#yes i know it's june

[nocturnal-milk-dud]

Spooky Season ask

Bishop Losa - What we do in the shadows

Ray Merriman - Nightmare on elm street

The Punisher - Werewolf

all smut 🫠😂

I am very very sorry for how long you've had to wait for these. I've had a very hard time writing, and for a while, with all the awful shit going on around the world, I didn't see much point in writing anything. I hope you like it. My plan for the other two is to post them and tag you, as I haven't written those yet.

The Moon is Dead but She Still Pulls on Me

Pairing: Frank Castle × Reader

Warnings/Notes: I'm rusty, I apologize. NC-17 18+ Only; violence; blood; smut (of the monster variety); public sex; oral; really hope you're into it I'm so sorry if not

Word count: ~1100

You close the shackle around Frank's wrist, making him wince.

“Sorry,” you whisper.

“It's okay.” Your fingers slide down over his palm.

“What do you want for breakfast tomorrow?” you ask, knowing he'll be hungry and trying to distract him. He leans forward, as if to kiss you, but the tip of his nose brushes down the length of your neck, his beard tickling your skin and you hear him pull in a long, deep breath. The warmth from his sigh spreads over your skin, pools in your belly. You don't need to hear his answer to know what he wants. Your breath passes in a shudder.

“Pancakes then,” you say, breaking the heavy silence.

“Eggs too,” Frank says. “Bacon maybe.” His eyes are hungry.

“Omelette? Mushrooms and jalapeños?” Frank lets out a grunt of approval.

“Coffee too,” he says.

“Of course.” The clouds break and cool stretches of moonlight reach through the barn slats. There isn't much time and you shouldn't linger. The look in Frank's eyes and the way his body trembles tells you as much.

“You should go.” Frank's voice is rough, stretched tight. You place a gentle kiss on his lips, taste the sweat forming on his skin, and rest your forehead against his.

“I'll see you in the morning.” The words are an order, an expectation. He'll be himself again.

The air in the house is stale and you open a bedroom window. The smell of oncoming rain carries in on a gust that flutters the curtains, and it's not long before you're asleep.

Wood splinters, glass shatters, a howl tears through the silence and rips you from your sleep. You nearly trip running to the window. The back door to the barn hangs torn and broken on its hinges and a large dark figure darts into the woods. Your heart thuds in a panic.

“Shit!” You snatch the flashlight and tranq gun off your nightstand and follow.

You should have put on shoes. And pants. Hunting a werewolf in the middle of the night in nothing but an oversized tee suddenly doesn't seem like the brightest idea. It had rained while you slept and the ground is soft mud under your feet. Wet leaves brush against your legs. Your eyes scan the trees, your head turns at every rustle, every snap of a twig, and you try to control your breathing.

The two of you had talked about this, planned for it. You'd practiced with the tranq gun until the use of it became second nature, but it's as if your brain has been wiped clean. The gun feels awkward in your sweaty palm.

Something moves to your right. You turn, training your flashlight beam on the disturbed foliage, but nothing's there. Not anymore. In the mud you find tracks too big to belong to any animal. The silence is oppressive, and your stomach tangles itself in knots.

“Please don't let my boyfriend gut me in the woods behind our house,” you whisper before moving deeper into the dark.

The tracks end in the middle of a clearing. The moonlight makes the tall slick grass look like a lake of silver. Your eyes search the clearing, the treeline, before turning to the sky. The moon sits heavy and solemn, a silent observer.

“He's a good man,” you whisper to it, as if that makes any difference.

A low growl sends you spinning, searching, and you realize you fucked up. You're exposed and the grass suddenly seems too tall. You start slowly toward the treeline, watching the grass around you for any signs of movement. Every muscle in your body wants to run, your brain screams for it, run for the house, run to safety. Instead you place your feet carefully and hold your breath.

Something blocks out the moon, casting the earth around you into darkness. The skin at the back of your neck prickles and icewater floods your veins.

He's behind you.

You tighten your grip on the tranq gun, wishing you’d wiped the sweat off your hands. You turn with the gun raised and fire. The wolf--Frank--catches your arm with his, knocking the shot wide and sending the gun flying. His claws slash you across the chest, tearing through your shirt and skin. You stumble, tripping over your own feet, and land hard on your back, the impact knocking the air out of you. The ground shakes as his clawed hands come down heavily on either side of you. Frank's face is close to yours as he growls low in his throat. His lips pull back with the sound, revealing sharp teeth eager to devour you.

