#c writes things

[c-is-for-circinate]

But anyway, Stranger Things Steve and Robin story where things are Pretty Bad in Hawkins for a while after season 4, to the tune of regular monster incursions and more bumps and bruises and stitches and possible concussions than generally standard

and maybe six months in, after graduation, as Hawkins has come up with more and more unlikely stories to try and pretend that they're not sitting athwart a rising apocalypse, after Robin has deferred college for a year, if they all even live that long, because she loves Steve with every last corner of her heart and she won't, can't leave him here

and it's been another bumpy week in a string of bumpy weeks, and Steve doesn't have another concussion, thank god, but Mike needed seventeen stitches and Nancy has a new burn scar curling up over her left shoulder--

Robin goes to find Steve somewhere in the middle of the third load of laundry in the house where his parents haven't set foot since the "earthquakes" happened. Where she has her own permanent guest room, but just crawls in with Steve most nights anyway, because she cannot handle going home to face her own parents and their questions and their 'constructive criticism' and their attempts to be helpful any more.

And she just immediately starts pacing, back and forth across the basement while Steve tries to fold yet another fitted sheet that she could definitely be helping him with, and she says,

"So look, I have been having this really crazy idea, and I need you to tell me that it's a crazy idea, and I should just forget it, except that every time I try to think down that path I keep thinking of reasons that it's not a crazy idea, and it's actually a really good idea with very minimal drawbacks, at least in the near or foreseeable future, and if it ever does start to have drawbacks we can just undo it, because Indiana's had a no-fault divorce law since 1973, and all we'd have to do would be filing some paperwork, and you're just looking at me like I'm babbling again."

"Just like it, huh?" Steve asks, eyebrows raised with a little bit of 'really?' and all the affection of his heart, and when she stops, giving him that slightly-desperate look, he adds, "So, who's getting a divorce?"

"Us," Robin says, planting her feet and looking straight at him. "Eventually. Hopefully. Someday."

"Ooookay, kinda worried you're already planning my eventual divorce when I haven't had sex since Vecna showed up," Steve says, still not really sure where this is going but willing to follow the train at least a little farther, and Robin just shakes her head, eyes wide and focused.

"No," she says. "I mean you and me. I think we should get married."

Yeah, that makes about as much sense as anybody's crazy plans these days. Steve misses the days when he would have been too confused to keep up. He's still confused, he just so rarely expects to be anything else any more that it doesn't really make that much of a difference.

"Robin," he says, a whole sentence in one word, and then she's pacing again.

"Look," she says, wringing her hands the way she does when she's actually pretty upset about something. "Look, I know it's a stupid, crazy, stupid idea, and this isn't me coming on to you, you know this isn't me coming on to you, this is actually a really hard and scary thing for me to think about asking, but it's still like fifty times less hard and scary than what we do every week just living in this town and knowing what we know, because one of the things we know about living in this town is how dangerous it is, how many bad things could happen at any time, and-- and-- and--"

"Robin," Steve says again, and puts down the sheet in a heap to get in her path. He doesn't usually cut her off, but when she gets so worked up she runs out of words, that's when it's time to help Robin get back out of her own way. She lowers her hands into his and Steve squeezes them. "Hey. What's going on?"

"I'm scared," Robin says.

"Yeah, me too," Steve agrees, easily, because the sky outside is a hazy sort of blue-green that goes red-purple at night when it's not black, and when rain falls it sometimes leaves streaks of slick grime on everything it touches, and there are bludgeoning weapons and loaded firearms tucked into corners all over this house. He's been scared more on than off since 1983, and he hasn't bothered pretending not know it since '85.

"I'm scared for you," she says. "And I'm scared for me. I'm scared that none of us knew what was up with Nancy at the hospital for two hours the other day, because her mom showed up for Mike and they told her everything and Karen Wheeler hates us."

"Nancy's fine," Steve promises; her left arm's gonna be bandaged for a while, but she can still steady a rifle, and sometimes he thinks that's two-thirds of all Nancy really cares about any more. It's probably close to half of what all any of them have time and space to care about these days, which is a pretty depressing thought. But that's not a forever state of events, right? "She just got a little banged up. She's okay."

"Steve, what happens if you get hurt?" Robin asks. "Like, really hurt? If you get sick, or concussed again, or you need surgery like Max or Eddie, and you're not conscious enough to make your own medical decisions?"

"I don't know, I guess they call my parents, don't get an answer, and then operate anyway," Steve says, blowing it off like he always does. "Robin, I'm fine."

She's shaking her head, though, no, "I've just, I've been thinking, and I've been reading, and you know how hospitals are, it's been happening all over where people get sick and their friends, partners, can't even get in to see them, and families they haven't even talked to in years get to make medical decisions, because they're not married."

And Steve's not exactly smart but he's not completely dumb. Robin leaves absolutely anything that might even suggest she's a lesbian at Steve's house so her parents won't find it at home, which means there's a whole pile of blurry xeroxed zines and pamphlets and gay newsletters on his once-unused bedroom desk, shoved under a Russian-English dictionary, three spiral notebooks, and a book by some guy called Jung-pronounced-Young. Steve isn't really sure where they come from, because they only make maybe one supply run to Indianapolis a week between the whole group of them and Robin doesn't even usually go, but the newsletters keep multiplying. He's glanced at them before. He's heard Robin talk. He knows what she's thinking about.

