#10:30 pm

[magicalincorrectrobodokiquotes]

LOOKFORWARD: Aianna

Aianna talking with her step-niece Shirley

This one was hard since Aianna didn't have a "childhood"

[whocaresifwearecrazy]

XD

If someone beats you up for being "cishet white male" and nothing else, is this okay? Did you deserve it?

what if the world was made of pudding

[dokidokitriviaandstuff]

Robodoki Stickers: Pride Month!(?)

[robodokiastoryaday]

MRDOCA: An Offer You Cannot Refuse

[lovemehatemex0]

Pats on the couch 3 times so my head can be in a lap & I can sleep

[fantasykiri5]

Leave it to Joe Hills to manage to have a full two-person conversation with himself I guess

(Aka day 24 of Hermit-A-Day May!! Don’t forget to check out this year’s Tiltify!!)

[mylittleredgirl]

kind of wild how i’m absolutely sure that going to bed every night at 9:30 pm without my phone would improve my life in every conceivable way, an action that’s both free and easy to do if it weren’t also somehow impossible

[semperama]

I can't stop thinking about this. Ryliver, E, 1300 words. Yes, I'm posting Ryliver on main. No, this is not the Ryliver WIP I should have been working on. No regrets.

---

Afterward, Oliver tries to bolt, but no such luck.

“So, what did it?” Ryan asks, suddenly at his elbow. Oliver’s legs are longer, and he could probably outrun him—even imagines himself doing it—but he would only incriminate himself more. He can still play dumb, maybe.

“What did what?” he asks. His trailer is like fifty yards away, tops. But he makes the mistake of looking at Ryan, meeting his eyes, and Ryan lifts his eyebrows and pointedly looks down, and Oliver—chokes on nothing, grabs Ryan by the bicep, tugs him through a door and onto an abandoned set.

It’s Buck’s old loft, still not fully dismantled. Great.

“Was it my brilliant acting?” Ryan asks, totally unfazed. He isn’t even trying to get out of Oliver’s grasp. His bicep flexes under Oliver’s palm, and Oliver lets go like he’s been given an electric shock. “Was it your brilliant acting? Because I get it, man.”

“Fuck. No. Jesus.” He should have sucked it up and waited until they made it to his trailer. In here, with Ryan next to him, the kitchen island at his back, the stairs to their left, he still feels a little like Buck. He can still hear Buck in his head. He can hear Buck hearing Eddie—"the trials and tribulations of Evan Buckley”—and he’s still—

He’s still fucking hard.

“Was it the shove?” Ryan asks. Wide grin, pointy teeth. On their second take, Ryan’s shoulder grab was a little too aggressive, knocked him back hard into the cabinets, and in the heat of the moment, Oliver had shoved him back, chest heaving. The director let it go, but at the end of the scene, he said, let’s pull it back a little this time, and Oliver had to squeeze his hands into tight fists to ground himself, calm himself down.

They did three more takes after that, and Oliver’s dick hadn’t behaved for a single fucking one of them. And he knew—he knew everyone could see it. Knew Ryan could see it. But knowing that didn’t make it any easier to get rid of. If anything, it made it worse.

“Did you not—” Oliver shuts his mouth quick, clack of teeth rattling around in his skull. The thing is, Ryan’s joking. He’s acting like it’s a joke. But Oliver’s cock is aching against the zipper of his jeans, and it doesn’t feel funny. He tries again: “Did you not feel it?”

Ryan’s canines leave white points in his bottom lip as his smile fades, goes rigid at the edges. “Feel what?”

Wrong thing to say. Suddenly, Oliver smells blood in the water. Ryan knows Eddie, and Oliver knows Buck, so the tension had to be palpable to both of them. Ryan’s not doing himself any favors playing dumb. “You know what,” Oliver says, taking a step forward. Ryan’s back is to the door. Buck’s door. “Why were we even fighting like that? Like a—a—”

“Married couple?” Ryan’s voice is light. He’s still trying to be funny, but it falls flat. His face is getting red, those perfect scarlet circles painted on his cheekbones.

“Not a married couple,” Oliver says, firm. “Not even lovers.”