“Frank,” you say, clear and loud, holding his gaze--his eyes the only part of him you recognize. Your heart is hammering in your chest, and your shredded skin is burning, but you swallow your fear. You have to be calm, you have to trust. “Frank Castle.” It's a call and you pray he hears it. You think you see a flash of recognition in his eyes. He leans in towards your neck and you squeeze your eyes shut, preparing yourself for the pain. There's another rumble of sound deep in his chest. It sounds like thunder and you feel his hot breath on your skin. You hear a sharp sniff and risk turning your head, glancing down. He's smelling you, breathing you in deep like he does before every transformation. He's remembering you. The breath you don't realize you’re holding leaves your lungs in a shaky sigh. A quick flash of lightning rips across the sky and a warm, gentle rain starts to fall. Frank gives your neck a slow lick and you run a hand through his fur, the adrenaline seeping out of your body and into the ground.

He knows you, you're safe.

“Frank,” you whisper, and he whines softly in response, nuzzling your neck. You close your eyes, fingers curling in his fur. His hands find the tear in your shirt and rip the fabric further, exposing your body to the night. He licks the wound at your chest with his rough, warm tongue and the pain dissipates, the bleeding stops. Lightning and thunder split the sky and the rain starts to pour as he moves down your body, positioning his great head between your thighs. The languid strokes of his tongue make you writhe, make you moan. Another flash of lightning illuminates Frank's eyes, holding you in their hungry gaze and you let your head fall back against the muddy earth, moaning his name, begging for more. You're eager to take him and when he pulls away you turn over. Your fingers sink into the mud as he sinks into you. He's rough and fast, and his hand finds your neck, pulling you up to meet his chest. There's a rumble in his chest to rival the thunder when he comes. The tension in you snaps and your body shudders, warmth flooding your thighs. You fall limp against him as the rain cools your skin, and the two of you remain like that until your breathing settles.

Frank lays you on the grass and curls behind you, pulling you into the safety of his arms, the warmth of his chest, and the two of you fall asleep under the watchful eye of the moon.

[arthseid]

More on Senticlaus

He judges the dead to decide what part of Ruthseid they should go to, but isn't the only one who does this, others work for him as judges and other jobs related to a courtroom

All overseers have months named after them, Senticlaus' month is called Dosenti, the 12th month, coming from the word "dozen" and is pronounced with similar emphasis the way you say "December"

Each month mirrors a real-world equivalent from the Gregorian Calendar

And if it wasn't obvious by his name, Senticlaus is Fireside's equivalent of Santa Claus, but pronounced a little differently, the "claus" part sounds more like the way "house" is pronounced

He sends a gift to people in Arthseid throughout the month of Dosenti if they've been good, he does this to encourage them to continue being good, and the quality of the gift depends on how good they've been, this doesn't have an age limit and those in Arthseid are usually given gifts throughout their entire life, assuming they've been good enough every year

I don't have a character design for him yet, but I know don't want it to just be a clone of Santa, he might have features reminiscent of Santa, though (red/purple clothes, big white beard idk)

I also want him to be a more serious character, despite the whole Santa thing, so the name may change a bit to be more original

[acetier]

another elden ring art dump feat. torin & friends

[skateironicallycantskate]

me to my mutuals cause it’s national best friend day

@yasukematsudadefender @sugarsodaa @thecrazyphantom @shsl-roomba @freshyow @togamislesbian @dangakkisland

[turtleblogatlast]

*Leo gives a dubious look*

[Remember all those months ago when I promised I was doing a comic? Well. I am still doing it, just taking a bit longer than expected haha…Will absolutely get it done within the month though, mark my words!]

[why-the-heck-not]

dishes; modern day sisyphus’ boulder

[xmascritter]

Happy birthday to you. And here's to many more.

[thereareeyesinsidethetrees]

stan: how can you be polyamorous and aroace, or…whatever mabel called it?

ford: in my case, i have my family and i have my platonic polycule. i would prefer to never have to interact with anyone outside these two groups

stan: what about soos and wendy? they’re not in either of those groups

ford: first of all, i am soos’ uncle, second of all, are you saying you don’t believe i would both die and kill for wendy?

stan: you’ve got a weird way of defining family, six

ford: it’s my favorite way

[ldshadowdoodles]

[204] La Femme Rose

-🌷

[strangersteddierthings]

Porcelain Steve - Part 7

Part One🦇Part Two🦇Part Three🦇Part Four🦇Part Five🦇Part Six🦇Part Seven🦇Part Eight🦇Part Nine

((TW for this part; period typical slurs and internalized homophobia. Read the tags before clicking readmore if you want the details))

Steve has been a porcelain doll for seven weeks when disaster strikes.

"What is that," Jeff says, because even though the words are in an order which would suggest that it's a question, the tone of voice Jeff uses decidedly is not questioning.

"What is whaaa-AH! Nothing! It's nothing!" Eddie, who was torso deep into his closet throwing things around to find his backup amp cord, turns to look at what Jeff was talking about, and is now launching himself across his room to stand between Jeff and Porcelain Steve. Porcelain Steve, who Eddie had lain on his bed, propped slightly on a pillow, headphones carefully perched on his little head, hooked to a cassette player currently playing the first hour of last week's Top 40 countdown that Eddie had taped for him (all three hours of it, leaving out the chatter of the radio show host. He'd had to use two tapes to get it all).

