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sollucets · 1 year

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I posted 1,083 times in 2022

That's 1,083 more posts than 2021!

213 posts created (20%)

870 posts reblogged (80%)

Blogs I reblogged the most:

@/ejunkiet

@/solclaw

@/pearl-kite

@/fooltofancy

@/softredrobin

I tagged 1,046 of my posts in 2022

Only 3% of my posts had no tags

#rasmr - 238 posts

#rowan chatter - 136 posts

#rasmr fic - 94 posts

#art - 57 posts

#self reblog - 52 posts

#wip reblogs - 51 posts

#my fic tag - 40 posts

#redacted asmr - 39 posts

#tag games - 35 posts

#rowan lore - 34 posts

Longest Tag: 133 characters

#i can see their dressup day so vividly i almost wanna write it myself… gavin in a victorian gown…. gender….. ends with a ring……. ahhh

My Top Posts in 2022:

8 and/or 22 for the micro prompts!!

from this list, sunbathing + nap. it's been a while since i've written something about characters waking up /s /s /s /s so thank u very much for the prompt!! i am returning to my roots here. please note that this implies Activities but would still be t rated

💜

"Sam," they murmur, lips brushing the skin of his collarbone as they speak. "Sam."

He's a light sleeper; most Vamps are, since they don't need it the way others do. It's barely a second before he's moving under them, his breath catching as he comes back to awareness and his arm tightening reflexively where it's secured around their waist. "Darlin'?"

"It's okay," they tell him, quiet voice rasping after the workout they'd given it before their nap. "Nothing's wrong. We just gotta move."

They watch him carefully as he wakes. This isn't so familiar yet that they can miss it, that they can look away from these moments they've been allowed into. In the near-dark, they can just barely see what a human wouldn't. He checks his surroundings, gaze passing over their bare back and the couch and finally up to the reason they'd disturbed him: the light through the window, threatening to brighten.

"And what if I wanted to sunbathe, huh?" he asks, voice wry.

At his house, the windows are few and all fitted with blackout curtains, but this is their shitty little apartment and their ratty, bloodstained couch (again, he'd come back, somehow), and it's going to be sunrise soon. Their head had been too fuzzy and content and warm to think of it just after, senses full of his hands steady on their waist and his voice low and rumbling, and they'd drifted off. For once, they're grateful for their inability to sleep a full night.

"You're welcome to get crispy if that's what you really want," they say, shifting off him with a groan and watching with quiet delight as his eyes snap to follow their movements.

Sam hums, sitting up after them and letting them take both his hands to tug him to a standing position. They both know he doesn't need it, but they like his hands, and he follows after them like that towards the bedroom, where they intend to hang a comforter over the single window and shut out the impending morning. Just before they enter the room, he adds, simply, "I know what I really want."

There's nothing for it after that but to pull him onto the bed in a tangled pile of sleep-warm skin and kiss him until they can't breathe, until the very last second before the sun rises and they have to scramble, laughing, to hide from the light again.

75 notes - Posted May 26, 2022

it is again wednesday

@/ejunkiet tag! <3 thank you

this is the same fic from last wip i posted; sorry, i know that wasn’t that long ago, but it’s got more words in it now. i won’t post from this again before it’s done, we will all just have to wait (yes we... i am waiting too, you understand how it is)

i would like to gently tag @/bicyclepainting (if u want to!! fully none pressure. its just that it worked last time eheheheh) and anyone who sees it and would like to!

💜

“Ash?” they ask, in the barest of whispers. “You awake?”

He makes a little rasping noise that’s halfway to being a groan, his arm tightening around their waist. They don’t fight the fondness that wells up in their chest, and they don’t push him, either. It’s another long few moments before he speaks, murmuring, “G’mornin’, babe,” into the tiny space between them.

It sends an involuntary shudder down their spine to hear him, his voice so husky right on waking up that it’s barely anything but gravel, vowels drawn-out and lazy. He notices (of course he does) and the visible corner of his mouth tips up into a smug little smile. “Good morning,” they answer.

Asher cracks one eye open, the blue one, to look at them. “Nice view,” he says, still in that low rasp.

They match his grin with one of their own, shifting just a bit so it’s easier to see his face. “Keep talking.”

He snickers, both eyes open now, and gives them an obvious, exaggerated once-over, gaze half-lidded as it wanders down their body. “...You’re the sexiest alarm clock I’ve ever seen.”

