeraldgreaves]

[thinks about characters] [thinks about characters] [thinks about characters] [thinks about characters] [thinks about characters] [thinks about characters] [thinks about characters] [thinks about characters] [thinks about characters] [thinks about characters] [thinks about characters] [thinks about--

[vaggieslefteye]

ALASTOR & LUCIFER | ᴘᴀʀᴀʟʟᴇʟꜱ + ꜱɪᴍɪʟᴀʀɪᴛɪᴇꜱ

[rowanisawriter]

legacy

patrochilles / F1 iliad AU / ~12k words

inspired by @wolfythewitch’s gorgeous F1 art

After Achilles unexpectedly storms off the track during the last race of the World Championship, Patroclus is tasked by members of his own team and beyond to bring him back to the race as the threat of a Trojan victory looms.

.

“You really think I could get Achilles back on the track with all of you disrespecting him like this?” Patroclus almost laughs but it gets stuck in his throat. “And anyway, I shouldn’t even be here talking to you. I should be cheering on my own team instead of listening to you shit on yours.”

“Patroclus, we are all on the same team under Agamemnon. And we are about to get fucked if we lose Helen’s sponsorship to the Trojans. I’m telling you, you might not even have a contract next year.”

Patroclus’s incredulous laugh is a choked sound that bursts past his lips. He looks at Odysseus, the permanent lines across his brow, the silver hair catching the sunlight pouring in from the open bay doors, and tries to find some of the good humor that’s usually there. It’s not here today. All he can see is worry and a hint of fear. It slides across the space between them, burrowing itself into Patroclus’s chest, as cool as the wine from earlier.

“There are two races left,” Odysseus says, his voice barely above a whisper, snatched out of his mouth and weaving in and out and around the crowd that presses in waves of Ferrari red and Mercedes black and Red Bull blue. “Achilles needs to be there for at least one, otherwise we’re cooked.”

[ethosiab]

bkau etho :3 (design by the amazing @applestruda)

[hauntingofhouses]

they literally got rid of her eye bags and under-eye dark circles and made her cheeks fuller and more flushed along with her letting her hair down... to show how happy she was on the farm...

[dukeofthomas]

"Jason just needs to see things from his family's perspective and understand how much they love him (despite them never actually communicating or showing him through their actions)" is out. "The batfamily putting a single bit of effort into understanding Jason and reconciling with him on his own terms" is in.

[isjasz]

Cherries, from fruit to pit. Atoms. The sun, every day. Worms. Mulch. Perspiration. The moon, every night. Me. You. 

Rebirth. 

The various cycles of life and death. 

<GoodTimeWithScar> fell from a high place. 

——————————

EXPLODES THE DOOR ITS HSBB TIMEEEEE This is my piece for @minecraftbed's incredible fic "Gaussian Blur" in @hermitshippingbigbang :D

Go read it for the full context of the comic (and details if you can spot them!) heheeehehe I love it sm and had sm fun doing the comic! The concept is so cool and the feels are KSALDHTHRGRRHRH (please i have been losing it)

SO *grabs you by the shoulders and throws you directly at it* gogogogo 👉👉👉👉👉

[thatneoncrisis]

would harrow baby trap Gideon

i cannot stress enough that there isnt a power in the known universe that would get harrow to make a baby with her fucking body let alone to keep some broad in her life. shed lock gideon in a bathroom saw style before it came to that

[wynnyfryd]

Trailer park Steve AU part 58

part 1 | part 57 | ao3

@steddie-island said i wasn't allowed to cut this lol. cw: angst, canon typical horror, mentions of minor character death

“Lucas called me a ghost today.”

Steve almost laughs, bitter and sharp. Sure. Why not? What’s one more ghost in his passenger seat?

He doesn't really want to talk to her right now, if he's honest. It's been fifteen minutes and she still hasn't apologized for trying to rob him, or explained where they're going, or what spooked her, or why this car ride was so urgent that he had to risk his job for it — a job he actually needs, considering his, well, everything. She's hardly said anything beyond the occasional "turn here" or "next left" while sulking with her forehead pressed against the window.

But he can tell she has something she needs to get off her chest, so he swallows his annoyance and offers, "Yeah?"

"Yeah," she says back. Doesn't elaborate.

He gives her another minute to gather her words, watches her open and close her mouth a few times in his periphery, but nothing comes out. She scoffs at herself and abruptly changes the subject. “Eddie was being extra… well, extra today.”