"Nothing sure looks a lot like a doll in headphones, Munson," Jeff has an amazing poker face but Eddie's certain he can see a bit of judgement underneath the carefully blank expression Jeff is wearing.

"I don't know what you're talking abo- hey! Hey, no, no, don't!" Eddie tries to bodily block Jeff when he moves forward and the two end up wrestling, a match that Eddie almost wins, if not for the hazard that is his messy room. He gets Jeff walked almost to the door before he steps wrong on something, ankle rolling and sending him down sideways. He clutches at Jeff but can't make purchase and Jeff, the bastard, does fuck-all to try and catch him. Instead, Jeff leaps out of arm's length, then lunges onto the bed as Eddie collapses to his floor.

Eddie frantically tries to stand and, in his haste, ends up with his feet tangled in a pile of dirty laundry and that sends him crashing down again, this time forward onto his hands and knees, so he gives up on standing and crawls the few short feet to the bed, finally looking up to see that the damage has been done.

Jeff has picked up Steve, holding him inches from his own face, eyes squinted in suspicion. Eddie is frozen, horrified and afraid, and can't bring himself to do anything as Jeff examines Steve closely, turning him around, poking his torso, flipping him upside down to examine his shoes more thoroughly. It's only when Jeff reached for the shirt, pinching the hem of it between two fingers that Eddie kicks back into action.

He lunges up, one knee on the bed, leaning over to grab Steve and yank him from Jeff's grip. His first instinct is to throw Steve over his shoulder, out of sight out of mind mentality, but as soon as he does, he realizes his mistake and twists, lunging to catch Steve in midair. He does manage to catch Steve, but it sends him bouncing off his dresser and almost back to the floor before he manager to regain his balance, where he proceeds to cradle Steve to his chest, which is heaving from the adrenaline, wrestling match, and subsequent dive after Steve.

Jeff is giving him a concerned look but something else piques his interest; Jeff reaches over and picks up the headphones, holding them up to one ear. His face goes through every emotion a human could possibly experience in less than fifteen seconds as he listens to whatever track was at the forty-ish minute mark on the Top 40 countdown.

Slowly, Jeff lowers the headphones, letting them drop to the bed before he gives Eddie a new, more judgmental, yet infinitely more concerned, look. "Eddie. What. The fuck."

Honestly, he's not sure there's anything he can say in response.

"Why- I don't... are you okay, man?" Jeff sounds both scared for Eddie, and scared of him, at the same time.

"I'm fine," Eddie manages to squeak out.

"Eddie," Jeff says seriously, "this is not fine. This is- this is insane behavior. You know that, right?"

"I've no idea what you mean," Eddie doesn't even know what he's defending himself from but his default response to anything is to defend himself. He grips Steve tightly around the torso with one hand and then moves both his hands to be behind his back so Jeff will stop staring at Steve.

"I mean this fuckin' insane shrine you have dedicated to Steve fucking Harrington. How did you even get a doll that looks like him. Did you- did you make that?"

Fuck. Holy fuck. What can he say to defend himself here? Is there a single way for him to come out of this not sounding deranged? If he agrees, let's Jeff's drawn conclusion be the truth, then that's all but confirmation to Steve about his big fat crush, so when Steve's back to being Steve he'll never look at Eddie again. Jeff might think he needs mental help, but he'll be here for Eddie. If he tries to deny the accusation, then he'll need an explanation. He'll have to tell Jeff something that make him seem less like a creepy stalker, but what? He can't tell the truth, not without letting everyone know he's going to tell Jeff. There's a whole other secret he'd have to let out to even have a chance of Jeff believing him.

Jeff must take his silence for acceptance or guilt, because he's speaking again. "I.... man, this is not healthy. Please tell me you aren't, like, hoarding a lock of his hair or his clothes or something."

Involuntarily, damningly, his eyes dart to the closet, where several of Steve's sweaters hang from when he'd borrowed them and never returned them. And it's not like Steve doesn't have several of Eddie's own articles of clothing, like his battle vest and a few shirts. But Jeff doesn't know they easily, willingly, swap clothes, so his eyes go wide and dart towards the closet, as if he can pick out which pieces belong to Steve on sight.

Actually, he probably can.

"This really isn't what it looks like," Eddie says because he has to say something. Being silent is too incriminating.

