Before you request something, please take the time to read these rules.
1. We are willing to write stories containing potentially triggering content. These will all be tagged appropriately and kept under a cut.
↳ That being said, all requests with triggering content involved must be tagged in the beginning of the ask to be considered. If this is not followed, your request will be deleted
2. We will not write:
↳ Sexual assault/abuse*
↳ Suicide or self harm*
↳ Incest/incestuous ships*
↳ Pedophilia/pedophilic ships*
↳ DDLG etc
↳ Smut for underage characters
↳ Real people
*We will write comfort and healing from these things, if they are requested. We will not write these things for kink or fetish reasons. If these subject matters are requested, we will not write the actual triggering thing, just the aftermath of it.
3. We will not write for:
↳ Hetalia
↳ Hazbin Hotel
↳ Attack on Titan
↳ Personified Countries
↳ Beastars
↳ Harry Potter
↳ South Park
↳ Rick and Morty
↳ Bigmouth
↳ Real peopl
4. We will write:
↳ Reader inserts
↳ Ship content
↳ fluff
↳ angst
↳ smut (within reason ya nasties)
↳ personalized letters to you from your comfort characters!
im back! life took a turn for the worst, so i’ve been unable to finish the end chpt 2 </3 idk if anyone is even into tdatt anymore, but ill make it happen!!! keep an eye out
source: the devil all the time
part: one/?
pairing: arvin russell/reader
requested: no
tws: n/a (canon typical in later parts but this ones safe)
word count: 1652
synopsis: you make some bread, and contemplate finality.
extra: i wanted to challenge myself to write a reader insert without using y/n et cetera!! im so excited for this, and very proud :)
Someone once told you that there is nothing in life that isn’t a beginning or an end. You’re not quite sure what you think about that, but you figure there must be some sense of truth to it. Hell, you reckon that if those words are true every damn thing you do is the beginning of the rest of your life. This train of thought will come back to you later.
For now, you wake up in the morning to begin your day, and eventually you’ll sleep at night to end it.
You open your dresser to begin looking for your outfit, and close the dresser to end that search. Naturally, you’ll put on your clothes to begin wearing them, and take them off at some point to end that.
You open the window in your kitchen to begin a steady flow of fresh air, but you won’t get a chance to close, and thus end, it.
Later, all the beginnings you started and endings you caused in the coming few days will become viscerally apparent to you. You’ll wonder which one is more important; those beginnings or endings? You’ll wonder if that matters at all. It probably doesn’t.
Currently, you are kneading the dough that you began only 15 minutes ago for a loaf of bread that you’ll never get to eat. Your radio plays quietly in the corner of the kitchen and you sing along, finding a rhythm in your movement. You feel as though you could live in this moment for the rest of your life and stay happy the whole time. But of course, the song ends so another can begin and your timer goes off to tell you’ve kneaded enough, and the tranquility of the moment slowly dissipates. You wet a towel and delicately place it on top of the lump of dough, and set it into a bowl and aside to begin it’s second hour of rising. That means that you have an hour to yourself, and you resign yourself to laundry. It gets boring pretty quickly, however, so you resolve to finish this load and continue a book you started reading last week.
You’re only a few chapters from the end. You like it well enough- the characters are charming and the plot is compelling- but the pacing of it all is what’s really losing you. It started as a decent slow burn character study into the mind of a troubled woman that tragedy followed like a shy dog, which you find interesting. However, at some point it seemed like the author was as swept up in the world as you were and was caught off guard by the need for an ending. The past few chapters have been a rushed attempt at a satisfying conclusion, and the original message of the story has been lost. The woman started out as thoughtful and resilient, despite the shit life kept throwing at her. You like her a lot. At this point in the book, though, things should be calming down. They aren’t.
You pick up the book where you left off, and immediately it seems to be trending in an unnecessarily painful direction. You wouldn’t dare tell anyone, but you definitely prefer a happy ending. The appeal in watching decent people suffer for nothing is lost on you. It makes it difficult to ignore the more uncomfortable truths of the town you live in.
