#rusty thing

[minkstudios1-photoblog]

working boat detail © minkstudios 2024

[sepezzz]

this stinker, Tma character sheet #6!

[shart-factory]

rusty queer presents ... the fagnus archives ..

[nickkkdoesstuff]

Screenshot redraw :D

[anouchard]

So, there we have it!

Season One is complete (well ... ish). I've had an absolute riot playing Gwen, and it's been so lovely seeing your reactions every week.

To you: thank you for being the most enthusiastic, engaged, and earnest fandom I have ever encountered. Y'all are an absolute JOY.

To the entire team at RQ, to my gorgeous castmates, and to every single writer who worked on this one: thank you, and congratulations.

And to Gwendolyn Bouchard? Well ... Good Luck, Babe!

[moonsun2010]

5 June - The Dracula Drought begins

a redraw of this art from DD2023!

[stervrucht]

✨Steve✨

[pinyatapix]

how i imagine Minecraft Alex's personality to be like vs how i imagine Minecraft Steve's personality. duality of minecraft

[worblewobble]

misc vbros things

[stealthkragen]

gave rusty the las vegas coach costume treatment (kind of)

[juniper-clan]

Moon 27: Walking on My Grave (feat @in-memoriam-tgwk Glowstar!)

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[minkstudios1-photoblog]

metal and rust © minkstudios 2023

[mattelektras]

i wish i could breathe fire. i don't know. just seems like the sort of thing that could be useful, you know?

[howlsnteeth]

let the river in

[hansama]

FINALLY got around to finishing my drawing for @ut-against-genocide! Requested by Anon! Thank you for your donation ♥

Do your daily click for Palestine!

[rimatsu]

After apologies and accusations and nippy words and even more apologies comes the time for honesty. They talk for so long Tommy’s voice dissolves at the edges, a pharyngeal crackle seeping into his confessions. Candor feels a lot like being cored. He sits on Evan’s couch split in half like a pomegranate, red viscera exposed — peeled open for examination. For six months, he had only offered tiny morsels of himself, weighed bites meant to appease hunger and not satiate, but Evan has grown gluttonous in their time apart. Tommy is made to dig past the last vestiges of self-preservation and unearth everything he’d kept buried, exhuming skeletons and old hurt from the ground.

It's exhausting to the bone.

"I feel like I got hit by a bus," Tommy says once a hush of silence settles over the loft, rubbing the heel of his palm over a brow.

Evan smiles at him, and it's a touch rueful. "That's what happens when you condense half-a-year's worth of talking into 3 hours," he reasons, although not unkindly.

Silence eats away at the oxygen again until Evan reaches for Tommy's hand, thumb pressing into the blue rivers of his veins. Surely he can feel Tommy's pulse go seismic at the touch.

"We don't have to rush into anything," Evan starts, tentative and placating like he's speaking to a sighted animal. "I— I'll try to rein it in, go slow."

Bless his heart, Tommy thinks, because he sounds like he believes it. Evan isn't capable of slow. He can do undefined, he can even do superficial, but he's not wired for measured steps — his long legs are more suited for a gallop than a trot. Tommy knew that much by the second date. The absence of moderation had charmed and scared him in equal measure, drawn to it like moth to a flame until he realized he'd have to carry indelible burn scars like relics to his grave.

Tommy is under no illusion, but he gives a terse nod anyway, and then he watches as Evan’s lips part around an inhalation. It's that bolstering little intake of breath that precedes the big questions — the same one Evan took before inviting him to his sister's wedding, the same one he took before asking Tommy to move in with him.

He stares at Evan’s expanding diaphragm and braces himself for impact.

"But I can't— I can't do aimless either, Tommy," Evan barrels on, and squeezes at his wrist like he's holding Tommy in place so he can't physically recoil from his words. "I need to know we're walking in the same direction." Evan pauses for a heartbeat, and when he speaks again, conviction has steeled the timbre of his voice: "I want serious down the line. I want a life together, a shared home, a ring on my finger. Kids, the whole shebang," he continues, firm, no stammering in sight, like he's daring Tommy to dispute any of it again.

His eyes reflect the light overhead like glistening jewels. Their magnetic pull is as strong as the magnitude of Tommy's fears, powerful enough that he's considering living in communion with worry. Tommy swallows around the lump in his throat and pushes down the instinctive urge to run for the windows like the building is at flashover.

"There's no guarantee we'll make it far," he warns, because it bears repeating.

"No, there isn't," Evan agrees, like uncertainty isn't frightening or paralyzing. He's terrifying. "But if you're not gonna try anyway, if you're not buying what I'm selling, you might as well walk out now and spare us both the trouble."

Coming back is allowing Evan to become somatically essential the way an aortic valve is vital — it's giving him the power to deal a finishing blow with no warranty certificate. Tommy has flown through warzones, has dismantled and mended himself back into new shapes, has let fire lick at him and smoke suffocate him, but knocking on Evan’s door again might be the bravest thing he's ever done.

He takes a fortifying breath of his own and then surrenders to a mathematical probability.

"Yeah, I can do trying," he says, and it's a meagre offering — certainly not the type of reassurance that would reassure him, but it's everything Tommy has to give, amorphous and fragile but no less true.

Evan is more benevolent than him, anyway.

"Okay," he accepts, mercy shining in the blue of his irises. "That's good enough for now."