"I don't think you're aware of what this looks like," Jeff says, wiggling himself off of Eddie's bed to stand at the foot of it. "Of all the boys in Hawkins.... I knew you liked Steve but this is.... creepy. That doll looks so much like him that I recognized it. Does Steve know you're in love with him, or is this like a way to process your crush without having to-"

"Jeff!" Eddie yells, mortified. He can feel his whole face heat up, knows he must be bright red. Because Jeff just said, out loud and for Steve to hear, the thing that Eddie very much hasn't even said out loud to himself, even if he knows how he feels deep down.

Jeff must know he's overstepped some invisible boundary he wasn't even aware of because his face immediately shows regret. He takes a step forward and Eddie takes a step back.

Immediately, Jeff stops his forward momentum. "Shit, I'm sorry, Eddie. I'm sorry."

When Eddie answers, his voice sounds like he's been eating gravel, "Just, can you go wait in the living room? I'll be right out, and we can talk, or whatever, but can you just..."

A nod, and then Jeff is gone, closing the door behind him.

With shaking hands, Eddie brings Steve back to the front of him. Looks down at him. He's not even aware he's crying until he watches his tears mark Steve's tiny polo. He can't keep holding Steve. Can't keep looking at him. Not when- not when his best friend just outed him in the worst way possible. And Eddie can't even be upset or hurt about it because Jeff didn't know. He's teased Eddie about his crushes before, and in the safety of his own room, there was no reason for Jeff to have to watch what he was saying.

Even knowing that Steve is okay with Robin, loves her anyway, without the ability to confirm that Steve doesn't hate him right now, Eddie's going to freak out. But he can't. Jeff is waiting in the living room, and the band is waiting back at Gareth's. This was just- they were supposed to just grab the amp cable and get back, a fifteen-minute job at most, and now.

Now Eddie is staring down at Steve, willing himself to not have a panic attack.

"I'm sorry, Steve. I'm so sorry. You shouldn't have heard it like that, it s-should have come from me. It should- you-I'm sorry," Eddie gently underhand throws Steve onto the center of the bed. He lands face up and Eddie sinks to the floor because he can't stand anymore, and he can't really breath.

Steve knows Eddie's a fucking faggot now, and that he wants Steve, and there's no way he'll get to keep the friendship they had before this. There's no universe in which Steve isn't creeped out by this information. There has never been an instance where a straight boy found out about his crush on them and didn't abandon him. Not always cruelly, he'll admit. He's had friends that learned and just... slid from his life with no words and no fuss. Eddie just never spoke to them again because they never came back around, but they also never outed him.

That's what will happen with him and Steve. He'll quit inviting Eddie around, or calling when he's bored, and eventually it will get to the point that Eddie only sees him at BBQ's that Joyce drags him to.

Fuck. FUCK!

He's not sure how long he's on the floor but eventually, he finds the will to get back up and resume digging through his closet to find the amp cord. It doesn't take long, he was ridiculously close to finding it earlier, it seems.

Before leaving his room, he picks back up the cassette player and headphones. Silence comes from them, so he pops the tape out before flipping it to the B side and popping it back in. He puts the headphones around Steve's head again and presses play, doing his best to not actually look at Steve. He'll just have another breakdown if he does.

He trudges out of his room, closing the door behind himself before taking the short walk to the living room, where Jeff waiting on the couch, elbows on his knees, fingers steepled under his chin, eyes faraway as he stares towards the wall in front of him.

"Hey," Eddie says, to get his attention.

"Hey," Jeff says, sitting up straight and turning towards Eddie. "I'm sorry. Whatever I did, I'm sorry."

"Why are you apologizing? I'm the fucking psycho here," he sighs, leaning sideways against the kitchen counter, arms folded across his chest, hand clutching at the amp cord just for something to ground him.

"Forget that, whatever I did, or said, or whatever, you were- when you yelled my name. You looked terrified. Of me," Jeff almost whispers the last sentence, and if not for the stark silence in the trailer, Eddie wouldn't have heard.

"Not of you, Jeff," Eddie whispers back, but his voice doesn't stay quiet because 'quiet' isn't a thing Eddie does easily or often. "Of... of myself, and these- of how I feel- I'm a goddamned faggot and now that Ste- when Steve finds out I'll lose him! Like I've lost every fucking person who ever even suspected I was a fuckin' queer!"

Silence stretches between them, enough to make Eddie fidget, dropping his crossed arms to twist the amp cord about anxiously with both his hands.

"Look, man, I don't know what's, like, the appropriate thing to say so I'm just going for the honest thing. You got me. You'll never lose me. And all those other assholes that you think you lost? You're wrong. They lost you. And if Steve Harrington is gonna be another one of those, then you aren't losing him. 'Cause he was never really in your corner to begin with."