By the time you’ve gotten to the last chapter, your timer is going off again, letting you know that it’s time to move your dough from under the towel and in the bowl to the oven. You leave the book open on the counter (it stays, because you accidentally broke the spine when you first bought the book. Your best friend chided you for getting as upset as you did. “There are bigger things in life to worry about than a 50¢ paperback novel, darlin’.” He had said.) and stand to wash your hands. The front door opens and closes as you turn on the water, and you call out a greeting to your father. There is no reply while you move the dough to a pan, and you wait a moment before calling out again. This time you get an answer, though the voice that responds is not your father. A smile creeps its way onto your face as you slide the pan into the oven and close the door.
Something you’ve noticed about Arvin Russel is the way he refers to the people. It’s never “good afternoon,” or “thank you,” or “how are ya?”; it’s always a “good afternoon miss,” or “thank you ma’am,” or “how are ya, sir”. He calls his sister Lenora little lady or hun; his grandmother is grandma or ma’am; his grandfather is grandpa or sir. Friends are bud and fella, and enemies are any number of vile swears and adjectives. You’re doll or darlin’, and you have been since you found him hiding behind the school back on the first day of sixth grade. It’s common down here in the south to call people anything but their name whether it be from respect or the opposite, but even as a child Arvin seemed to actively avoid using someone’s name unless he was saying something that he needed you to know he meant. Most people figured he was just some overly respectful kid, but you’ve always suspected that he just understands the power of his words. As you got older, you got the sense to wonder why a kid so young seemed to know so much about power and violence, both mental and physical. You’ve heard the rumors about why he moved to Coal Creek in the first place, but it never came to you to just ask if they were true and what living in Knockemstiff was like. You never considered it your business.
That’s all to say that when Arvin Russel greets you by name in your kitchen at 3:30 PM on a Saturday in the fine year of 1965, your hand stops on its way to the kitchen timer. A quick glance at the clock confirms that Arvin has work in 10 minutes, and you know that you live a solid 15 away from where he needs to be. You turn to face him, apprehensively studying the way he sits on a stool on the opposite side of the island that divides the room. He sits with a slump that shows an extent of exhaustion that seems deeper than the physical body. You wonder if someone’s soul could yawn. He seems like he hasn’t been able to relax all day, and even now there’s tension in his shoulders. Not to mention that his breathing’s uneven and he’s sweating like a sinner in church, so you decide to dampen a washcloth before asking any questions. He looks at you in such a way while you dab at his damp brow that chips away at your heart. He’s looked haunted since you met him, like Satan himself is dancing in his peripheral, always 3 steps away from finally claiming his soul, and you wonder for a moment if he’s always fought the devil all the time.
“Christ almighty Arvin, what happened t’you?” You ask, blotting away at his forehead.
His eyes snap into focus at that, like he’s remembering something, and he pushes out of his seat, snatching the cloth from your hand. “We gotta leave, doll,”
You look at him incredulously. “What in the world? You sit yourself back down and tell me what is goin-”
Arvin interrupts you by saying your name again. “I mean it,” he says, and you believe him. “You got- you got to get on packin’ and we gotta leave.”
“I’m not packin’ anything until you tell me what the hell is goin’ on, Arvin Russel. I mean it.” You say, and he believes you.
Unfortunately, you’ll come to understand that he doesn’t have the time to explain.
The two of you have fantasized about skipping town more times than you could count. A couple of times, you even packed your bags into the back of Arvin’s jalopy before school, planning on picking up Lenora and never looking back at this shithole. You were serious about it too, your father and whatever spends its time haunting Arvin giving you more than enough motivation. Still, you stayed. Arvin would say he’d miss his grandmother, which was true, but you both knew it wasn't what Lenora would want. After she died, Arvin swore he should have said damn it all and left anyway.
When he makes eye contact with you again, you know whatever is happening now is different than your idealized life on the run. Every time you planned this, you both swore you’d do it all together, and that included choosing the right time. Arvin was so particular about choosing the right time. Now, it seems that whatever he did that you two are running from didn’t have a right time. It just had to happen, and he was tired of waiting. A sense of dread nags at you perversely, and you know suddenly and without a doubt that if you don’t go with him now, you’ll never see him again.
He drops the rag then and leaves the kitchen with a sense of urgency you’ve never seen, and you tear after him. You meet him in your room and you both throw together two bags of your bare essentials. You’re out the door and shoving the bags into his trunk before you even get a chance to turn off the oven.
