#Drive (2011) fanfiction

[drivinmeinsane]

City Life, Apple Pie

Driver x Reader ※ { masterlist } ※ { ao3 }

※ Summary: There’s a part of you that wonders if he would accept the brush of your fingertips over the back of his hand. If he would silently spread his fingers enough for yours to make a home between his. ※ Rating: G for general audiences. ※ Content/tags: Fluff, Fluff without Plot, Developing Relationship, First Kiss, No use of Y/N, No Pronouns Given for Reader ※ Word count: 2,510 ※ Status: One-shot ※ Author's note: Another year has passed me by in this fandom and I'm no less captivated by so many of these characters. Happy 44th to Ryan Gosling. ※ Song inspiration: Apple Pie - Lizzy McAlpine

“You and the kid doing anything special tonight?”

Shannon’s voice cuts through the ambient hum of the overhead lights. You grit your teeth at the loud intrusion but you don’t turn your attention away from the sheets of paper littering the overcrowded desk. Ever since you started working for Picture Car Warehouse, you’ve been one of the many victims of the grizzled mechanic’s long-winded and largely one-sided conversations.

Instead of indulging him in glazed-eyed attention, you nudge an oil smeared wrench out of the way of a paragraph you need to look over. It leaves a black smear behind on the already smudged paper. One of the fingerprints that have been pressed into the corner of the sheet has a glaring interruption in the pattern that makes you think it was accidentally left by Driver. He’d sliced his thumb open on a piece of sheet metal just a few days ago.

Metal scrapping was yet another one of Shannon’s questionable business plans. He seemed to be a variable fountain of ideas. You’re honestly surprised he’s only ended up with a broken pelvis from all the bullshit he’s talked about pulling during his lifetime.

The older man clears his throat in lieu of any response from you and continues. “Now, if I were you, I might try a pie. Kid’s never been one for cake. Not that I’ve seen anyway. He’s always at that diner. You know? The one over on San Fernando? Jack's? I think? Something with a car in the name, maybe.”

“What are you talking about?” you finally ask, trying to rein in your exasperation. Looking up at him, you rub your thumb over the pen in your grasp’s clicker—not quite applying enough pressure to trigger the mechanism. You just want to get this insurance claim dealt with so you can go find Driver and the two of you can go home to your shared rental and you can be tormented with thoughts of how badly you want to kiss the crooked smile off your roommate while you watch TV crammed on the tiny couch that came with the place.

Shannon raises his eyebrows at you from his position leaning against the desk. He is clearly surprised you’ve spoken at all.

“The kid?” he says, slowly. “It’s his birthday tomorrow. Didn’t he tell you?”

Your stomach swoops unpleasantly with surprise. Driver hasn’t said a damn word about it. There hasn’t even been the vaguest suggestion of even what month he was born in. He’d left you completely in the dark to that personal detail. It had seemed almost unimportant while you had collected the crumbs of what you did discover, hoarding the small details like precious gems. You know that he likes the pale blue of spring sky the best. You know he doesn’t eat sandwiches because of his mother. You’ve learned that he flexes his fingers on his steering wheel when he’s done too many hours of driving and his joints ache. You think you’re realizing that he does love—quietly and intently. But you don’t know when his damn birthday is.

Of course he hasn’t, you think, he’d rather take a hammer to his own head than to be an inconvenience or let on that he actually has wants or needs.

“No.”

At this admission, Shannon laughs and claps you on the shoulder with a work-roughened hand before heaving himself off the edge of the desk to return to work with some effort. You know the brace he wears digs at him—Lord knows he’s rubbed at his perpetually bruised hip and grumbled about any hint of humidity enough that half the guys in the shop have offered to chip in and get the “old man” a rocking chair so that he has a designated place to sit for his scheming and bitching.

Halfway through the door connecting the garage to the cramped office that fronts the building, Shannon pauses. His voice is crackling with a barely concealed amusement as he makes a confession.

“He didn’t tell me neither. I snuck a glance at his license back when I hired him.”

───※ ·❆· ※───

Driver shifts the car into another gear. The action is preformed so smoothly that you almost can’t feel the subtle hitch as the old Malibu responds. No wonder Shannon has been singing his praises as soon as he’s out of earshot. Driver is good—almost unreal—when it comes to vehicles. His actions have always been able to speak more for him than any meager handful of words ever could.

He leaves his hand resting on the gearshift. You feel your throat go dry as you shoot furtive glances at it. It’s unfair, really, the way that the setting sun casts vibrant light over his skin. It highlights the contours of his fingers and sets the fine hair dusting down his arms and over the backs of his hands aglow. Letting your eyes linger, you can make out the silver flashes of old scars.

You look away.

You have to clench your hand into a fist to avoid placing it over his. You want to touch him so badly. It’s a desire that has kicked around in the unreasonable parts of your mind ever since Shannon forcefully introduced the two of you on the back end of some B-list car chase movie. It has only intensified since you signed a lease agreement for a shitty two bedroom apartment together.

There’s a part of you that wonders if he would accept the brush of your fingertips over the back of his hand. If he would silently spread his fingers enough for yours to make a home between his.

Your nails dig into your palm, biting like a badly trained dog. You can’t bring yourself to risk destroying your friendship with the quiet man at your side. It would be better to swallow down the bitter taste of unspoken admissions than to find yourself without his company at all.

Unable to take the usually comfortable silence of the ride home, you speak, thinking to the earlier conversation with Shannon. Your gaze is firmly fixated through the windshield. If you look at your roommate, you might cry.