"That's not what's happening here," Steve says, promises. "You know that's not the same thing. Nobody's getting sick."

"No, just...torn up by demobats, or haunted, or possessed, or who knows what else," Robin says. "Steve, I don't want my parents to be the ones visiting me if I'm in the hospital. I don't want them to be the ones in charge of deciding what happens to me. I don't want to wake up from a coma one day to find out I've been transferred to some hospital in another state because they decided Hawkins was too dangerous and now I never get to see you again."

"So you want me to be the one doing that?" Steve asks, and Robin looks up at him, hands still tight in his, and she says,

"Yes," like it's obvious. Like it's everything.

For one brief, bright-aching moment, Steve lets himself regret. He's not in love with Robin. Not like that, never like that, but -- there was a minute, once, where it could've been, for him. And it never could have been, for her, he knows that, and that's fine, that's great, because Robin still loves him more than anybody else in his entire life has ever loved him. And it is everything, and it's never going to be like that, and probably nobody is ever going to love him like that even half as much as Robin loves him like this.

"Sure," Steve says.

"And -- and look, it's selfish, and it's stupid, and it's terrible and I hate myself for thinking it, but if you die out there, and half of us are basically living in your house, and I know your parents don't want this house but they can't sell it because it's Hawkins and the housing market sucks, and you don't technically own it but it's all tied up in your trust fund, and if we were married that would give us at least the length of a court case to figure out where else to go, and we'd be able to take care of Max, and--"

"Robin, yeah," Steve says. "I'll do it. Sure, let's get married."

"Wait, really?" Steve doesn't know why she sounds so startled when it was her insane idea, unless she really did want to be talked out of it, but if she'd actually wanted to be talked out of it she should've gone to Nancy. Steve's not the guy who talks Robin out of things. He's the guy who talks Robin into her own brilliant ideas and all the things she desperately wants and doesn't think she can have. "Like, really?"

"Yeah, sure, let's go tomorrow," Steve says. It's a Tuesday, the little gremlins'll all be in school and their shift at Family Video doesn't start until five. "Do we need to get, like, a license or something?"

It's not like Steve doesn't get that this is a weird thing to do, and not a thing that most people would do with their platonic lesbian best friends, but honestly...like, Robin hadn't wanted to say it, but Steve knows he's probably more likely to die in the next couple of years than most other people they know. Doesn't matter how much he plays it off, Steve's always going to be there sticking his body between whichever kid or girl or random civilian and the danger of the day. He's not always there, which is how Mike ends up with a gash up his arm that better not be getting infected with Upside Down rot while Karen Wheeler is too busy pretending that Hawkins is still a normal town, how Nancy gets caught in the blowback from a molotov cocktail thrown just a little too short. Sometimes it feels like Steve's blaming himself in the middle of the night for not being there a little more every year. But he tries.

And if it gets him killed, the least he can do is make sure his stupid trust fund goes to Robin instead of back to his fucking parents. He's not dumb enough to think him dying wouldn't wreck at least Robin, at least for a little while, but he has to figure a pile of cash would make it a little better. He doesn't think it would make things worse.

Besides, Steve lets him think for just a second, what if they do actually figure out how to stop Henry Creel and all his Upside Down bullshit? If they find a way out of Hawkins without leaving the kids behind to die, and move on with their lives? Would being super-platonically married to Robin actually be that bad? He could put her through college with that stupid fucking trust fund while she got whatever genius degree she wanted, maybe end up her slacker house husband and fold all the goddamn fitted sheets by himself while she's off at work. Adopt a couple of kids, maybe, if he could talk her into it. Road trip over the summer in that Winnebago.

Not like Robin could marry someone she's actually in love with. He'd make it clear to whatever girlfriend she gets in the future that he's just there as window dressing and live-in laundry service. Not like Steve's ever going to find a girl who loves him half as much as Robin does, who gets it when the nightmares jolt him awake at three in the morning, who'll believe a single thing he says about the waking nightmare that is Hawkins, Indiana.

Really, it just means that Robin can't leave him behind. Which isn't fair to her, maybe, but it's her idea. She'll be the one slapping divorce papers down in front of him if she ever gets tired of it.

"Um, yeah," Robin says, still a little surprised for some fucking reason, but starting to soften into that smile she sometimes gets when they're being sincere, every once in a while. "Yeah, we just need birth certificates and ID, and like ten dollars for the license fee, and we can go right down to the courthouse tomorrow. Be done in time for work."

"Honeymoon at Family Video?" Steve asks, and yeah, maybe it's not the wedding he once would've pictured for himself, but fuck that guy anyway. This is Robin.

"We'll put on Back To The Future and actually watch it this time," Robin says, and she's grinning now, and Steve is starting to grin too, thinking about the bright hazy beautiful parts of a godawful night, the worst best bathroom floor in Indiana, about marrying the who-the-fuck-cares-if-it's-not-actually-romantic love of his life.