It won’t be until you’re leaning your head on the passenger window of Arvin’s automobile, speeding past the sign that cheerily reads You are now leaving Coal Creek! We hope to see you again soon!, that you will realize that you forgot your book at home.
source: homestuck
pairing: n/a
requested: yes
tws: over the counter drugs (advil)
word count: 1498
synopsis: dave gets an eyestrain headache, and goes on an epic quest for advil
extra: shoutout to my discord server buddies for lending me some help with their master rap lyricism
There are some days where things suck.
Those are the days where you stay in your room and no one sees you until dinner, or until you decide that boredom will kill you faster than just sucking it up and hanging out in the presence of other people. You say that you make your best music on those days, although your brothers would probably disagree. To that you would respond that creativity comes from necessity or some shit, and Dirk would tell you that the saying is “necessity is the mother of invention” while Hal explains why that doesn’t apply to your situation at all. They’ll still listen to your demo at 3 AM that night, and they’ll still tell you that they like it. You know they might be lying just a teensy bit, but it’ll still boost your ego.
But not every day is like that.
Your name is Dave Strider, and today actually hasn’t been that bad.
You’ve been playing Minecraft with your friends all morning, which is one of your favorite things to do. You finally proposed to your best friend June, who doubles as your minecraft-gf-now-fiance, and the realm has been busy with wedding preparations. It’s been the ultimate will they won’t they of the century, and Roxy had been bothering you non stop about “putting a ring on it” for forever. Rose is going to be your best man, naturally, and Jade is going to be June’s. Dirk’s going to be the officiary. Hal spawned 64 diamond hoes as a wedding gift. It’s going to be fuckin’ awesome.
For now, you turn off your computer and push away from your desk. You rub the bridge of your nose, hoping to stave away a headache from staring at your computer for so long that you know is inevitable. Rose has offered to buy you blue light tint shit for your shades, but you’re not interested in fucking up the lenses like that. Plus, you’re no bitch. You suck it up and head out to the kitchen like always, to rummage through the junk cabinet for an Advil or something. Hal is already seated at the island, reading something. He looks up when you enter the room, and you both nod in greeting.
June asked you once if it’s weird for you to have a robot for a brother. You had replied that you already had a robot for a brother so it’s no big deal, but you both knew that you weren’t serious. On top of it being sick as fuck to be able to say that your big brother is a super genius who built a super genius AI and then a fully functioning body for said AI, you just really like the guy. Plus, he helps keep things organized. Without him, you’d never know where anything is. Dirk isn’t messy, really the opposite. He’s very particular about where things go. The problem is that his idea of where welding supplies go is in the cabinet next to the fridge, where you adamantly believe dishes should be. And so on.
After a minute or two of fruitlessly searching for pain relief, Hal finally speaks.
“What are you looking for?” He asks, not looking up from his book.
“Advil,” you say, shoving receipts and a neti pot back into the cabinet.
“I see. Check the bathroom.”
“Why?” The fuckin’ cabinet won’t close. “It’s always been in here.”
“Dirk was on a reorganization campaign this morning. You really missed out, dude.” He responds, watching in a bemused fashion as you do mad mental gymnastics to figure out how to stack empty inhaler boxes in a way that will let the cabinet door close.
“Yeah, okay, cool, but like-” You have to pause to catch the bottle of Pepto Bismol that you should have known wouldn't fare well on top of a bunch of empty boxes. “If it ain’t broke don’t fix it or whatever. Now I’m gonna die of eye strain, man, and Dirk’s gonna laugh at my funeral.”
“You know that saying doesn’t apply to him.” Hal says, and you know he’s right. Dirk’s more of an “if it ain’t broke, fix it weekly as to assure it remains unbroken” sort of guy.
You snort, and finally get the door closed. Hal pats your shoulder (awkwardly, because the guy doesn’t understand physical affection for the life of him. You appreciate the gesture anyway.) as you walk by, and you begrudgingly make your way to the bathroom. The door is locked when you get there, and you jiggle the handle, just to be obnoxious
“Dave, I’m going to kill you if you don’t stop jiggling the doorknob,” Dirk snaps from the other side of the door.
You snort, and jiggle more aggressively.
“Dave.”
“I have a headache.”
Dirk makes a sound that is halfway between exasperated and confused. “I- Okay?”
“A big dumbass moved the Advil into the shitter, and I have a headache. So hurry up or unlock the door,”
“Dude.”
“Unless you’re taking a shit. Are you taking a shit, Dirk?”