If this were anyone else, with the exception of his uncle, he would be able to hold it together better. But it's Jeff. His best friend. Who never believed Eddie committed unspeakable horrors over Spring Break last year. Who didn't question the strange, new friends he suddenly had afterwards; who accepted as the only explanation a softly spoken 'they saved me' and that was enough. Who had said 'ok, cool' in response to Eddie telling him he was gay, years ago now, and continued trying to find out if Eddie had a secret relationship, switching girlfriend for boyfriend like it wasn't a big deal (Eddie did not have a secret relationship; his good mood that week was the result of snooping for his birthday present and finding the guitar hidden under his uncle bed).

It's Jeff. So, Eddie does the most metal, manly thing he can and bursts into tears, blindly reaching for Jeff and pulling him off the couch so he can bear hug him and sob into his shirt.

"There, there, you big baby," Jeff rubs his back soothingly, "let it out. Then pull your sorry ass together, because Gareth and Brian are going to think we died in a car crash on the way here if we take much longer."

"Ah, fuck," Eddie manager to say around the sniffling he's trying to get control of, "you're right."

"You good, though?"

"Uh, I will be."

Jeff nods and steps back. "How about this. We go to practice, and then you can come to my place tonight and we can like, hangout and talk. If that's what you want."

He's already nodding as he says, "yeah. That would be good. I- uh, I have something to do after practice, but yeah, after that I'll come over."

Eddie tosses the amp cable to Jeff after they climb into the van and head off.

Halfway there, Jeff says, "you know Gareth and Brian are in your corner, too. If you ever feel like telling them one day."

"One day," Eddie agrees, "but today has already been... a lot."

Practice goes well, with some ribbing for their tardiness allowed. If Gareth and Brian notice Eddie's been crying recently, they keep it to themselves. Which is good, because Eddie cannot handle one more thing today.

A promise to meet up with Jeff later and Eddie's back home.

Back to where he left Steve, who will be laying in silence on his bed because it's been well over two hours since he and Jeff left, and the tape only held an hours' worth of music on each side. Back to the nightmare of not knowing if Steve hates him now, or if Eddie's, and this is the most likely scenario, being a bit overdramatic.

His uncle is home, so he greets him, asks after his day, gets told dinner is Fend For Yourself Night (which just means leftovers or a TV dinner), and gets asked about Steve. Because of course he does.

"You sure he went on a vacation willingly with those parents of his, and he ain't actually kidnapped and trapped somewhere?"

That's a little bit too true. If only Wayne knew. "Well, no. I'm not sure. All I know is what he said when he left."

Wayne gives him a look. One Eddie is used to seeing, that says 'I know more than you think but I'm waiting for you to tell me' and Eddie's a little afraid of what Wayne thinks he knows. So, instead of prying that box open, Eddie just says he's tired and goes to his room.

Steve is exactly where Eddie left him.

Suddenly, without reason or logic, Eddie is angry. He's so pissed at Steve for being gone for this long. For having transformed in the first place. For not being able to assure him they'll still be friends, regardless of Eddie's stupid crush.

He snatches Steve off the bed, hand clamping around one of Steve's arms and his torso so he can hold him up with one hand. Steve's face, permanently stuck into a blank expression, looks back. Even knowing that Steve sees and hears through this thing, Eddie's so angry at the doll. If Steve hadn't been turned into this stupid thing, if Eddie wasn't so helplessly in love with him, this wouldn't have happened. Eddie could have taken his own time telling Steve, instead of hearing his deepest secret spilled easily from Jeff's lips. Instead of this not knowing what Steve is thinking, or how he feels. Is he recoiling in disgust at the fact Eddie's making him look at his face? Or is Eddie being awarded the same kindness as Robin, a quiet acceptance that won't change their friendship?

Eddie doesn't know that answer and he hates it.

He's so angry with himself because he should know better. He's forcing his own insecurities onto Steve, about acceptance and caring, when nothing Steve's done since they've become friends is prove that he'll always be Eddie's friend and not even the apocalypse could change that.

"I'm going to hang out with Jeff, so you're gonna be alone a bit longer. Or maybe I should drop you off at Robin's when I go," Eddie goes to toss Steve back on the bed when something pinches his palm. It's a startling sharp pain, quick to fade, but it's surprising enough for Eddie to let go.

Eddie watches, horrified, as he falls to the floor. He twists in the air, landing with a dull thump and cracking sound on his left arm before falling onto his back.

"Shit. Shit! Fuck, Steve, I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to," Eddie is crouched, already in the process of reaching for Steve when he freezes.

There is a crack on Steve's left arm, a line that starts above his elbow on the inside of his arm and runs down and across his arm to his hand, where Steve's pinky finger is gone. Looking slightly to the side, Eddie can see the small porcelain piece that Steve is missing laying on the ground next to him. Eddie's own hand is hovering in the air above Steve, shaking.