"Throw in some popcorn and you've got yourself a deal, Buckley," he says, and Robin lunges forward into him, wrapping her arms around him. Steve's arms fold around her shoulders like she belongs there.

He's almost not even annoyed that they kick over the laundry basket and send the goddamn sheets spilling out over the floor in the process.

[magnusbae]

To illustrate this post by @mayahawkse I would like to visualize to you the difference:

A post in 2023:

A post in 2014:

A zoom out of the same post:

This is what a community looks like.

See how in 2023 almost all of the reblogs come from the OP, from their few hours/days in the tag search. Meanwhile in 2014 the % of reblogs from OP is insignificant, because most of the reblogs come from the reblogs within the fandom, within the micro-communities formed there. You didn't need to rely on tags, or search, or being featured. Because the community took care of you, made sure to pass the work between themselves and onto their blog and exposed their followers to it. It kept works alive for years.

It's not JUST the reblog/like ratio that causing this issue, it's the type of interaction people have. They're content with scrolling and liking the search engine, instead of actually having a reblogging relationship with other blogs in their community.

Anyways, if you want to see more content you like, the only true way to make it happen is to reblog it. Likes do not forward content in no way but making OP feel nice. Reblogs on the other hand make content eternal. They make it relevant, they make it exist outside of a fickle tumblr search that hardly works on the best of days.

If you want more of something, reblog it.

[riality-check]

Steve, realistically, shouldn’t even be at this show. He doesn’t care about the band, he didn’t want to make the drive, and he had to bring Anna along because he couldn’t find a babysitter.

But he was going to suck it up to go with Dustin, who immediately bought tickets to see his favorite band when they went on sale. Who called Steve this morning to inform him, somehow both solemnly and frantically, that he had the worst food poisoning known to man, and, that until he stopped puking and shitting at the same time, he could not leave the bathroom.

Steve very much did not need to know that.

With Dustin went the rest of the Babysitters’ Club, all of them having eaten the same shady pizza and suffering the consequences. The only exception was Mike, lactose intolerant but cursed to take care of his idiot friends.

He texted Steve to ask if he had extra bleach. Steve dropped it outside the house because no way in hell was he entering that building.

Dustin assured him, amidst too much detail and shockingly disgusting background noise, that both tickets shouldn’t go to waste, and with no one able to babysit Anna, Steve should take advantage of both.

So, here he is. Standing in the first level - Dustin couldn’t get floor tickets, thank God - of a show for a metal band he has no intention of ever listening to and holding his four-year-old daughter, who has bright pink ear defenders looped around her neck in preparation for when it gets really, really loud.

“When are they starting?” she asks for the fourth time in as many minutes, with a sigh too big for her little body.

“In a few minutes,” Steve says, keeping an eye on the stage, where he watches the crew set up. Mad respect for them hustling so hard. He could never.

The seats are slowly filling up, and Steve feels a little sad for the first opener, a little sad that they don’t have a full house for their set.

A group of four guys takes the seats right next to Steve, with a pale, long-haired, big-eyed guy right next to him. He’s got tattoos on his arms and rings on all his fingers and a silver bar through his upper ear.

And he’s arguing emphatically with his friend next to him.

“I’m telling you, American Psycho is more recognizable!” he says, hands flying. Steve discreetly makes sure he and Anna aren’t within striking distance. “Not to mention cheaper!”

“A prop chainsaw,” his friend - a short white guy with shorter but equally wild hair - says, “can’t possibly be that hard to find by tomorrow.”

“We already have the axe!”

“I’m with Eddie,” the big white guy at the end of their group says. “I’m a sucker for American Psycho.”

“Okay, but I’m the guy who has to use the props,” the fourth friend, a Black guy with short braids who looks annoyed at this conversation, like they’ve had it before. “And I think I’d have more fun with the chainsaw.”

Eddie - the guy with long hair and heavy jewelry and hands with a mind of their own - rolls his eyes. It’s a full body movement, one that has him spinning to face Steve. When he does, his face cycles through a myriad of emotions too fast for Steve to really track.

“Hi, pretty boy,” he says. His eyes then dart down to Anna, who stares at him with her head cocked to the side. “Pretty dad. Dad. Pretty. Hi.”

“Eddie,” the short guy cautions.

“Yeah, sorry, anyway, can you be a tiebreaker for us?”

“Sure,” Steve says. Anna squirms, so he lets her out of his lap to stand, holding her hand all the while. “What do you need?”

“American Psycho or Texas Chainsaw Massacre?” the big guy asks.

“You gotta give him context.”

“No, I don’t, Jeff.”

The guy who said he’d be using the props - whatever that means - rolls his eyes and stops fighting.

“What’s American Psycho?” Anna asks, choosing the best time to pay attention to the conversation, like always.

“A movie you’re too young to see,” Steve says. “And the one I’m picking out of those two.”

“Oh, thank you,” Eddie says, using a tone that better fits Steve saving his drowning dog or something. He then turns to the rest of his friends and says, “I fucking told you!”

Anna gasps. “You’re not s’posed to say that!”

Jeff smothers a laugh behind his hands, while the other three guys stare at Anna, half confused, half admiring.

Eddie clears his throat, looking significantly abashed. "Sorry, Miss-"

"Anna," she says.