“Cherry, peach, or apple?”

There’s a long moment of silence, so long that you’re not sure if he’s mulling over his response or if he’s that taken aback by your sudden questioning.

“Apple,” he says, voice soft. There’s a fondness in the depths of that one single word that you must be imagining.

“Okay,” you respond, swallowing down your own affection that threatens to bubble to the surface. You can work with that. There’s some apples taking up residence in a chipped bowl on the counter.

Scenery passes by. Neither of you make a stab at conversation for the rest of the way back to the apartment building. Silence has become second nature between the two of you. There’s an easy comfort in it.

───※ ·❆· ※───

“Got a job,” Driver says halfway through the movie you’re watching.

You look away from the TV.

The mechanic is sprawled out beside you on the couch, legs spread wide as he sags back into the worn material. His empty bowl from the dinner the two of you made together is perched on one knee. He’s close enough that you can feel the warmth radiating off of his body. You feel drawn to it like a moth to a light. In the glow of the television, it’s so easy to imagine his arm draping over your shoulders and drawing you against the firm line of his body.

There has still been no mention of his birthday. You’re entirely certain that he’s going to just let it slip by without a word.

No real name, no birthday, no desires. He’s forcing himself to be a blank slate for the projection of others. It makes your heart hurt.

“What is it?” you ask, surprised that he’s going out after working at the garage since the sun teased the horizon and long after it tipped over the apex. Shannon has a tendency to overwork him.

He lets silence unfold after your question as fantastical plants come to light on the screen in front of you. You’re more intent on the minute changes in his expressions—a raise of his eyebrow, the flutter of his eyelashes against his cheeks—than on the movie.

Finally, Driver stands up. He holds his hand out to take your empty bowl. The brush of your fingers together as you pass it to him sends sparks through your stomach.

“Just taking some guys ‘cross town. Might take a coupla hours." He heads towards the kitchen with his cargo.

You follow after him, taking up residence in the doorway as he scrubs the bowls clean and sets them in the drying rack beside the sink. Wanting to be of some use, you lean over to snag his jacket off the hook by the front door. You offer it to him when he turns away from slipping the hand towel back over the oven handle. He takes it from you with a warm squint of his eyes and shrugs into it. The slick material shines blue from the distant television lights.

“Be careful,” you tell him. You want to kiss him goodbye. You don’t move.

There’s a pregnant silence. Palpable tension fills the air. The two of you are on the cusp of something.

The bubble doesn’t burst. The wheelman just nods and slips out the door, locking it behind him with a twist of his wrist. You let out a breath you didn't even realize you were holding.

His departure gives you time to pour over the battered cookbook some previous tenant had left behind in one of the kitchen cabinets. You should have just enough time to attempt making a pie. It can’t be that hard, surely. People have been making pies for centuries.

───※ ·❆· ※───

It proved to be a difficult task, far harder than you could have ever thought. You wipe down the counter, cleaning up the last traces of what had felt like an hour and a half fight for your life. You toss the rag over the sink faucet and look at your finished project with despair.

The pie is awkward and lumpy—almost a bad finger painting come to life.

Fuck. You know you should have walked to somewhere, anywhere, or coughed up the money for a taxi to find one made by a professional. This looks like shit.

A lump builds in your throat, quickly followed by involuntary tears leaping to your eyes. He’s done so much for you just by being a steady presence in your life for the past few months. The least you could have done was make him something presentable

Your self-pity is cut short by the solid step of boots outside the door, followed shortly by the clatter of keys making contact with the doorknob. Driver is home.

Nervous, you brush your hands over your face and gather yourself. With more confidence in your voice than you feel, you call out, “Welcome back.”

In response, you hear the rustle of a jacket being stripped off and folded under one arm, closely followed by a quiet exhale. The mechanic appears around the corner. Upon seeing you, a crooked smile slowly spreads over Driver’s face. He tosses his keys onto the counter with an easy motion of his arm. You’re blocking his view of the pie.

“Somethin’ smells good.” He sounds tired. There’s exhaustion lining weighing down the corners of his eyes.

“I…” you start, trailing off. Rallying yourself, you try again. “It’s not midnight yet so…”

Confusion creases the space between his eyebrows and he opens his mouth to speak, but you’re already turning and gesturing to your sad attempt at making pie.

“I know it’s not much, but happy birthday.”

Driver goes still and steps to your side to stare down at the misshapen dough. Apple juice and sugar have bubbled to the top, caramelizing into crispy, golden puddles. The expression on his face is almost too fragile to put a name to.

“How did you know?” The words he utters are barely more than a whisper.

“Shannon. He told me this afternoon.”

There’s a pause before he speaks, voice laden with helpless affection, “’Course he did.”

You feel like you’re about to fall over the edge of some unseen precipice. Vertifo threatens to overwhelm you. Shakily, you set to work carving Driver out a slice a pie. The mess you deposit on the plate could pass as a crime scene. You’re careful not to meet his eyes as he takes the plate from you after discarding his jacket onto the counter, covering up his keys.

The kitchen is filled with the low groan of the fridge kicking on. There’s the sudden whoosh of water darting through the pipes when one of the neighbors overhead turns on their sink. The scrape of the stunt driver’s fork is loud enough to echo in your mind while you stare at the glistening mixture in the pie pan still clinging to the void where the slice had been. Your chest feels tight. The lump in your throat is persistent.