This can't be- how did- Eddie wracks his brain. Was the crack there already? Did Eddie cause the crack when he bounced off his dresser earlier? When did it happen? Does that fucking matter when it's Eddie who broke a piece off him? If Steve didn't hate him before, he's got to now. Eddie doesn't have time to panic about this, he's got to- El. El can talk to Steve. Find out if he's okay. What if breaking him-

Eddie launches himself up and to his dresser, grabbing at the Walkie up there. He pulls the antenna up, clicks it on and tries not to actually shout as he says, "Code Red! Code fucking Red!" He lets off the talk button, counts to seven in his head, enough time, he reasons, for someone to respond before he repeats the process. "Code Red!! Code Red!"

He repeats this process for three minutes with no response. Where the fuck is everyone!? How is he supposed to- Oh! The phone!

He tears down the hall and to the phone. He must look a right state, because Wayne looks very concerned and is halfway to standing up when Eddie gets to the phone beside him. He yanks the phone up and dials the number for the Byers-Hopper household, holding up a shaking finger to Wayne, a silent plea to give him a moment.

It rings and rings and rings before the answering machine kicks in. Eddie presses down on the disconnect button before dialing the Wheelers' number next.

"Hello?"

"Mike! Code Red! Where the fuck is everyone and why aren't they answering!?"

"What?"

"Code Red! Where's Nancy. Put Nancy on."

"Dude, slow down, what's-"

"I broke St-it. I broke it and someone needs to get El here now. Code Red does not mean ask questions, Mike! It means Code. Fucking. Red."

"Shit, shit, right! I'll get Nancy and we'll get everyone- just- we'll be there soon."

Eddie slams the phone down and has to meet his uncle's eye now.

"Eddie. What is goin' on?"

Eddie inhales a breath and can feel his lower lip quivering. "It's- can we talk about it later? I promise I'm not the one hurt, or in trouble, or- it's not me, ok. I just-"

"Yer shakin' like a leaf boy. What's got you so spooked?"

Eddie just shakes his head and flees back to his room, slamming the door shut between him and his uncle. He can't bring himself to cross the room to Steve. He slides himself down the door to sit on the floor, pulling his knees up to hug.

"I'm so sorry, Steve. I'm sorry."

[frogisanut]

aaa rosemary and johnkats!?!?!?! AT THE WEDDIGN!??!?!!? WHAT?!?!?MKW>LKEW:@L!PO holy shit.

[gamora-borealis]

incoming dangender thoughts: the more I read up/watch the stuff dan has said about gender after BIG + reflect on what he said in BIG I'm like. y'all she really has been explicitly trying to tell us his gender IS formless blob (without making it a huge deal in the mainstream public eye), but so many people haven't actually been taking him seriously! like. labels are made up, dan has pretty much said as much before. why do we have to have a specific approved™ term to consider them genderqueer/nonbinary/trans? those are descriptive labels and dan has been using a fun descriptive label they created that he defined for us in BIG, a definition that matches up with those other labels! and dan has said since 2019 that he is comfortable with any pronouns even though he still mainly uses he/him. like, lately dan has been using more she/her and they/them for herself and experimenting with being more femme and/or androgynous in various ways, and what is changing is not even necessarily gender (although maybe who knows), but probably that dan is finally feeling more comfortable with different kinds of gender presentation and pronouns than she typically uses. because low-key gender is kind of a performance and it's scary to switch it up sometimes but dan feels safe doing so especially with their audience and I think that's actually really special 🧡 but moral of the story, dangender has actually been out in the open since 2019 and I wish more people picked up on that!

[kalihoffs]

Sylaise and June

[thalialunacy]

[for the @calaisreno May Prompts Squad; in which there are many Holmeses and parenting is a contact sport]

(1) (2) (3) (4) (5) (6) (7) (8) (9) (10) (11) (12) (13) (14) (15) (16) (17) (18) (19) 20: do-over (21) (22) (23) (24) (25) (26) (27) (28) (29) (30) (31)

It's a new week, and John declares on Monday he's certain it's going to be easier than the last one.

What an idiot.

---

By the time they reach Wednesday, they've not been back from hospital twenty-four hours when Sherlock's dear mama orders them onto a train. 

'Mother,' Sherlock hisses into his mobile, glancing across the room to where John is firmly planted on the sofa with his daughter tight in his arms, watching Peppa Pig. 'Rosamund just got out of A&E. We don't want to go down the street, let alone out to a place so far from an adequate hospital that--' 

'Oh, poppycock' 

'I'm sorry?' 

'Now, don't be angry at me, darling. I know you must be frightened to bits for your little girl--' 

Sherlock turns away from the sofa again, chest clenching for the approximately thousandth time in the past two days. 'She's not my little girl,' he says between his teeth, trying to keep his voice steady and quiet.

'--but I'm only trying to help.'

Sherlock knows it's one of those times John would be a much better fit for the task at hand. Unfortunately, she's stuck with her son instead. 'Mummy. Clearly, that would not help.'