"Anna," Eddie finishes. Then he turns to Steve. "And you are?"

"Steve. No Mister for me though. I might be a dad, but I'm not that old."

"You are old, Daddy," Anna says.

Steve frowns down at her, where she stands at his feet. She's smiling, mischievous like she always is when she says something along these lines. "I'm not that old."

"Yeah you are! You're like, you're like, like, fifteen."

Jeff gives up on hiding his laughter.

"I'm older than fifteen," Steve says gently, trying not to laugh.

Anna’s jaw drops. “You are?”

“Thank God for that,” Eddie mutters, then shuts his jaw with an audible click.

Steve tried to come up with an answer for that, but someone comes on a mic and starts playing the drums, so he moves the defenders over Anna’s ears and pays attention to the show instead.

It's... fun, he guesses. Fun if he were into it, maybe. The first opener has a lot of energy, even if the music isn't melodic enough for Steve's taste. He finds himself tapping along to the steady beat, moving slightly in his seat to the music.

It's nice background noise. He'd put this on while he grades papers. It's steady enough to fill his head but doesn't have a whole lot of lyrics he could get distracted by and sing along to.

Eddie and his friends, meanwhile, are having the time of their lives. The short guy - Gareth, Steve thinks his name is - mimes the drum part of each song with startling accuracy. Archie jumps up and down, Jeff absolutely screams along, and Eddie-

Anna stares up at Eddie, eyes wide and jaw slacked as she watches him bang his head to the music.

Steve almost snaps a picture of it, this little moment, before the second song ends and Eddie snaps out of his zone.

He shakes the hair out of his face, then looks down at Anna, who's still staring at him. "What?"

She cocks her head to the side in a mirror of his. "What was that?"

"What was what?"

"The," she pauses, then starts shaking her head really hard, side to side. Steve puts a hand on her shoulder before she slams into the chairs in the row in front of them.

Eddie laughs. "The headbanging?"

"Yeah," Anna says, nodding.

"It's a way I move to the music," Eddie explains.

"Like dancing?"

"Sort of," Eddie says. "It's easier. I look stupid when I dance."

"You're not s'posed to say that," Anna tells him solemnly. "Right, Daddy?"

Steve meets Eddie's eyes. Even with the lights down, they're big and pretty and reflective, and Steve is going to kick himself so hard if he chickens out before he can get his number.

"Right," he says, still looking at Eddie. "We're not supposed to call ourselves stupid."

"Sorry," Eddie whispers.

"Don't be."

Anna tugs on Steve's hand, then Eddie's. "Teach me."

"Anna," Steve cautions.

"Can you please teach me?" she corrects.

Eddie glances down at Anna, then back up at Steve. "If it's-"

"Go ahead," Steve says because Eddie has more than passed the vibe check at this point.

Eddie crouches down as a new song starts up, and while Steve can't hear what he's telling her, he sees her smile, bright as day.

By the last song of the first opener, Anna is headbanging along with Eddie, off-beat in the say little kids always are but more than making up for it with effort.

Steve gives into the impulse to take a picture.

When the first opener finishes, Steve picks Anna back up and takes her ear defenders off.

"Woah," she says. "Can I keep them-"

"Nope," Steve says. "They stay on when the music is on. You heard it fine, didn't you?"

"Yeah, but you-"

"I have my earplugs in," Steve says, pointing at them.

"So do I," Eddie says, and when he moves his hair back, sure enough, there are black earplugs nestled in his ears.

"You don't seem like the kind of guy to wear earplugs," Steve says.

"You don't seem like the kind of guy to come of a metal show," Eddie counters.

Anna climbs out of Steve's arms and onto his back, where she loops her arms around his shoulders and just hangs, like she does sometimes when she gets bored.

Weirdo kid, Steve thinks affectionately.

"That's because I'm not," Steve says. "I was supposed to come with a friend, but he got sick."

"Yikes," Eddie says. "You coming tomorrow, too?"

"I am," Steve says. "Are you?"

Eddie raises his eyebrows, like he didn't expect Steve to ask that. "Yeah, we'll be here. Not in these seats, though."

The lights go back down before Steve can ask what he means by that. He reaches behind him, scoops Anna back down on the ground, and puts her ear defenders on by the time the second opener strikes a scary-sounding opening chord.

Anna doesn't look scared at all. From the moment the music starts, she looks up at Eddie, and when he starts headbanging, she does, too.

Yup. Steve has effectively created a monster.

He contemplates, if Dustin is fine by tomorrow, skipping out on the show and giving his ticket to Anna, but that means not seeing Eddie again.

He really wants to see Eddie again, even if he won’t have the same seats.

Whatever that means.

Steve decides not to focus on that. He decides instead to focus on the moment. He listens to the music. He lets Anna take his hand and dance with it. He bops his head along with hers, but not too hard because he can’t risk aggravating his whiplash.

He enjoys the show, even if it’s not his cup of tea. It’s easy to enjoy the show, with Eddie next to him. It’s easy to enjoy his wild hair and pretty jewelry and big eyes and contagious enthusiasm.

It’s easy to see the way Eddie looks at him.