Driver sets his plate on the counter with a soft clatter. A cautious glance reveals that it’s empty. He’d all but licked it clean.

“Hey.” His voice is quiet. Tender.

It’s tender enough that you look at him. That familiarly crooked smile is tugging at his lips. He reaches for you. Warm fingers brush against your side as he crowds into your space. The fabric of your shirt hardly feels like a barrier.

You barely get a breath out before he’s kissing you. He tastes like sugar and the cloying sweetness of baked apples. It’s all you can do to find his arms and hold onto him like the lifeline he’s come to be. He is sturdy underneath your clinging hands.

Much to your displeasure, Driver pulls back. He stays close enough that his nose brushes yours as his eyes seem to be searching yours for an answer to an unspoken question. Tension leaves his face as he finds it.

“Thank you for…” he lets the rest of the sentence die out, breath hitching in response to your touch.

Your hands slide over his biceps on their journey upwards. One takes residence on his shoulder while the other slips between his shoulder blades. Your fingers find their way into the short hair at his nape.

“You don’t have to thank me,” you respond and press your mouth against his in another kiss.

Eagerly, he accepts the affection. He sways on his feet, chasing after you when you break the contact. His lips brush over your cheek and you stop him in his tracks with a light touch on his sternum before taking his hand. His calloused fingers intertwine easily with yours as you lead him in the direction of your bedroom.

There is still some time before his birthday is officially over. You want to make the most of it.

Do not repost, copy, or reproduce my work to other sites or in other media formats. Do not use it for anything to do with AI. Thank you.

[goosemas]

Happy winter, everyone! Welcome to the 12 Days of Goosemas event for 2024. I had enough fun with this concept last year that I have decided to offer it up in a free-to-participate format this year.

As with the year prior, this will be collections of 12 works pertaining to characters played by Ryan Gosling. Not all of these works may necessarily be Christmas themed, but all the provided prompts are intended to be set in the month of December and have some seasonal vibes!

❅ The Prompts ❅

Day One ❆ { Miracle } Day Two ❆ { Stranded } Day Three ❆ { Family } Day Four ❆ { Lights } Day Five ❆ { Joy } Day Six ❆ { Alone } Day Seven ❆ { Tradition } Day Eight ❆ { Snow } Day Nine ❆ { Mistletoe } Day Ten ❆ { Warmth } Day Eleven ❆ { Meal } Day Twelve ❆ { Gift } * Day Thirteen ❆ { Free Space }

❅ Information ❅

❆ Goosemas is a twelve day event celebrating Ryan Gosling and the characters that he has played. The event spans from December 13 to December 24th. There is a thirteenth optional day (noted as "Free Space") for those who would like to share their self-prompted work on Christmas day.

❆ All works must be centralized on characters played by Ryan Gosling and (at least loosely) follow the provided prompts to be part of the 12 Days of Goosemas event.

❆ Any medium is allowed. While fanfictions might be main focus; art, edits, and other form of creativity is welcomed. AI generated content is not.

❆ Despite the name of the event, the works that you create during the 12 Days of Goosemas do not need to be "Christmas related" in the traditional sense. You are welcome to incorporate the winter holiday you celebrate or to turn the prompt into a winter situation/activity if holidays celebrations aren't your thing.

❆ To be featured (have your post reblogged to the event page), be sure to put @goosemas in your post and/or throw a #goosemas2024 in the tags.

❆ This event is managed by @drivinmeinsane (Bee). Feel free to reach out with any questions, concerns, and comments.

[webbo0]

Prodigal Doll

Goose Boys Mafia AU

AO3 Link

Length: 753 words (short and not sweet)

Summary: Nobody ever expected Ken to join the family business, but when he's caught in the middle of a war he knows nothing about, the other boys have to pick up the pieces.

Content/Warning: Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Torture, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Hurt/barely comfort

Authors Note: I don't even remember how this started lol

I think I saw those Tag Heuer photoshoot pics that look like Ken but as Six?

Anyways I have a LOT of lore ideas and a whole arc for Ken in this, but god only knows if I can actually write it ugh

Also I'm not sorry lmao

“He’s… changed”

“ Don’t say that”

“Look at him!”

“Shut the fuck up, Richard”

Gathered, the men stare at Ken.

Whenever he used to be scared, he was loud (it was a liability sometimes, all the shrieking and sobbing). But now, he’s silent. Tear stains cut clean lines through the filth and gore on his cheeks, but none fall from his eyes. Not anymore.

He’s… vacant. Not like Driver, his stare always intense, or like Julian, always lost in thought. No. He’s just. Empty.

Six and Lars are sanitizing and bandaging his wounds. Slashes on his chest, burns on his limbs, bruises scattered on every inch of available skin like a fucking Jackson Pollock, and blood from god knows who and god knows where drenching his scarily pale skin and platinum blonde hair. He doesn’t flinch, doesn't move at all, even when Six gently murmurs that he needs to reset his shoulder. The bone grinding into place would have even the toughest of men gritting their teeth in pain, but Ken just sits there. Disconnected from the world. Lars is delicately cleaning the blood off of him, swallowing tears of his own while dabbing a warm cloth over his exposed skin. 

Ken wears nothing but a ragged pair of boxers stained with fluids nobody wants to think too hard about (just like they found him). He hasn’t said a word since they found him, but Lars finally gets a reaction out of him. He’s shakingly whispering to Ken that they need to remove his old shorts to wash him off and get him into something clean, but when his hand goes towards the waistband an explosion of movement happens. Ken bolts away from the men, scrambling to the closest wall and pressing his back to it. His voice is raw and venomous as he roars at the surrounding men.