'You're not planning on feeding her peanuts again, are you?'

Sherlock closes his eyes. 'I won't dignify that with an answer.'

'Then pack an epipen and come see your mother. I want to kiss that baby.'

---

John is doing his best, Sherlock observes once they're gathered round his parents' kitchen table, but he's clearly still feeling scads of parental guilt. He refuses to let Rosamund out of his sight, and his jaw keeps doing that jumpy bit that means he's repressing something. Several somethings, obviously, because he is John Watson.

And Sherlock almost abhors how much he cares for John Watson.

---

His mother, naturally, can't hold back for long. 

'Oh, John, I do hate to see you like this.'

John freezes like the proverbial deer in headlights, then carefully puts down his fork, stiff upper lip firmly in place. 'Thanks, Mrs Holmes, but I'm all right.' 

Sherlock, who knows better, shares a Look with Rosamund, who blurps his name(ish) then happily stuffs more pickle into her mouth. John's face softens momentarily, and she notices. 'Want some, Daddy?'

It's not a question; John is immediately handed a chubby fistful of globby green.

'She not a fan of spoons, then?' Sherlock's father says with a chuckle.

'Only as a weapon,' Sherlock replies without thinking, but luckily it's the correct audience, because beyond an eye roll, the reaction is mostly laughter.

Except for John, Sherlock notices immediately. Oh, dear.

His mother notices, too, and her lips purse. 'John, I know we're all very English, but I'm old enough that I can speak plainly.'

'As if you hadn't already,' Sherlock mutters.

She ignores him, instead reaching out to touch John's right hand where it rests on the table. 'You mustn't punish yourself. You've done nothing wrong.'

John's extreme discomfort would be crystal clear to anyone in a ten mile radius. 'Mrs Holmes…'

'I mean it.'

He puts down his fork, and Sherlock sees him inhale purposefully. 'All due respect, ma'am, but my daughter nearly died. She nearly died because I insisted she eat something she clearly and repeatedly did not want to eat.'

'And?'

John's mouth opens, then shuts, before he speaks again. 'Are you joking?'

'Everyone makes mistakes with their children, dear.'

'Not that sort of mistake.'

She makes a noise close to a ladylike snort, if such a thing existed. 'We almost drowned Sherlock when he was her age.'

Sherlock's front chair legs drop back to the floor with a thunk. 'Beg pardon?'

'Yes, you came frightfully close to dying, it was very unpleasant.'

John's facade breaks enough to give Sherlock a slight smirk. 'And you didn't recognise my facetiousness on that train?'

'Yes, yes, thank you, now what is this about me drowning, Mother?'

'We left you with another child, a girl of maybe twelve.' She shakes her head. 'That poor girl. She's never forgiven herself.'

'But I didn't die!'

'Sherlock,' his mother chides. 'Don't be unkind.'

'Wait. Why didn't I die?'

A curious silence falls over the group. 

Sherlock's chin drops, and he sighs. 'Mycroft.'

His mother nods. 'He was in the deeper end, and you were in the shallow end. Where you were meant to stay.'

John huffs a laugh. 'Right, good luck with that.'

She tuts. 'He's lucky his brother was watching.'

'You don't remember any of it?' John asks, clearly curious.

Sherlock thinks. 'I remember a pool, several pools, from childhood. Various ponds. I remember-- Yes, I think the first time I ventured into the deep end, I blinked and I was at the ladder.'

'Indeed,' his mother says.

'Right,' John says, bemused. 'So you've always hated pools, even before we nearly got blown up in one.'

His mother blinks. 'Beg pardon?'

'Oh don't fret, Mummy.' Sherlock waves a hand. 'It was ages ago.'

And worse things have happened since then, no one needs say.

Except his mother says it, sort of. 'She's going to have such unusual stories to tell,' she says, turning to Rosamund and touching her tiny nose briefly. 'Aren't you, darling?'

'Any hope of a normal childhood was gone long ago, I'm afraid,' John says, his voice only a little strained.

Sherlock's father, unexpectedly, speaks up. 'Perhaps, but what she's got is better.'

'I agree,' his mother says. 'John's normal enough for the three of you, anyway.'

Sherlock smirks privately. Yes, absolutely normal, building-jumping, gun-toting, life-saving John Watson.

As if he'd ever fall in love with "normal."

That's the end of the discussion, apparently, because his mother turns back to Rosamund with a smile. 'Now, precious girl, let's see if you can say "grandmama" yet.' 

---

John, still feeling slightly sour, pulls out his phone once he's put Rosie down. 'Mycroft.' His tone borders on Captainy, but he's too bloody tired to be polite. 'What are you playing at?'

'Couldn't possibly have any idea what you mean, Dr Watson.'

'First my daughter is calling you her uncle, and now your mum is teaching her "grandmama"?'

'I fail to see the problem. She's very intelligent.'