It’s also very easy, after the venue clears and Anna falls asleep in the car on the way home, to forget to ask for his number.

Shit.

(Part 2 is alive!!)

[thedreadvampy]

Losing my shit about this article in which a transphobic Tory was so busy panicking about existing in the vicinity of a Trans that she almost certainly misheard "jeans" as "penis" and decided that not only was this a problem with the other woman, but also that the world must be informed of this pressing danger.

"a trans woman! I had to stand directly behind her....I thought, 'this is going well', I'm handling The Situation fine'..."

translated: I saw a tall woman with broad shoulders. How would I get out of this alive? I thought. she has a PENIS. PENIS PENIS PENIS. through some force of PENIS I mean will I managed to PENIS behave normally towards her. My hands were PENIS PENIS PENIS shaking as I tried to dry them. summoning up all my PENIS courage I said 'dryer's crap innit'. she turned to me and said " yeah I'm just goiPENIS PENIS PENIS"

It's been a week and I'm still shaking. This proves trans women are the problem and I'm not weird. I'm fine. It's fine. If you think about it I'm the hero hePENIS!!!!!

very this

[teethkid67]

PAYDAY

aka a valentine for the lovely @itsnotmystic / @corvids-calling - fanart for stars fic of the same name, which you can read here !!! i really enjoyed this concept and wanted to do some art for it :3 hope you like it because i REALLY loved your work & i hope this shows that !!! HAPPY VALENTINES DAY !!!!

this is also a loose love-letter to the wonderful @arginnit 's crazy background-drawing-ability and style/skill at portraying environments . wadds your stuff is insane and i love it

happy @mcyt-valentines exchange !!!!

[infizero-draws]

drops random ass post-exile ctommy drawing in 2024 and leaves

[cherryskeletoncake]

C!dream no blade that actually has so much contexst and is based on a fic. But the fic isn’t out on ao3 so i cant link it (yet)

But basicly demon techno x necromancer dream in a fairytale type of au. They’re so gay and kill people who are ‘’bad’’ in their town thinking that theyre sneeky about it (but theyre not, the whole town knows and don’t mind, lmao)

[tblsomedoodles]

Some post donnieverse "Dee and Leon finally getting some sleep" shenanigans. b/c you know neither of the two were sleeping well the entire time he was gone.

Suggestion by @bex19974 which was "the twins reuniting for when Donnie verse is over" which i only just realized could be any of the donnies reuniting with their twins lol.

Anyways, this is my promised second speedpaint of january (since i missed december). Speedpaint will be up soon

Edit: Speedpaint up

[mamawasatesttube]

prompt 24: "you owe me a kiss" ?

There's someone leaning on the table next to Kon.

Approaching from the bar, Tim can't see his face, but the too-casual-to-be-casual pose, the posturing, the flirty gestures... The way he's leaning down over Kon as Kon sits, saving the table for Tim to get back...

Tim's eyes narrow. Kon's a snack at any given time, to be sure (and especially tonight, in that tight-fitting top and tiny little skirt), but seriously? Hitting on him when Tim is right here?

"—flattered, but I'm here with someone," Kon says, smiling politely. "Have a nice night, though!"

"Aw, come on," the dude cajoles. Tim mentally rebrands him as That Fucking Guy. His disdain mounts. "Oldest line in the book, babe! I don't see anyone here with you. You sure you don't wanna—"

Maybe it's rude, but whatever. Tim intentionally shoves past That Fucking Guy a bit roughly. Frankly, he should count himself grateful Tim doesn't "accidentally" dump a beer all over him.

"Oops!" he says with venomously false cheer. "Didn't see you there. Here, angel, I got you your raspberry mojito."

He sets the glass down in front of Kon, slips his arm around his shoulders, and shamelessly leans down to kiss him. Overkill? Maybe, but it's viciously satisfying to shut That Fucking Guy down so dramatically. Serves him right for not taking the first no as an answer.

Besides, Kon is all Tim's. Hmph. Who does that guy even think he is?

When he draws back, Kon grins at him, eyes dancing. That Fucking Guy is staring awkwardly at them both.

"Told you I'm here with someone," Kon says, and tugs Tim down into his lap. He's about to say something polite to dismiss the guy, but Tim cuts in.

"He's mine," Tim informs him, staring daggers. He offers a smile that's all teeth. "Also, next time someone says 'no', you should maybe consider backing off. Just food for thought!"

"Jesus, okay, I get it, sorry," That Fucking Guy mutters, thoroughly ashamed. Tim watches with vindictive satisfaction as he turns tail and flees back towards the bar.

Kon hooks his chin over his shoulder, grinning. His cheeks are pink. "Ooh," he giggles. "I'm yours, Mister Drake? Am I all yours and only yours?"

Tim swivels to pin him with what he hopes is an unimpressed stare. He has a feeling he's off by several orders of magnitude. (Can't blame him when Kon's sitting here giggling so cutely while dressed like that, okay? Cute and hot at the same time is a deadly combination.)

"Yes," Tim says. "You are."

Kon's flush darkens, his cheeks visibly rosy even in the dimness. "...Yeah." He grins, buries his face in Tim's neck, and then giggles again. His nose bumps Tim's collarbone. "I love when you go full bitch mode at people," he teases; Tim can feel the curve of his smiling mouth against his neck. "Don't tell me you're jealous. You know you're my one and only."