“Don’t fucking touch me!” 

Everyone in the room freezes because Ken never curses. All eyes are on him, the torn and bloodied nails on his hands scratching at the brick wall, the bloody trail of footprints he makes, his heaving chest, and his frantic, darting, unseeing eyes. Blood drips down his inner thigh.

“I think I’m gonna be sick” 

“He needs a professional, guys, we can only do so much”

“Oh yeah, get the cops involved that’s smart”

“I thought I told you to shut the fuck-”

“Everybody out.”

The room silences once again, save for some muffled sobs and Ken's rapid breath. All eyes now turn to the man who spoke, the man in charge . His white jacket is splattered with blood, and a fire rages behind his cold, blue gaze.

“... are you sure we should leave him like this?”

“Six stays, the rest of you leave. He’s in no state for visitors. Every man is allowed some dignity.”

The room empties without protest, save for Ken, Six, Driver, and Julian. Julian didn’t need to ask to stay (not that he would have). Wherever Driver goes, he goes.

“Why am I staying?”

“You have the most combat-medic training. And. You can… restrain him if you need to.”

The rage in Driver’s eyes slips, showing for a brief moment deep, soul-wrenching anguish before he clenches his gloved fists and returns to his default neutral, intense stare. 

“I expect a complete injury report once he’s patched up. Ask Julian if you need any extra supplies. I have to go deal with the rest of this shit storm.”

He turns to leave, but pauses, glancing back over his shoulder.

“And Six?”

Six stands at attention, ready to receive orders.

“...be gentle.”

Six nods once in affirmation and Driver lets his head hang down, taking a deep breath before straightening his spine and closing the door quietly behind him. The room was now solely occupied by the three men left there.

Julian, standing and waiting by the door. Both ready to retrieve any necessary items and guarding against any poor fool that might try and interrupt them.

Six, shoulders sagged and ruffling through a medkit.

And Ken, who had slid to the floor, legs finally giving out, but the wild look in his eye still shining.

And it wasn’t until Six slowly approaches (the same way he did when he freed a wild deer from a beartrap as a kid), sinking to his knees, gently carding his hands through his blood-matted platinum hair and softly reassuring him that you’re safe now, you’re safe, we got you back that Ken starts trembling, a tear finally slipping from his eye.

[theoriginallastnailinthecoffin]

A Gentleman and A Professional

Chapter Six: Friendly Enough

Summary: New contact saved.

Tags: Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Physical Abuse, Consensual Kink, Hurt/Comfort

A/N: I have no beta. But I hope you enjoy. Ao3 link also in the cut.

Chapter One: Innocuous

Chapter Two: Opportunity

Chapter Three: Goodness

Chapter Four: Neighborly

Chapter Five: White Lie

18+ Only - MINORS Do Not Interact

You return to your unit shortly after your conversation, the instant-replay of what just happened pausing as you take in your current surroundings.

The flicker of the television lights the room, casting your shadow against the wall as you creep toward your office. Carefully sliding the door shut, you turn to the balcony window and release a sigh at the beautiful city-scape. You’re grateful for each little light left on somewhere in the distance. Since you moved in, they became familiar, comforting. They too – whoever they were – were up and about.

Setting your phone on the little table nearby, you distantly note the soft glow of 3:12 AM. Without a care of being seen, you pop the button of your jeans and slide them past your hips to the floor, an unusual metallic clink hitting the cold wood floor.

Proof.

That your Neighbor offered you space… time… safety.

He is the type of person.

In the dark, you quietly search for the tag and suddenly your face is lit, squinting, as you tap in the numbers. New contact saved.

You shove the tag back into the pocket and ball the jean fabric up around the evidence, dropping it to the ground by the chaise lounge.

Removing your bra without removing your shirt, you get comfortable and snatch up the plush throw blanket, settling into the floral fabric of the chair, snug, with eyes on the pollution-lit horizon.

Your thoughts meander back to earlier and you can somewhat imagine what your Neighbor must look like in his bed, tempting sleep to come for him.

Your eyes unfocused, you can see the breadth of his palms, the thickness of his fingers as he’d ripped open the bandage earlier. The neatly trimmed nails and gentle fingertips. The textured skin there told a story about who he is and suddenly you needed to shove the blanket off your heated skin.

Eyes slipping closed, you feel the memory of his duvet under your own fingertips, soft and maroon, plush like the blanket you grip at your sides now.

It only takes a few moments and a whisper of the same thoughts before you fall asleep.

x-+-x-+-x

And it was a good sleep, short though it may have been.

A vibration comes from somewhere above your head, waking you, but your reach and an aimless swat is enough to silence the sound.

Your first thoughts are of your Neighbor, eyes moving side to side beneath your lids as you imagine him… laid in his bed, sheets caught around his bare body, hand tucked between the back of his head and his pillow as the sun peers through the blinds, warming his skin in a golden glow, arm crooked and bicep curving deliciously as he shifts his lower half restlessly… The sheet is kicked away enough to reveal what is always frustratingly hidden by his thick black cargo pants. The attire you see him in the most.

Your snoozed alarm begins to vibrate needlessly. You are most certainly awake.

You reach up again to view half the screen through a squint. 6:59am. You slept in past your usual coffee time.

A slow, sludgy feeling sinks to the bottom of your gut.