“Was he?” Steve asks, his bones itching under his skin. He doesn't want to talk about Eddie. Doesn't want to think his name.

“Yeah, he, uh- he was kinda manic? He was, like, running all over the cafeteria and starting shit with Jason Carver...” And he's only half-listening, anger simmering as she goes on and on, because she promised that Dustin didn't put her up to this. Said that this wasn't some bullshit excuse to get him to talk about Eddie or hang out with Eddie or think about Eddie or kiss and make up with fucking Eddie, and now she's just talking about him, and it-

And it hurts; god, it still just hurts—

"....Then he started rambling about how he can’t wait to get the hell out of here when he graduates.”

Searing-stabbing-burning-sharp. Steve clutches at the flare of pain in his chest, the crushed soda-can feeling where his heart's supposed to be. His head pounds. He follows her next direction onto a winding, tree-lined road, the canopy suffocating overhead, and his skin feels too dry — too tight, too small, shrink-wrapping him inside of it, because he knows where they are now. Knows the tilt of the rusted lamp shade, the shape of the weather brick paths. He's tasted the metal tang of this stop sign in his nightmares.

Fuck. Fuck.

"Cool," he grits out as he drives through the cemetery gates. Past stone and wrought iron, past the empty central fountain. He hasn't been here since July. “Good for him.”

“Steve-"

“Why are you telling me this?" he snaps. He throws the car in park under an old oak and turns to glare at her, barking a frustrated, "Huh?"

Immediately, he feels bad for raising his voice. Feels even worse for the way she flinches away. The naked fear on her face, her hand reaching for the door. He takes a long, deep breath and lets it out slowly through his nose. “Sorry. Sorry. Just-" There's a leak inside him somewhere; some infected, gaping hole, and his stupid heart keeps pumping all his blood into the wound. "Why are you-?”

“Look,” she says sharply, "I know it sucks. To talk about him." She's staring at the rows of headstones up ahead, her face gone steely with determination, her shoulders squared, her big eyes wide and a little wet when she turns to meet his gaze. “But whatever you were— whatever happened, it just… it really messed him up.”

Good. "You sound like Dustin."

"Maybe Dustin had a point."

"Since when?"

She throws her hands up, nostrils flaring. "I'm trying to tell you that I think he still cares!"

“Yeah? He’s got a seriously fucked up way of showing it if so!”

“Yeah, well some of us don’t know how to show it!”

And oh.

Oh.

Silence blankets them like dust. Eyes locked; harsh breaths. This has nothing to do with him and Eddie, does it?

Lucas called me a ghost.

Steve sighs and slumps forward, his forearms on the wheel, his chin resting on his wrist. The late afternoon sun is warm through the glass, and his head gives another nasty throb as he looks out over the hill, at the polished stones glinting in the golden hour rays.

His dad is buried here.

A lot of people are.

“Hey,” he murmurs, rolling his neck to look at her. The skin under her eyes is red. "Sorry for yelling."

She sniffs quietly. "Me, too."

He reaches over and gives her hand a quick squeeze, keeping his voice low and gentle. "You know you can just talk to me, right? Max, talk to me. Please.”

Her bottom lip quivers. “It’s nothing, okay?” She sinks down in her seat, crossing her arms to shield herself. “Shit’s just been… it’s just been weird all week. Like- like bad weird, and I don't know if I'm just going crazy, or— I mean, maybe Ms. Kelley's right, maybe's it's just— but it feels like…”

"Like what?"

She holds a hand out flat in front of her; flips her wrist over slowly so her palm faces the sky.

Steve's blood runs cold. He thinks of his own nightmares: the weird visions, the headaches, the persistent haunted feeling.

"I don't know anything for sure," she insists, rushing to reassure him before he can fully start to panic. "Seriously, don't freak out; I haven't, like, seen any gates or anything, it's just— bad dreams. Nose bleeds. I don't know." She hoists her backpack onto her shoulder. "I thought coming here might help."

He catches her by the arm, raking his eyes over her face, looking for any signs of danger. "Is there anything I can do?"

She shakes her head no and tugs free of his grip, and then she's slipping out of the car, letting the door fall shut behind her, and Steve watches her crest the hill while sirens wail inside his head.