Silence.
“Dude, el mayo.” You can see Dirk’s face scrunch up at that. He hates you and Roxy’s incessant need to say acronyms out loud in stupid ways in your head. “Why’d you even move it? Did you just wake up randomly thinking: 'Hey, I know what I'll do! I'm just gonna obliterate Dave’s afternoon by holding his salvation hostage and then shitting near it? That’s really fucked up, man,”
“I don’t know how to tell you this, but the cabinet in the bathroom is literally called a medicine cabinet. This was inevitable.”
You kick the door half heartedly before stalking back into your room. You know he’ll bring you the medicine when he’s done, but you feel the tingles of a fire track coming on.
Fifteen minutes later, after turning down the Advil and locking yourself in your room, you’re convinced you’ve got the hottest shit since the meteor shower that killed the dinosaurs, headache long forgotten. You usher Dirk and Hal into the cramped bathroom (it takes a while to get them to comply, but you assure them that this shit will be legendarily mind blowing. And really, who could resist that?), and Hal calls sitting on the toilet lid. You’re obviously standing in the shower, so that leaves Dirk to sit on the floor.
“Couldn’t we have done this in the living room?” Dirk complains, interrupting you as you go to start the backing track (it’s the Minecraft opening theme, with some shitty bass over it.).
“It’s atmospheric, Dirk.” Hal replies, shaking his head.
“Yeah, duh,” You agree. “Now shut the fuck up, I’m about to take you to school.
Check it.
Yo, I’m chillin’ on the comp but my head starts splittin’
Messin’ with my game, and fuckin’ up my sittin’
It’s bad, it’s mad, like an angry dad
But it ain’t nothin’ compared to the rhymes that I’m spittin’
So I log out, get up, and leave my room
My head’s killin’ me, I’m dyin’, y’know I gotta zoom
Roll up into the kitchen, I’m cryin’, tearin’ out my hair
So imagine my surprise when that shit ain’t there
Who the fuck locked my Advil up in the shitter?
The fuck is your problem, I’ll vague you on Twitter
I got a hundred followers, you forgot that I’m famous,
They’re willing and ready to tear you a new anus.”
You’re about to continue creaming these suckers, but Dirk cuts you off before you can.
“Okay kiddo, I hear you, good god, sit down
Is this bathroom a circus?
Cause you’re actin’ a clown
I’m so sorry to tell you-
Even Hal can attest-
I’m so sorry for shitting
This bitch has got IBS
I’ll spare you the details-
My shit’s soaking wet-
But may I remind you?
That’s a medicine cabinet
So before you go cryin’
‘I’m dying, I’m dying!’
Just study my flow,
Cause that shit’s inspiring”
Oh, hell no. Not in your bathroom. Time to go fucking crazy.
“Eyes wildin’, I’m freestylin’
I’m crushin’ cube bitches, I’ll minecraft you some stitches
Relief should be accessible,
Otherwise that shit is unethical,
So you better say you’re sorry
For puttin’ my drugs above the potty,”
This time, it’s Hal interrupting Dirk.
“Firstly, Dave, shawty,
That don’t rhyme with potty
To pay for these lessons? You’ll need a scholly
Your flow is vile, shit’s juvenile
I think I’ve heard better from Terezi’s reptile
You’re frying my circuits,
This shit is trash
If I was organic, you’d give me a rash
I’ve got something to say,
I’ll say it concisely:
Shut the fuck up!
I’m not asking nicely,”
Well shit. Hal’s got it on lock. You and Dirk groan, and the song ends. Hal always gets the last word.
The three of you will argue for the rest of the night over who wons (you did, obviously), and you’ll have a shitty microwaved dinner.
Hello!! My name is Otter and I’m the second admin on this account! I’m 17, use she/they, and id as bi and enby ;)) My current interests are unus annus, among us, pjo/hoo, dnd, magnus archives, and the mcelroy cinematic universe!!
♡ hello! my name is mori :plead:! i’m 18 and use he/they and im fucking.. vibing!! im the harley to otter’s ivy :smirk:. my current interests are the devil all the time, unus annus, the mcu, the end of the fucking world, horror movies/media, dc, and among us! ill p much write for anything that isnt genuinely problematic and weird!
super excited 2 start regularly writing and posting stuff !!! finally i have the motivation to get off my ass and create and it feels good
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