You remember last night. And you remember your coffee plans.

Palms a little clammy, you pull up his contact – “405” – and hit Message.

“Hi there…”

“Good morning, I’m so sorry about last”

“Hey, I know it’s a little later than planned, but do you”

You let your head fall back against the pillow and take a few slow, deep breaths in through your mouth and out through your nose. Enough without feeling lightheaded.

A second later, you type something out and send the message.

You: “Hi there, 405.”

You hear a soft thump beyond the floral wall. Reflexively, you smile. It didn’t take more than a minute for a reply.

Him: “Good morning, 406.”

Worrying your lip between your teeth, you hope against hope.

You: “Are you in need of coffee?”

Him: “I am. Are you?”

A sigh is released.

You: “Eternally.”

Him: “Raspberry or cheese?”

You hear shuffling through the wall. He’s moved to the left... toward his hallway?

But the question catches you off guard. Neither of these flavors are coffee choices…

Confused, but willing to play along, you blink.

You: “Raspberry?”

There isn’t an immediate response. You drop the phone unceremoniously onto your chest to fit in a quick stretch. Arms above your head, a vibration thrums against your skin through the thin fabric of your top. And then another.

Him: “Chocolate it is.”

You smile stupidly at the phone, rereading his message. Cryptic. Cue the stomach growl.

Him: “Balcony in 15?”

Your fingertips flex against the ribbed casing of your phone as you consider the most appropriate response.

“Yes, Sir.” is your confirmation.

Restraint was becoming less and less of your strong suit.

You darken the screen and irrationally send out a prayer that he won’t read into your response.

You immediately stand and wrap the blanket around your shoulders, pinched between your fingers somehow, with your phone sharing the awkward grip. You press an ear to the wood of your office door. After a moment, it’s pulled open and you head for the bedroom closet. A warm and respectably cozy fall outfit is pulled on and you click off the closet light.

Each step is quieted by the persistent commercials and your husband’s generous snoring. With a glance at the several cans laying at his feet, you determine he’ll be out for at least another few hours. Long enough for you to go grab a coffee and enjoy your usual Saturday morning on the balcony before returning inside to start up breakfast for him.

A flare of guilt lights your insides.

What am I doing?

This is wrong.

As you make your way down the hall, you catch something white in the mirror in passing, and do a double take.

Taking in your appearance, you vividly recall the entirety of last night but find a numbness attempting to settle in to your limbs. Is it wrong?

As one commercial turns into another, you walk back to your office, slipping the door shut and locking it as tightly as your jaw.

Unfurling the jeans shoved under the lounge, you quietly slip the keys from the pocket and clip them along side the ones on your work lanyard.

You grab a marker and darken the penned phone number on the tag and scratch your own unit number over the original digits – unit 366 – deftly removing it from the ring. Now wrapped in a tissue, you drop it into the trashcan beside your desk.

What the hell am I doing?

A buzz from your phone in your pocket prompts you to grab the blanket from the chair and pull open the glass door.

There’s a subtle but freezing breeze, which will be refreshing soon.

Just once you finish wrapping yourself in the blanket. Not unlike a dessert crepe.

Once you step out, your Neighbor is caught carefully inching a cup of coffee along the warbled glass surface of your bistro table with the tips of his fingers. It’s is a hard task to not note his lean denim jacket clad torso leaned daringly over the tiny gap between your balconies… the curve of the back pockets on his dark wash jeans prompting you to bite your lip.

Once his apparent mission impossible is completed, he glances up to you, a youthful smugness expertly restrained.

The silence lingers between you two, each taking the unexpected freedom to observe the other while feeling observed by the other.

If you were not fascinated by the taper of his waist, the plain buckle, and the strained denim, you would notice that your inhales and exhales are a bit heavier. Intrusive thoughts winning. And you’re not entirely sure it’s not written on your face.

Mercifully, he is the first to break the tension, smiling wide.

“Here.”

Your eyes return to focus and he holds out a small bag for you to take, the familiar scent permeating the paper. A similar bag sits on his patio table.

“You said raspberry, so.”

You’re not trying to be coy – you’re sure it’s for you – but there’s genuine disbelief as you take the bag. “For me?”

He takes a sip of his own cup, grinning into the lid.

You track his features, from the slight squint of his eyes to the barely there stubble turned soft in the morning light.

The fantasy from this morning ricochets unhelpfully inside you.

“Please.” He gestures to your table.

You take your seat and find a subtle wealth of gratitude toward him for his thoughtfulness.

Sitting in the chilled city air, you hold dear the warmth of the paperboard cup with every rustle of the wax paper beneath your treat. From what you could see, he chose a cheese danish, but the coffee orders remained unknown.

Braving the billowing steam of your own, you gently sip to figure out what he chose for you.

The espresso perks your senses as a smooth chocolate coats your tongue. Mocha.

You let out a quiet “Mm” punctuating the next few sips.

Sweet caffeine is exactly what you needed this morning.

And the pastry is just yum.

The raspberry filling clings to your lips after every bite and as d i s c r e e t l y as you can, you savor licking them clean each time.

Half way through though and this heathen-like habit has gained his attention.

Feeling watched, and clearly on a sugar high, you guiltily and intensely justify your lewd food reactions with more absurdity.

“I’m sorry, this is just the absolute worst breakfast ever. I can’t handle it.”

His eyes are mirthful and expressive before slipping into a deadpan.

“I don’t believe you.”