John pinches the bridge of his nose. He can't shout, because Rosie is asleep in her cot next to him, and though Sherlock is outside smoking, Sherlock's parents are somewhere on the other side of the guest room door.

'Your brother,' he finally says lowly, 'cares for Rosie a great deal, but has most definitely not voiced an interest in being her father, nor should he feel obligated to.'

'With all due respect, John, I must disagree.'

'How.' It's not a question.

Mycroft's voice isn't hard, but he enunciates every word very, very clearly. 'She is my niece. If you can't see it, then God help you... Although I am aware my brother has inherited more than his fair share of the Holmes reticence. But,' he concludes, implacable, 'lest you forget: He said it himself. You are family. And therein lies the obligation.' 

John's heart does a little twitch in his chest. 'Yeah, but--'

'No.'

'But--'

'Not to sound too much like my dear brother, but John?'

John exhales. 'Can't wait to hear this.'

'Don't be an idiot.'

'Oi--'

But the call is already over. Of course it is. Because Mycroft Holmes is a bastard.

He might also, maybe, just this once… be right.

[ <3 ]

[pool story lifted from my childhood: I literally remember nothing bad about nearly drowning; my five-years-elder brother saved me and I have loved swimming ever since]

[ghost-proofbaby]

ATTENTION: YOU HAVE BEEN INVITED TO A SUMMERTIME WRITING EVENT!

hey you. yeah, you. has the summer heat got you down? have you been looking for all the right vibes in all the wrong places?

same.

which is why i invite you to join me, your friendly neighborhood ghost, in a wonderful and excellently vibey event to cure all that summertime sadness and turn it sickeningly sweet.

through the month of july and august, i will be talking requests based on guidelines listed below, with the only real theme being summer. i'll be writing for all our favorite fictional crushes, so just follow the rules, submit a request, and vibe with me <3

IN ORDER TO BEGIN, you'll first need to pick your poisons: the muse, and the flavor.

for this event, i will be writing for the following characters:

♡ eddie munson (stranger things)

♡ steve harrington (stranger things)

♡ robin buckley (stranger things)

♡ astarion ancunin (baldur's gate 3)

♡ gale dekarios (baldur's gate 3)

once you've chosen the lover of your summertime fantasies, you're going to need to choose your flavor of sweetness. for these dog days, our menu includes:

♡ strawberry: fluff

♡ blueberry: hurt/comfort

♡ lemon: smut

♡ blackberry: angst

with your muse and flavor now chosen, you must choose what time of day you'll be enjoying your summer sweet treat. we have two options for this category, with two different sets of rules, so please read carefully!

summer solstice: the solstice that marks the onset of summer, at the time of the longest day.

if you submit a summer solstice request, you are requesting for a longer fic, 2k words minimum. these requests will take me longer, and should be reserved for more descriptive/specific requests. when you submit one, you will need to include a full description of what you are looking for.

i.e.: "could i please have a strawberry summer solstice with eddie munson, where reader and eddie meet for the first time at a bonfire and spend the entire night getting up to sheenanigans like stealing wine from others, skinny dipping in lover's lake, star-gazing on the shore, and eddie ends up walking reader home at the end of it all?"

you must have a description of what you are looking for in the request for this specific type. if you give nothing for me to go off of, i can't write you the minimum of 2k words of sweetness! this is for anyone who may have a specific vision for a story, but can't execute it/find it across the appropriate tags already.

midsummer's night: the eve of the longest day of summer, marked as the shortest night of summer.

if you submit a midsummer's night request, you are requesting for a shorter fic, under 2k words (500-1k words most likely). these are requests i will be able to fulfill more quickly, and work best for anyone who wants to submit but doesn't have a very specific idea in mind!

i.e.: "could i please blueberry lemon midsummer's night with astarion? maybe including an argument about a recent fight or something where one of them nearly got hurt!"

these requests have a lot more leniency, and will be more about what my mind will conjure from vague descriptions! try to avoid giving too many details when requesting this kind - if you have a more specific vision, just hit me with a summer solstice (and some patience) <3

alright. whew. now that we've gotten through all the guidelines regarding requests, feel free to drop into my inbox and let the party begin! again, i'll be taking these requests and fulfilling them all the way through august.

if there's a specific character you want to see not listed on here but i have expressed interest in before (i.e. joel miller, spencer reid, karlach from bg3, etc.), feel free to still request them but be wary that there's no guarantee i will fulfill the request!

as always with these events, be sure your requests abides by my rules, and once again, please be patient with me. these type of events in the past have spurred on enough responses i don't get to even half of them, but i'm prolonging this over two months to try and ensure i can get a bulk of whatever lovely ideas you all send in written! <3

aight. okay. let's party on, for real now. happy summer, y'all!

[stimming-puppet]

homemade ramen