Ryan’s shoulders lift with a deep, silent breath, and Oliver knows he gets it. “Like two people who don’t know they’re lovers yet.”

“Like we’re avoiding it.” Oliver sounds breathless, but he doesn’t fucking care anymore. “Like we’re scared of it.”

Ryan’s face is bright red now, and he’s not meeting Oliver’s eyes. Oliver takes another step without thinking, and he doesn’t realize how close they’ve gotten until Ryan’s back hits the door and Oliver can feel the air move when his breath rushes out of him.

Oliver gets about half a second to enjoy the upper hand before Ryan says, so quiet, “Buck.”

This isn’t their first kiss. That was right after season four, when Buck—when Oliver couldn’t stop looking at his hands and seeing red, but they knew nothing was going to come of it, and it was frustrating as fuck, and all he wanted to do was taste copper from Ryan’s mouth.

It isn’t even their second kiss, which was drunk and sloppy, after they were done filming the bachelor party.

But it’s the first time—after Ryan hooks his index fingers in Oliver’s belt loops and yanks—that Oliver feels Ryan hard against him, and he’s confronted, suddenly, with the fact that this isn’t a whim. This isn’t just BuckandEddie. This is licking a muffled groan from the seam of Ryan’s mouth and wanting to taste nothing else ever again. Wanting to leave this room and still remember it, still have it.

“Say it again,” he says against Ryan’s mouth, but he kisses him again, hard, before he can. He reaches down to peel Ryan’s hands away from his waist and threads their fingers together, presses them against the door by Ryan’s head. “Say it.”

“Buck,” Ryan says. “Buck, Buck.”

Oliver’s been hard for-fucking-ever, for hours, off and on, at this point. When he thrusts up into the cut of Ed—Ryan’s hip, it feels like relief, a little shower of sparks cascading down his spine with each roll of his hips. Ryan tugs one of his hands free and grabs a handful of his ass—huge palm making Oliver gasp—and pulls him in harder, and Oliver starts preparing himself to be embarrassed, because this isn’t going to take long at all. Hours of foreplay. Hours of Ryan’s low voice stroking against the pleasure points in his brain. Hours of trying to keep it together, and now he doesn’t have to.

“Eddie,” Oliver says, just above a whisper, but Ryan lets out a breathy sound that’s almost a laugh and nips at Oliver’s bottom lip, sharp sharp teeth, soft flick of his tongue.

“Ollie,” Ryan says, almost back to playful again, and that’s it. Oliver is gone. He pushes his hips against Ryan’s once, twice more, and then he’s coming in his pants, dropping his head to gasp against Ryan’s shoulder, his spine curling.

Ryan’s broad hand is still clutching at him, still pulling him in, and he’s vaguely aware of the little explosions of oversensitivity that are sending tremors through his legs, but it’s fine when Ryan is holding him up, huffing hard in his ear, then groaning as he follows Oliver over the edge, saying Oliver’s name again in that deep, rough voice that’s been torturing him all evening.

“Fuck,” Oliver breathes once it’s over. His face is still pressed against the meat of Ryan’s shoulder, and his hands flatten against the door to hold himself up, to keep himself from sinking to the floor like he wants to.

“Mmm,” Ryan hums, as if in agreement. It takes Oliver a minute to realize his shoulders are shaking—with laughter, he realizes. Not regret, at least.

“What is it?” Oliver asks, lifting his head enough to look Ryan in the eye.

“It’s just—” The color is still high in his cheeks. Scarlet red. His mouth is red too, and Oliver wants to kiss him again so badly. “It’s just, costuming is gonna fucking kill us.”

Oliver dissolves into giggles, and his knees dissolve too, but Ryan holds him up, pulling him in until they’re pressed together everywhere, impossible to tell where one of them ends and the other begins.

“Come to my trailer,” Oliver says. “We’ll change, and I’ll take everything to the dry cleaners in the morning.” They’ll bring all the clothes back in a couple days, pretend they just forgot to turn them in, and no one will ever have to know.