Before he can commit to a dramatic sip for emphasis, he huffs a laugh, his eyes crinkled in the corners.

Disarming. Charming. Sweet.

Last night, you’d felt a level of vulnerability you were not sure you could come back from. He’d seen you, exposed. But as he crumples his wrapper into a ball, and holds open a palm for yours across the space between you, you feel like… maybe… maybe that’s okay.

He wordlessly stands and enters his apartment to – you assume – throw the garbage away.

Upon his return, he sits back down, watching the wind comb through the vibrant leaves and rush them across the sidewalk and street below you both. It gives you time to take him in. The gentle smile he wears tells you... he is very aware of what you’re doing.

He wets his lip and passes a thumb over the mouth of the coffee cup.

Your discipline falters. You should feel shame. About this. About yesterday and last night. About each of your Friday nights.

You acutely feel the pull of the bandage on your cheek.

What if he knew? What if my husband knew? What if he woke up to find us out here?

You swallow dryly.

He was out cold. And it’s just breakfast. We aren’t even on the same balcony… Of course, that wouldn’t matter, given the way it might look to him.

The door is locked.

A shiver runs through you and you tighten your grip on the blanket around you. Clearing your throat, you continue the conversation.

“How was work last night?” Sounds friendly enough.

His gaze shifts backward toward you, an easy but subtle smile sliding into place. A beat passes before his reply.

“Nothing too exciting happened.”

You resist the small urge to scoff in literal disbelief.

Is he being funny? It was incredible.

“Oh.” You dig a nail into the ribbed paperboard sleeve on your cup, touching the little crescent indentations. “That’s good then, I guess?”

Another beat passes.

“I took a little inspiration from you.”

At these words, your attention shifts a sharp ninety degrees.

You nearly side eye him. “...inspiration?”

“The red rope.”

“Oh.” You swallow.

Composure must be maintained at all cost.

He smiles to himself, as if pleased by the memory. “I think the color added a little something extra.”

Brazen!

It was either the espresso or the calories kicking in. There was literally no fucking way he was making you sweat like this.

Searching for some neutral question or unassuming remark, you try to preempt and remove the timidity from your voice.

“Did it… work? Or look nice?”

You internally wince when you hear your voice. Those were not normal questions.

“I mean, what was it used for?”

You’re not ready for him to smile wider.

“Suspension.”

Your blood thickens.

“Actually…” He shifts in his seat, taking something from his back pocket. “I don’t always sleep well after work. I try to keep my hands busy until I pass out.”

He holds out what appears to be a bit of the red rope. “It’s yours, if you want it.”

His words create a small but veritable and familiar whirlpool of fire within you, threatening to grow. You covertly allow your fingers to slip past the cuff of your sweater and you pinch the delicate skin there, determined to reenter your body. It seems to work.

Leaning forward, you take the bracelet and notice several intricate knots made of the outer sheath, beautiful and strong in their detail. The bracelet is continuous, and slips over your hand easily, hanging loosely just a bit.

“C’mere.”

You obey. He carefully pulls two knotted ends, tightening the rope around your wrist, slipping a finger between the fibers and your skin to check your comfort. Your eyes are on his as he notices a red mark on the inside of your wrist and he passes his thumb over the mark in a brief, soothing movement.

You breathe a soft thank you and change the subject without actually changing the subject. “Do you have to work today too?”

“I do.” He sits back, tucking a hand into one of the pockets of his denim jacket. “This afternoon.”

“Is it dangerous?”

“Not very.” He opens and closes the other fist against the patio table’s laminated surface. He grins up at you, “I just make it look dangerous.”

There is no way in Hell he needs to know that you are, in fact, intimately aware of how dangerous it looks. But if he was willing to talk about it…

Here's a curve ball.

“Curious...” You say, touching the decorative knots on your wrist, tone discretely coy.

Either you’re remarking on his “methods,” or your own thoughts on the matter… You let that be up for interpretation.

“Yeah?”

His amusement is clear as day.

“Yeah.”

And your interest is as well.

[heresthestorymorningglory]

Alone in the Dark

As previously mentioned; inspired by the glorious works of @ken-dom (she's gonna get sick of me tagging her in shit...then maybe she shouldn't write so good) Seriously though...go read her shit...it's good.

This one's Driver x Reader....and as always, like everything I do, this one is 18+ so if it ain't you, don't read it.

You chew your bottom lip, watching him intently from your place in the passenger seat. His eyes are fixed on the dark road ahead, gloved hands gripping the steering wheel tightly, you were certain under the leather his knuckles were white as paper. A sharp breath through his nose is all the indication you need, his concentration is wavering; imploding further and further with every passing second. 

Neither of you speaks, the light of the dash illuminating your faces, the only source of light on the deserted stretch of blacktop in front of you, save for the car’s headlights. 

Your hand between his thighs squeezes just a little harder, the length of his shaft slick with precum leaking from the tip. Your own arousal, though less evident to the naked eye, soaking through the thin fabric of your underwear, your short skirt sitting high on your thigh, bare legs crossed in front of you at your ankles.

You had already found your release once tonight, the throb between your legs a welcome reminder as the scene replayed itself in your mind. 

He had picked you up, late, as agreed; and almost as soon as you stepped out your front door, you found yourself on the hood of his car, legs spread wide as he sank to his knees, pulling you to the hood’s edge, blanketed in darkness, but still exposed; that was part of the thrill. You leaned back, splayed out on the glossy paint, knees bent over his broad shoulders as he kissed his way up your inner thigh, making your whole body shiver with want. You reach between your legs, finding fistfulls of that gorgeous hair pulling him closer, needing him closer, needing more. 