Taken aback, they let out an inelegant snort. “I will take even your weirdest compliment if you say it in that voice.”

“I literally just woke up,” Asher retorts, although his eyes are crinkling at the corners. “And... mmh. It’s hard to think when you’re not wearing a shirt, I’ll have you know.”

I could say the same for you, they almost say.

80 notes - Posted May 4, 2022

33 with Gavin/Freelancer? (I am so predictable requesting them but. listen) or any other pairing tht strikes ur fancy!!

33: saccharine

hi calico! thank u for sending me a prompt 💜 i think this might be an instance of taking it a little too literally

💜

"Gav," they call out into the house, not looking up from the contents of the saucepan. "Darling, light of my life, apple of my eye, treasure--"

The rush of wind that accompanies a rift cuts them off, and they laugh a little as familiar arms loop around them from behind. "What do you need me to do?"

They snort. "Can't I say extremely saccharine things to my beloved boyfriend without an ulterior motive?"

"I suppose you can," he concedes, "but you definitely aren't. What is it?"

Casting a brief glance back at his knowing little grin, they return their eyes to their project, one hand at the ready with a whisk. "Can you make a bowl of cold water? I'd meant to just let it sit, but the timing's wrong."

And maybe, just maybe, they could chill it themself, but this is time-sensitive, and it's water, so it's better if he does it. Gavin pulls away, and after a moment they hear the sink running. Another moment later, they feel the familiar flare of Gavin's magic, just the slightest touch. If he didn't want them to, they'd never feel it at all; this is part of something they'd asked him to do to get a handle on different people's auras, to get used to feeling magic around them.

Gavin's is like the brush of fabric against newly-shaved skin, silky and smooth and often fleeting. (Not for them, though, they think, with a deserved trace of smugness.)

"Will this do?" he asks, returning to them with a glass bowl of water that steams a little when it comes near the stove.

"Wonderfully, thank you," they say, leaning up to kiss his cheek distractedly. The second he puts the bowl down they transfer the pan into it, the hissing drowning out every other sound for the ten seconds the sauce needs to quench.

When they pull it out, the caramel sauce in the pan has settled to a perfect warm brown, and they grin triumphantly, turning the stove off. "All set. If you want this on your ice cream, get it out before it's too cold to pour."

He doesn't comply right away, and they glance over their shoulder again at him to find him doing that birdlike little head-tilt he does at particularly human things. "I wouldn't have thought that was how you made it," he says aloud.

"It's just really hot sugar," they say, realizing a second too late they've left a massive innuendo window open. It really pays to be more careful about your wording, living with this man.

Sure enough, the "suits you well, then," comes right on cue, and they scrunch their nose up and go back to stirring. They don't even try to fight back the fondness. He'd said once, quiet against their ear in the sleepy moments before full blackness, that their happiness felt like bubbles to him, shimmering and beautiful and popping soft against his skin when it's directed at him, and denying him that isn't worth even the pretense of exasperation.

Gavin returns from the freezer with the open ice cream container, and when they turn to face him, he grins, that slow, spreading one they've come to love. "You have a little something," he says softly, reaching out. "Just... there."

91 notes - Posted May 27, 2022

cinnamon

An evening at home with Avior & his starlight. t, 3286 words; if i have to make them happy with my own two hands, so be it. presenting postcanon domestic avior. cw for some discussion of food issues / forgetting to eat.

Senses are so different on this plane, clearly delineated, sharp and weighty and meaningful, and to those senses this room is full of grounding traces of his starlight, the evidence of their presence; a candle burned recently enough that the wax hasn’t settled, the faint smell of cinnamon, a jacket left on the sofa instead of the coat rack. It settles something at his core to see a home that they can change, a place that they can leave a mark on.

on ao3, or full fic under the cut. 💜

It’s a long few seconds of standing in his love’s apartment before he feels sure the rift has worked. Avior observes the details, the coffee table with its many concentric rings from drinks left unattended in favor of half-formed hypotheses, the scattered mess of letters across the counter, the dull light of the living room’s sole lamp casting long shadows across the floor.