He and Ryan will know, though. Ryan tilts his head up to press their mouths together again, quick but firm, and Oliver breathes him in, the familiar scent of him, the familiar shape their bodies make. The two of them will know, will always know, now, and that’s good. That’s so fucking good.

[pierppasolini]

10:30 PM Monday (1970) // dir. Lucas Severin

[apheliia]

behold. yeah

[magicalincorrectrobodokiquotes]

"On a Scale of One to FUUUUUUUUUUCK!" Clip

Anne sighed to herself. “Goddamnit, it’s 3 in the morning.”

“They’re late.” Wheeler added. “They said they’d be back by 2:30! And I thought my attention span was shit!”

Piper chirped curiously. “SQUAWK! And I thought my attention span was shit!”

“Piper, not funny…”

“Is too!”

“Is not.”

“Is too!”

“Wheels, you’re arguing with a parrot.”

“SO?” *DING DONG* “Hey.” Raven peaked. “Booloo jinx. Robodoki member debut expected. Anyone want to help while these two go to bed?”

“Did you guys pick up a new detective on the beach?” Wheeler joked.

“...nooooooo.” Blaire smirked.

Beat.

“Seriously, no.” Wheeler squinted.

A high-school aged with pigtails was seen.

“Suuuuuuuuure, and that firework damaged my eye, not my leg.” Wheeler sighed.

“Name’s Fern.” Fern admitted. “Looking for a place to stay.” 

“Temporarily or permanently?” asked Anne.

“I’m gay, I was kicked out for being gay at 18, can it be permanent? I’ll pay you back.”

“Sure!” Piper chirped.

“YAYYYYY!” Fern beamed, carrying a duffel bag. “This is all I have left. I’m sorry about that.”

“We let the parrot decide?” Wheeler groaned.

“To be fair, I did approve her application…earlier….” Raven admitted.

“Sorry.” Wheeler sighed. “I’m just tired.”

“Yeah, you look ready to collapse by now.” Anne agreed.

“Yeah, so much for a first introduction.”

Fern patted his head. 

“Damnit, how is she so casual about all this?”

“...probably used to the bullcrap.” Anne admitted.

“Yeah.” Fern admitted. “Only a matter of time, really.”

“SQUAWK! Stairs and ramp are both accessible, pick your poison.” Piper squawked PERFECTLY in Theodore’s voice. 

“Dang.” Theodore chuckled.

[cleverreports]

We report in the brittle sunset light: we watch the clock in the evening lately. With only a few days left in May, we pay extra attention to how much sunlight we get, and like a patient stretch, we do see the minutes add up. Just a little bit more day, every day.

[dokidokitriviaandstuff]

Robodoki Stickers, Roboheart: Childhood!(?)

[lovemehatemex0]

time to cry myself to sleep.

[mechokky]

good sonadorning

[uhhlifeig]

Pepperup Potion - April 8 - word count: 238 - @wolfstarmicrofic

Sirius woke up with a pounding headache and a throat that was drier than the desert.

Shit. He couldn’t be sick today- he had work to finish.

So he stumbled out of bed and got dressed, trying to make himself feel better. Maybe if deluded himself enough his body would believe it?

It was to no avail. He still felt like he was about to pass out at a moment's notice.

He had to be strong, though. For his friends. 

The last time he was weak-

No. He didn’t want to feel worse.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw his boyfriend stretch and get out of bed, still barely registering what was going on.

“Hey, Pads,” Remus said, all gangly limbs and no coordination. He leaned against the doorway for support, blinking blearily at Sirius. “You alright?”

“Fine,” Sirius stuttered. “Why?”

“Mmmh… no. Go back to bed,” Remus mumbled, teetering forward and latching onto Sirius’s arm. “Snuggle, c‘mon.”

“Fine,” he sighed, letting his boyfriend drag him back to bed. He was secretly glad, though- he didn’t want to go to class.

“Grab a Pepperup Potion,” Remus frowned as Sirius got into the bed, their bodies pressed together. “You don’t look so good.”

Sirius grabbed one from the nightstand drawer, popping the cap open and downing it. “This better?”

Remus hummed in assent, his eyes already half-closed. “Sleep, seren. Love you.”

“Love you too,” Sirius mumbled.