—

part 59

tag list in separate reblogs under '#trailer park steve au taglist' if you'd like to filter that content. if you want to be added please comment and let me know (must be over 21; please either verify in the comment or have your age visible on your blog)

[tawus]

Me: "I'm reading One Punch Man manga for the engaging plot, the intentional and thinly veiled derision of the hero-villain dichotomy, the fast-paced action, wholesome comedy, and Murata's god-tier art style"

The engaging plot, the intentional and thinly veiled derision of the hero-villain dichotomy, the fast-paced action, wholesome comedy, and Murata's god-tier art style:

[ingravinoveritas]

Bonus clip of Michael on the WTAWTAW podcast talking about his experiences with gender expression as a teenager in Port Talbot and mentioning his crush on John Taylor again. Transcript of notable highlights below:

Michael: "So when I was 12, 13--early '80s, the time that Allie is talking about--and I saw girls with lip gloss and wearing rah-rah skirts and leg warmers and stuff, [whispers] and I was a little bit jealous. Course, never said that, never said that. In Port Talbot if I'd mentioned that, my life would've been hell. But I do remember being quite...attracted by the trappings. A lot of trappings for girls. We didn't have stuff like that for boys. There were rituals for girls, doing your makeup, doing your hair." Michael: "I mean, my first crush--I said this on a thing I did called The Assembly recently--my first crush was a man called--ah, John Taylor from Duran Duran. Ohh, he was the most beautiful thing I'd ever seen. The way I processed it was, like, I'm gonna try and look like John Taylor, try and make my hair like John Taylor." Michael: "And they always used to have a bit of lip gloss going on, didn't they? Those New Romantics. But like I say, I couldn't really try that out in Port Talbot."

This goes directly back to things I have written about on my blog previously, about Michael having these feelings and not being able to express them because of where he grew up and the hateful climate that Section 28 fostered. This is why it is so difficult for someone of Michael's generation to label themselves, because none of that is lightly shaken off.

Even hearing the way Michael talks about it in the podcast, you can tell that this is not a joke, but a longing for something that he still remembers so vividly, because it meant so much to him at the time, and still does. Also, Michael has now mentioned his crush on John Taylor twice in the span of two months after not saying anything about it for years, and if that doesn't tell you where his heart and mind are right now, I'm not sure what does. Neither he nor David need a formal announcement to make it clear who they are, because they've already been telling us...

[dootznbootz]

Honestly, when Odysseus is back, I imagine how he'd be trying so hard to really bond with Telemachus. Everyone else that he deeply cared about knew him from before, but Telemachus doesn't know him and he doesn't know Telemachus. All they know is that they love each other. And it made me imagine him trying so hard with "Father/Son moments" but he doesn't know where to start and begin.

Ody: "Here, son, this is how you tie a good knot when tying up animals. You pull it through-"

Tele: "Uh, Father, I already know how to do that... I learned this when I was around 13..."

Ody: "...Yes! Of course! Well done!"

But deep down he's so so sad. Telemachus already knows so many things already. Learned the things that Odysseus wanted to teach him but couldn't. Telemachus realizes this too, and I can imagine him sometimes pretending not to know something or, at the very least, letting his father tell the same instructions again to cheer him up.

I'd like to imagine Penelope notices Odysseus being sad about it and so she reminds him of a trick he did while young, something Telemachus doesn't know how to do. BUT IT HAS TO BE SOMETHING GOOFY! Could it be woodworking? Sure, but I also really fucking want it to be something absolutely goofy. Woodworking is useful, as is fighting, swimming, archery, etc.

Party Trick-level stuff! I want people to be watching the king and prince do something silly and ridiculous but the two of them are having the time of their life, fucking juggling or something.

[fortheb0ys]

i wish to calmly hold Makarov. no more, no less –🐢

Just the thought of Makarov being in your arms as you hold him completely silent and still.

His chest against yours, breathing in a slow rhythm. Your heart beats as one, only flesh and bones to separate them. It sounds so loud in such a quiet room.

Makarov's calloused hands on your cheek. It feels too gentle for a man like him. You've made him soft. Turning him against his nature, making him in a man he hates. He should kill you for such an act.

The thought of gouging out your eyes just to have your screams fill the empty void flashes through Makarov's mind. His thumb still gentle against your cheekbone as he fought the urges.

For now he'll indulge in the last bits of humanity he had and let himself be held. Tomorrow it'd died as the sun rose, violence will consume him once again.