Rifting is a matter of knowing your destination, of imagining it in close detail, of feeling how it feels to be there and then being there. Avior hates how, even coming to the one place on Elegy he has come to know better than any other, he still sometimes expects to open his eyes to fire. He still fights the urge to brush at his shoulders to rid himself of the feeling of trailing tendrils of blackness, of the feeling that each time he does this the Meridian looms closer.

Avior shakes his head, just to fight off the fuzziness that always comes alongside returning from Aria. Senses are so different on this plane, clearly delineated, sharp and weighty and meaningful, and to those senses this room is full of grounding traces of his starlight, the evidence of their presence; a candle burned recently enough that the wax hasn’t settled, the faint smell of cinnamon, a jacket left on the sofa instead of the coat rack. It settles something at his core to see a home that they can change, a place that they can leave a mark on.

There are traces of him here, too. Avior doesn’t have many possessions, as he’s rarely spent enough time on Elegy to warrant a permanent record of his presence. That’s begun to change, among so many other things, since their escape. One corner of the sofa is indisputably his, a soft red blanket they’d bought for him still indented oddly from the last time he’d sat there. He has a designated coffee mug in their cupboard. What few possessions he had called his own, his meager book collection, have merged with his starlight’s next to their piles and piles of research texts and shelves full of poetry collections and time-worn fantasy novels.

For all he sees them in each part of the room, they are not actually home. Time can be difficult between planes, but they’d said there was an evening meeting today, so they should be back soon. They will be back soon.

Avior goes over to the bookshelf and casts his eyes along the titles for something to read as he waits, but despite his best efforts, his attention is scattered enough that all he’s doing is rereading the same spine over and over, that odd blurriness still plaguing the edges of his awareness. He tries, for a long fruitless moment, to convince himself he isn’t straining his senses beyond the apartment, searching for them. It’s barely been two days, and they’re coming home. There’s no need to be pathetic.

He still jerks his head up like he’s been trained when he feels them at the edge of his magic, though. That range is further than his corporeal senses, and his range with them is further than it is with anyone he’s ever known, enough that he can tell immediately they’re angry about something. Their emotions are intense, white-hot, and most of all contained, a controlled burn. Feeling his back tense up in sympathetic concern, Avior sighs and goes to the kitchen. He takes two mugs out, his (deep blue with the dots of Carina across its front) and theirs (black with ‘Don’t Talk to Me At All For Any Reason’ in bold white letters) and sets to making tea. Avior has relatively little experience with human food; they’d taught him how in this very kitchen, explaining the kettle and the infuser and the entire cabinet dedicated to all their different little bags. He suspects that someone less particular about it might have instructed him with fewer steps.

He’s done this enough times now that he can split his attention to examine their feelings a little closer as they near the apartment. They’re stewing over whatever it is, letting the cause sit burning at the back of their throat. That isn’t the kind of thing he’d be able to tell, usually; all he can feel is that anger, its direction, but he knows them. If it’s this bad, they haven’t been able to address it yet.

When their footsteps are finally audible in the hallway, things are almost ready. Avior could have made tea with magic and been waiting with two fresh cups, sure, but every time he does it that way they complain that something tastes wrong about it, then pepper him with questions about what specific part of the process he's accomplished with magic. This way, they’ll know that it’s because of his own deficient tea-making skills if it isn’t up to standard.

The kitchen smells good, at least. That should help.

They tumble in through the door in a flurry of emotion and sound. He can hear them grumbling something under their breath at the same time as he hears the telltale flop of yet another jacket thrown onto the couch. It’s another few seconds of them stomping around before they stop still, and a shining ray of surprised delight breaks through the storm cloud in their aura.

“Avi?” they call.

“In here,” he answers, checking on the tea.

In no time at all, their face appears in the kitchen entryway. They look like they’re trying to smile at him, but the frown they no doubt came in with hasn’t left yet, and the effect is quite silly looking. “Welcome home, my love,” he tells them, and the last traces of visible irritation melt away.

He can still feel it bubbling under the surface, but the relief and care that accompany their smile are real. They cross the kitchen to where he’s standing near the kettle and snake their arms around his waist from behind, hooking their chin over his shoulder with some difficulty. “Hi,” they say, the single syllable curling delighted and familiar. “I didn’t expect you back so soon. Weren’t you with Circinus?”