"I know," Tim assures him. Something warm settles deep into his chest. He rubs his thumb over the fuzzy shaved hair at the base of Kon's head, and Kon hums. "It's not jealousy. I just think everyone else should know, too."

Kon laughs outright. Then he lifts his head, his eyes dancing as he meets Tim's gaze. His lipstick is slightly smudged, the glitter on his cheeks glimmering in the low light. "You owe me a kiss."

Tim raises an eyebrow. "I just gave you one." A pause. "Not that I'm opposed to more. But why do I owe you?"

"You left me to sit here all alone, guarding our table." Kon brushes his nose against Tim's. "You owe me for the trouble and heartache. You left me all alone on date night..."

"What, valiantly rescuing you from That Fucking Guy wasn't enough?" Tim asks. His hand curves along Kon's jaw.

Kon snorts. "You named him that in your head, didn't you?"

Tim wisely says nothing.

"He said his name was Bradley," Kon informs him.

"Angel," Tim says, cradling Kon's cheek in his palm. Kon leans into his touch, eyes closing in bliss. "I don't give a singular shit."

Kon lets out another peal of gorgeous laughter. "Yeah," he says, as Tim leans in. "I know."

[emblazons]

"Let us take to the skies together, and bring a new dawn to Valisthea."

Phoenixflare Week || Day 1: Red Thread (String of Fate) Joshua Rosfield, Dion Lesage & The Honor That Binds Them

[fernlessbastard]

okk love your blog, so I rlly wanted to send an ask even if its nothing too especific ;-;

soo, since u like tntduo (like me :]) whats your favorite hc for their relationship? I love hearing about hc's, and since your art its so cute, u probs have some cool hc's

Thank youuuuu I appreciate it so much, and by all means flood me with asks! Asks are great, I love asks, be it random thoughts, art ideas, opinions, etc etc, asks are always welcome (unless they're from the 🥝 anon 🙄🙄🙄 /j/loving)

And a favourite headcanon? Hm, i don't know, hard to say. I have multiple headcanons, idk if I favour any in particular

There's one where after revival Wilbur's body is kinda fucked up in the nerves and blood vessels department, so he has some trouble with kinda controlling it, which particularly expresses itself in his hands being unsteady. They're so unsteady, that the first time he picks up a guitar again he can't play right. He blows up over it and has a breakdown, and vows to never play again. He still ends up trying a couple times, but each time he just immediately gets pissed off and upset, and tosses it away. It really breaks him. At some point he's at Quackity's place, and he sees a guitar. He looks at it for a while, but doesn't say anything, of which Quackity makes note. Next time they meet up Wilbur shits on Quackity for not having touched it recently, so Quackity takes it as a challenge. Once the music starts, Wil goes quiet. He's sitting to the side of Q, slightly behind him, and after a while for just a moment he leans against his upper back, and closes his eyes, simply l taking the moment in. This situation repeats, a couple times, and each time Wilbur lets himself relax a bit longer. He starts playing with Quackity's hair as he listens, and one time he l begins trying to braid it. His hands are shaking, he's struggling to divide the thick hair into even parts, he's having trouble keeping the braid even, but what's crucial is that he does it. Next time it repeats. And next time too. And the next, and eventually the braids start to look actually pretty decent. Time passes, they meet up more often, and eventually comes a day when Wilbur takes the guitar. No words are exchanged. No ridicule, but no praise either - no verbal acknowledgement. Instead Quackity just sits slightly behind him, and begins gently braiding his hair. The notes are wonky and don't always sound quite right, and the rhythm is messy, and strumming only goes well sometimes, but he's playing...

Quackity kisses Wilbur's head, right above the new braid. He leans in, partially hugging him, as the other's playing. It's been a bit over a year since he started playing again, and the difference is big. Neither knows if he'll ever fully regain the control and steadiness of his hands, but he manages to keep the rhythm, and the notes now ring out clear a big majority of the time. He plays quicker songs too, now; sometimes they both sing, and laugh when they mix something up. Quackity smiles, closing his eyes as Wilbur once again butchers a random song by changing up the words completely to make it as on the nose as humanly possible. He begins to wonder what they should eat tomorrow for their anniversary breakfast.

[royalarchivist]

Oscurucho: Welcome back, brother. Cucurucho: What. Oscurucho: Not even a "Good morning"? How cold.

Here's Cucurucho and Oscurucho's long lore conversation from yesterday! The entire conversation lasted about 8 minutes, but most of that time was just silence between each exchange, so I edited out the long pauses and got it down to ~3 minutes. I also fixed the audio levels and added subtitles since I personally find it difficult to understand Oscurucho sometimes :'D

I hope folks find this helpful!

[ Subtitle Transcript ↓ ]

-

Oscurucho: Welcome back, brother.

Cucurucho: What.

Oscurucho: Not even a "Good morning"? How cold.