You feel him huff a laugh against your core from under your skirt, face hidden between your thighs; you let out a small whimper, legs tightening around his head on instinct. 

Without a word, his hands, gloves on, ease your knees apart, his mouth enveloping your clit, his tongue attacking that tiny bundle of nerves. You take in a sharp breath, back arching up off the hood of the car, only for a second before you bite the back of your hand to keep yourself from waking the neighbours. 

“Holy..F-Ffuck” You gasp, taking in as much air as your lungs will let you as he hums appreciatively at a job well done, the vibrations sending another jolt of arousal through your nervous system. 

His hand sliding up under your silk shirt, to tease your bare chest; his tongue never stopping, causing you to jerk with every skilled maneuver It takes him no time at all to bring you to the brink, his massive hands yanking you closer to his face, keeping you trapped with ease as you squirm against the slick surface of the car’s hood, your orgasm imminent.

“Son of a bitch” you moan as he tongue fucks you through your orgasm, your quite certain your voice finding a new octave as you writhe under the moonlight, he lapping up every last drop you have to give.  

And now mere moments later, you sat in the passenger seat of that very same car, his throbbing cock pulsing in your hand, coated in his arousal. This had become a bit of a routine for the two of you; there was just something about a dark road and fast car…

This road in particular was one of his favourites, and yours too, many nights after he’d kissed you goodnight, popping a toothpick between his teeth as he stood on your porch, making sure you were inside safely; after you had climbed into bed alone, your hands would wander between your own thighs, the lightest touch of your fingers, triggering that delicious dull ache and you would be instantly transported back to that dark stretch of smooth straight asphalt, the speedometre easily creeping into the triple digits. 

Tonight was no exception, you moved your hand from between his thighs only long enough to unbuckle and shimmy yourself out of your underwear, they were an inconvenience, but all part of this dangerous little game. 

The car, his, the road, always the same, tonight  the moon has dipped behind the clouds, making it pitch black, his outfit, his scorpion jacket with a pair of black jeans and a simple black t-shirt….your outfit…one of his personal favourites…even before these recurring late night rendezvous. The tight little black skirt that was a respectable length, until you scooted into the passenger seat, showing a little more thigh than necessary, the white silk top with the deep v and spaghetti straps, you had worn it to the bar that first night, for a coworkers birthday…no bra…of course. The underwear, also one of his favourite pairs, a black lacy thong that would be left “forgotten” on the floor at your feet, until he would return them in a couple of days and you found yourselves here again in the near future. 

He rolled down the window on the driver’s side, flicking the used toothpick into the darkness; lifting his arm only long enough for you to climb over the console and into his lap; his foot never once letting up on the gas pedal. 

The slightest hint of a moan escaping his lips as you came to rest with his cock twitching between your thighs in anticipation. Trapped between his arms on either side briefly before he adjusted, shifting you slightly to keep eyes on the road. 

Dangerous? Without a doubt. Thrilling? Absolutely. Did you trust him wholly and completely to keep you safe? With his life. 

A gloved hand finds its way to your hip as you ease your aching cunt down slowly onto his slick cock. Your hips roll into his as you settle with ease, burying your nose in the nape of his neck; moaning with a need only he can satisfy. Both of your hands firmly on his shoulders as your rock back and forth in the tight space, one knee digging into the hard plastic of the centre console, if you hadn’t been so focused on finding your bliss you would realize how painful it is. The other wedged tightly between his thigh and the door. The car picks up more speed, his breathing heavy next to your ear. 

It takes no time before you’ve started coming unraveled in his lap; breaths coming in short quick gasps as your hair falls around your face with the movement, your teeth sinking into the sweat slicked flesh of his neck; a loud groan and a lurch between your thighs as your own thrusts start to waiver. 

“I’m….ungh” is all you breathlessly manage against the shell of his ear before you feel the hand on your hip grip tighter, fingers sinking into the soft flesh as he slams on the brake, his free hand throwing the car in park, the other keeping you from flying backwards through the windshield.

In one motion your hand reaches down, flicking the lever on the side of the seat; the weight of your bodies sending it back as far as it will go. Your hands flat on his chest, your hips keeping a rhythm as a leather clad hand finds its way around your throat, squeezing gently before making its way to the back of your neck, pulling you closer to devour your mouth; his hips now thrusting upward to meet yours.

You gasp in pain as his teeth pull on your bottom lip, the hand in your hair pulling roughly. He knows you like it even before your eyes slip closed, your mouth hanging open as he releases your lip, watching you, a moan escaping from the back of your throat. 

A sharp cool breeze blows in through the still open window, your unprotected nipples hardening against the silk of your shirt and despite the cool air, you can tell there’s still a thin sheen of sweat coating his face and neck. His focus is completely on you. 

“Be a good girl and let go for me” 

You throw your head back with a moan, narrowly missing the ceiling of the car, both hands bunching the fabric of his t-shirt in your fists; you cry out as his large hands guide your hips, completely taking the control and you relinquish it willingly, letting the entire weight of your body collapse on top of him, moaning unapologetically and as loud as your strained vocal chords will allow as you involuntarily clench your walls around his hard shaft 

“UGHhhh fuck!” spills from between his lips and it’s like music to your ears as you feel his release spill from inside you, down the inside of your thigh. 