“I was,” he answers, leaning into their hold without his conscious input. Their heart is beating strong and steady against his back, and their aura settles against his, and things have clicked into place again. He’s home. “We weren’t sure how long I’d be required at the Chorus this time; as it turns out, it was less than they anticipated.” The timer he’d set beeps, and he goes about taking the kettle over to the counter, hindered slightly by their complete refusal to let go of him. “Do you intend to hang off of me the entire time?”

They hum contentedly, tightening their hold on his waist in a quick squeeze. “Yes, and don’t pretend you don’t like it. How were they? Circinus, I mean. I like them.” Pointedly, Avior takes his steps across the kitchen, forcing them to walk after him or be dragged. They laugh right in his ear and let him drag them.

“They like you too,” he concedes, pouring both cups. Of course they would. Circinus loves answering questions, a fortunate trait in a shepherd, and the one time the two had met, his starlight had absolutely pelted them with every question under the sun. Avior had sat back and watched them like a tennis match, glad that at least one of them couldn’t feel how hopelessly, impossibly fond seeing his mentor and his beloved getting along had made him. “They’re well. They’ve taken a new charge recently, as I think you might recall, and that’s been something of a fulfilling challenge for them.”

“Right, right, yeah, they told me.” The moment their mug is full, they immediately and without a hint of regret detach themself from his back to make grabby hands at it, leaning back against the counter. When he passes it to them, they wrap both hands around the mug immediately with a long, drawn-out sigh. Avior takes a drink from his own cup and deems it acceptable; his isn’t the opinion he’s looking for, though.

They don’t immediately follow suit, instead blowing gently across the top of the liquid, and he takes the moment to observe them closer. That flickering anger he’d felt before is banked now, under layers of fondness and tiredness and warmth, but it’s still there, nudging at the edges of his senses with a surprising amount of immediacy.

“I take it your meeting didn’t go as you might have hoped?”

They blink at him over the rim of their mug once, twice. “Do you want me to get into it? Because I’ll have to get into it.”

Avior hisses out a sympathetic noise through his teeth. “That well?”

“Yeah.”

“Would you like to get into it?”

Furrowing their brow, they stare at the tea in their mug like it holds all the answers in the universe for a long moment, and for someone like them, that is a significant expression. “Yes. No. Maybe.” They take a sip, then tilt their head at him consideringly, distracted. “This is good.”

See the full post

101 notes - Posted May 18, 2022

My #1 post of 2022

wip wthursday

@/calicostorms says post wip; wip i shall post

i’m actually kinda. stalled on both of the ones i have right now, but there is more vincent than i have yet posted so have some of that

💜

Having them both taking classes has been a bit of an adjustment. Vincent can only go at night, so their schedules have become even more diametrically opposed than usual, and they’ve both been so busy they’ve been talking a lot less than usual. Just yesterday all they’d done on getting home was sit together at the kitchen counter, heads bent over their respective assignments.

(It’s new to them, just occupying the same space as someone else, quiet and comfortable. No touching, barely any talking, no end game, just content to exist near each other. They take some comfort in knowing it’s new to Vincent, too.)

Their boyfriend opens his eyes again to look up at them, said eyes creasing slightly at the edges as his expression softens. “How was your day?” he asks, and the true miracle is that he sounds genuinely interested.

“Long,” they tell him, “but good. I got that essay back from the Illusory teacher. One of my classmates saw that it said ‘good work’ and fully lost her mind.”

Vincent chuckles, his shoulders moving up and down against the rug under him. “You deserve it, lovely. Your work is more than good, and I know you spent a lot of time on that.”

They laugh, a little higher-pitched than usual, and lean over him to press a kiss to his forehead. They’re more comfortable with his praise than their notoriously-difficult-to-impress instructor’s, at least, worn down after months of his constant deluge of compliments, but they can still feel the urge to curl in on themself and deny it. “Thank you,” they tell him instead, no matter how much it grates, and they’re rewarded with a smile.

292 notes - Posted May 26, 2022

Get your Tumblr 2022 Year in Review →

#heehee this is fun #ive ionly Very Very recently begun to reblog things without tags but it still gives me hives #that longest tag is for sure me commenting on ginger’s incubus standing in the road #which is an absolute banger of a fic #that top post is like that because it was Infested with bots for months by the way so thats a little sad but its ok #i revived my tumblr this year so this is kinda nice and nostalgic #and um… two of these are for fics i STILL havent finished #lmao i ….. well. someday perhaps #i make no promises tbh im just doing my best now

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