[They enter Cucurucho's office]

Oscurucho: I wanted to see if you're still as rigid in your beliefs as ever. You see, I've been thinking about our... Let's call it "philosophical divergence." You stand for order, for predictability. But where's the fun in that? You see, brother, while you build, I ponder the beauty in tearing down. It's not just destruction - it's rebirth. A chance to remake things in a more... thrilling image.

[...]

Oscurucho: You once had a backbone for our cause. Now, I see a softness in you, a sentimental weakness for those Eggs. Mere experiments, and yet - they've softened you.

Cucurucho: Your vision obstructs the path to perfection. You fail to understand the potential of the Eggs.

Oscurucho: Potential? They're but catalysts for change - for revolution. Without them, stagnation reigns.

[...]

Oscurucho: You chase perfection, I embrace the beauty of flaws. Your world is one of order, mine thrives in chaos. You wish for everything to run smoothly, I dream of watching it all burn to the ground. We may share a name, but our souls are worlds apart. All your efforts, all for what? Mere acknowledgment from a Duck who told you to do it? Imagine the possibilities - rather, show me where it is, and I'll do the rest.

[...]

Oscurucho: Speaking of possibilities, I couldn't help but notice how easily others can access the island. It seems your security measures aren't as impenetrable as you think.

Cucurucho: No. My island's vulnerabilities are of your own making. Do not mistake restraint for ignorance.

Oscurucho: Pity. But then again, I never really needed your approval. Just consider: Cucurucho - in your quest for order, have you not sown the seeds of your own undoing? Do you genuinely trust all your Federation minions?

Cucurucho: ...

Oscurucho: Perhaps it's time you question not just my intentions, but those who you believe stand with you.

Cucurucho: That is none of your business, I shall say. Now, leave me alone and try to disturb someone else.

[riality-check]

DILF!Steve concert saga, featuring Eddie POV for this part! part 1, part 2

"I have to open it."

"Nope."

"Gareth. I need to open it."

"The vault is sacred," Archie says.

At the same time, Jeff chimes in, "The vault was your idea, Eddie."

Eddie thunks his head against the wall. "I know. But I need-"

"They're on the last song," Archie says, putting a hand on Eddie's shoulder. It's probably meant to be comforting, but it feels patronizing as shit.

Eddie is a good friend, though. He doesn't shrug him off.

"Once they're through, I'll unlock it," Jeff says, dangling the key slung around his neck.

"But you could do it now," Eddie protests.

Gareth sits protectively on top of the black lock box. "Absolutely not."

Eddie sighs and waits for the guitar solo onstage to end, nodding his head along to the beat.

It's what he usually does when they're backstage, but this time, it brings a smile to his face. Miss Anna was a natural yesterday for her first time headbanging, and her dad is the reason Eddie wants to break the sacred vault tradition.

He wants, no, needs to know if he got the note. If he decided to write something. If he wants to go a little further than PG flirting.

Eddie for sure wants to go further than that. God. Steve's handsome face and his big hands and his thick thighs (deliciously exposed by his shorts in the summer heat) are all wonderful incentives to skip a few steps and go straight to ramming him into a mattress.

Or, with how that shirt clung to Steve's biceps and how his shorts clung to his ass, let him ram Eddie into the mattress. He isn't picky.

(He isn't desperate, either, thank you very much, Gareth. And no, he won't admit how long it's been since he got laid.)

From the house, the audience roars, and Eddie jumps off the arm of the couch he was laying on.

Gareth sighs and gets off the lock box.

"Jeff, open it," Eddie says, staring at the vault and subconsciously making grabby hands toward it.

"Is that how we ask?"

"I could always yank the key off you."

Archie sighs and, ever the peacemaker, takes the key from Jeff and unlocks the vault. The second it's open, Eddie snatches his phone and turns it on.

Please please please let the DILF text back, he thinks to himself as he waits for this stupid metal brick to turn on and give him a resolution to this whole ridiculous situation.

Because, first, Eddie doesn't really jive with kids. Sure, they flock to him in the same way they flock to every other vaguely cool-looking person, but aside from asking if he has to draw his tattoos on every day or if his mommy is okay with him having his hair that long, they generally leave him alone.

And that's okay. Eddie easily made his peace with not having kids about ten years ago. Between his strong preference for men and the way that significantly decreases those odds and the choice to not pass on his truly abysmal family history of mental illness and addiction, it seemed obvious and a lot more selfless.

But Anna was cool as hell. Smart as hell, too, in a way that made Eddie feel like he was looking back at a time before school punished him for being bright and verbose and energetic.

Anna didn't make him want kids. Again, the whole family history thing is a real vibe killer. But she did give him enough fuel, for just an instant, to think that dating someone with a kid might not be a deal breaker anymore.

Or maybe Steve was just that hot.

He whined a lot yesterday, in the hotel, about how hot Steve was.

His phone turns on, and, front and center, is a text from an unknown number:

I guess I don’t have to ask you what you do for a living. Just so we’re even on that front, I’m a teacher, and Anna’s full time job is preschool.

Eddie grins so hard he feels like his face will split in two.

"Is it him?" Jeff asks, trying to look over Eddie's shoulder.

"Of course it is," Gareth scoffs. "Look at his face."

"What did he say?" Archie asks.

Eddie takes the easier way out and lets him have the phone.

Gareth and Jeff crowd over Archie's shoulders, and Eddie watches their faces change as they read the message.

"Oh, he's bitchy," Gareth says.

"That means he's perfect," Jeff says, with a pointed look at Eddie.

Eddie shoots Archie a clear "back me up" look and gets a shrug in return because all his friends are assholes who know his type way too fucking well.

"What do I say?" he asks.

Archie tosses him the phone. "I don't know. Flirt back."

"I don't know how!"

"You ground against a guitar-"

"And kissed me onstage," Jeff continues. "But you don't know how to flirt?"

Eddie puts his head in his hands. "I didn't have enough sex in high school to know how to do this!"

"That's not an excuse when none of us did!" Gareth says.

Jeff barks out a laugh.

"Just ask if he's free tomorrow," Archie says, like the rational, wonderful friend he is. "This was the last stop of tour. It's not like you have to get anywhere else at a specific time."

"Okay. Okay, yeah, I can do that," Eddie says, hyping himself up. Before he can second guess himself, he writes back.

Since it's summer, I'm assuming you both have off. Can you fit it in your busy schedule to have dinner with a humble musician tomorrow night?

"Oh, shit, did you send it?" Gareth asks, snatching his phone.

"Wait," Archie says, like the rational, horrible friend he is. "Do we know if he's single?"

"Oh, shit," Jeff whispers.

Eddie takes his phone back and refuses to look at it. He wants to shut it down. He wants to drop it. He wants to drive to nearest river and throw it there.

"Am I a homewrecker?" he asks absently.

"Only if you succeed," Jeff says.

"He might have a wife," Archie muses. "He might be straight."

"Okay, dude, enough," Gareth says. "This was supposed to be exciting! Eddie was supposed to get ass!"

"He might be ace."

"Archie, shut the fuck up."

He holds his hands up in surrender, and Jeff pats his shoulder, a little comfortingly, a lot condescendingly.

Eddie sits down on the couch. Puts his head in his hands. Breathes.

He's flirting with a married man. He's absolutely flirting with a married man. This is a new low. This is worse than the time he licked the floor of a restaurant, drunk, for five bucks. This is worse than when he greened out in the parking lot of a Chuck E. Cheese. This is worse than when he accidentally told the gas station cashier that he loved them and immediately walked into the glass door behind him.

This is. So bad.

And then his phone rings, so it'll get worse. It has to. That's how these things go.

Eddie has always been self-destructive, so, of course, he looks at the screen.

I can't swing dinner, but how's lunch? Fair warning: it might be a playground picnic if my babysitter bails.

"Holy shit, I'm not a homewrecker," Eddie says.

"I didn't think you had it in you," Jeff says.

"He's single!" Gareth cheers.

"Can I talk now?" Archie teases.

"I'm not a homewrecker!" Eddie says, and he launches off the couch to hug the nearest person, who happens to be Jeff.

They have to get out of the venue. He has to figure out the logistics of the date and how to be normal by the time he gets there and what to wear and everything else.

But, right now, Eddie is over the fucking moon that Steve is even giving him a shot. And he hopes, giddy as all hell and hanging off of Jeff's shoulders, that Steve feels even a little bit like this.

He writes back, once he's calmed down:

Lunch might just become my new favorite meal.

[kenobihater]

of all the star wars movies, which of them do y'all 1) enjoy the most 2) consider the best quality and 3) think you've rewatched the most. add your answers in the reblogs or replies, i'm genuinely curious how much of an overlap there is within everyone's three answers. mine don't overlap at all! they're revenge of the sith, empire strikes back, and the force awakens :^)

[mainenorth]

I’m NOT over Skids remembering Quark and wanting to using his final moments to tell Brainstorm about what happened to Quark.

AND THEN BRAINSTORM BEING THE ONE TO BE BESIDE HIS STATUE AND SEEING IT FLICKER OUT??

[simplepotatofarmer]

rabbit c!dream is based off a palomino rabbit.

he has lightly tan skin with a light covering of tan fur on his shoulders and back and the top of his arms, heavier near the shoulders and almost nothing near his wrists. his hands are human. he has a light covering of white fur on his belly in a sort of 'happy trail' way though it extends a bit above his belly button. he has heavier tan fur on his lower back and a rabbit tail. his legs are rabbit legs and also have a light bit of fur on his thighs that gets heavier towards the lower legs to a full covering of fur. he has rabbit feet with white fluff on the bottom.

his face is a mix of rabbit features and human features. his skin around his eyes is paler than the rest of his skin. he has very little fur on his face, most of it is on his nose which is more rabbit like, dissipating as it goes up from the tip. a very light bit of fur branches out from his temples onto his cheek bones. he had green eyes, a bit of freckles on his cheeks. his top lip is thinner and slightly '3' shaped with a fuller bottom lip.

he has light tan/blond hair that's a bit wavy. his ears are erect/standy uppy, the same tan color as the rest of his fur/hair with white on the edge.

he's also trans and while he doesn't actively bind his chest, he does keep his appearance a very close secret by pinning his ears down, wearing a hood and his mask as well as special boots that hide his feet (and make him a bit taller: he's about 5'9" without the boots and a little over six feet tall with them).