You sit up, breathlessly, pushing your hair back off your face, swallowing hard before you flop yourself back into the passenger seat, your long legs draping momentarily over his lap as he adjusts his seat. His favourite feature of yours “Legs for days” he commented to you once, 

As if reading your thoughts, his hand sliding up your smooth skin, silent, he’s a man of few words you’ve learned, before you righted yourself and he put the car back in drive, turning around and heading back the way you came….until next time. 

[danime25]

In The Snow

ao3 // normal masterlist // christmas masterlist

*Summary: Ken got so excited by the prospect of seeing snow. Driver shattered his hopes, but tried to find a way to make it up to his boyfriend

*Rating: E for Everyone

*Content/Tags: Fluff

*Status: Oneshot/Complete

“Wake up.” Ken joustled the nearly comatose man in his bed. His boyfriend roused from his sleep and looked up at Ken with a cocked eyebrow

“What?” Driver asked the other man. 

“It’s supposed to snow today.” Ken smiled

“It’s Los Angeles.”

“No, but the weather said it’ll snow. Here.” Ken pulled Driver out of bed and showed him the TV. Sure enough, it said that it would snow. In the Midwest. Driver sighed softly,

“Ken, we’re hours… days away from where there’d be snow.” He explained

“But it looks so close on TV.” Ken sighed, “I’ve never seen snow before, and when I was watching that one scary Christmas movie the other day… they had snow.”

“Scary Christmas?”

“Yeah.” Ken mimicked a scary face, “with the ‘ho ho ho’ thing?”

“Oh. A Christmas Story.”

“What story?”

“The name of the movie.” Driver tucked his hands in the pockets of his pajama pants

“Oh.” Ken nodded

“I’ll make coffee.” Driver said a moment later and went into the kitchen. Ken sat on the couch and leaned his head against the arm of it. Driver could tell Ken was slightly upset. Was it really such a big deal to Ken to see snow? Well he could take the two of them out to Lake Tahoe. But he didn’t really have that much money to rent out a cabin and the gas to get there. Colorado? Too busy. He sighed again as he brought two cups over to Ken. He sat beside him and ran his calloused fingers through Ken’s fluffy hair.

“Sorry.”

“For what?” Ken looked up at him

“The snow.” Driver shrugged

“Oh.” Ken nodded, “I wish there was a place where we could experience winter.”

“Wait.” Driver got up from the couch and flipped through his laptop. When he found what he was looking for he threw his jacket on, and threw Ken’s jacket at him. Ken quickly got up from the couch and put the piece of clothing on quickly. Driver ran out to start the car and Ken followed after him. He managed to get the seat belt in just barely before Driver put the car into reverse and they went off to wherever it was that Driver was taking them. Ken had only driven with Driver once before, and it was such a smooth ride. He wondered a little bit about why he drove with such… passion to wherever it was that they were going. After saying ‘Oh Mattel’ more than once on the drive, the couple arrived safely.

“I love it.” Ken said with a smile, “Where are we?”

“Let’s go inside.” Driver replied, turning the engine off and getting out of the car. Ken followed him and as they walked in Ken felt cold. Not cool, not chilly. Cold. He shivered a little bit and Driver took off his jacket, placing it on Ken’s shoulders.

“Aren’t you going to be cold?” Ken asked

“I’ll be fine.”

“Okay…” Ken looked over at a giant desk that said ‘Rentals’ and tilted his head. Driver went over there and came back with two pairs of skates. Ken looked at them for a second before watching Driver as he slipped his shoes off and put the skates on. Ken tried pushing off the floor and moving like he was on roller skates, but fell face first.

“You have to… be on ice.” Driver sighed and did his best to help Ken back up onto his feet. He stomped across the floor, with Ken a couple steps behind him. They made it onto the ice and Driver managed to get a good glide in before looking behind him. He stayed in the blue lane and watched as Ken stepped on the ice. Ken started slipping again and Driver did the stupidest thing he could do at that time and did a whole lap around the rink before stopping behind Ken. “Do what you did before… in the locker room.”

“What?”

“Like you’re on roller skates, just push off,” Driver said as he moved away from Ken while saying the words ‘push off’. Ken pushed off again but kept his legs straight. He tried to keep them in but his feet seemed to move against him. Then there he was, down on a full split on the ice. Thankfully it was a gradual slide rather than a fall on his ass. Driver tucked his hands in his pockets and made a loop around Ken. Ken sat on the ice as kids moved around him, giving him a look of ‘get out of my way’. He was amazed with the way that Driver slid across the ice with such grace. He made it look effortless. Almost like how Barbie made roller skating look. After seeing Ken on his butt, Driver went over to help him, using the wall to get him onto his feet. Driver took Ken’s hands and while watching his back pulled Ken along to get him used to the feeling of moving across the ice. Ken watched as he moved forward and Driver encouraged him to push with his feet. He let go of Ken for a moment and Ken made it a couple of feet by himself. He seemed more content either leaning up against the wall or sitting on the side of the track. Before he totally got off the ice, Driver stopped next to him at an angle where the ice collected and hit Ken’s feet. Driver took the pile of ice that laid on the ground and put it into his hand.

“What are you doing…?” Ken asked, only for Driver to carefully sprinkle the fragments over Ken’s head. Ken looked up at it with a smile and let it hit his face.

“It’s like it’s snowing.” Driver replied. When he was done sprinkling Ken, Ken pulled him into a quick kiss. Driver returned the kiss with a careful peck and looked at his partner. Ken smiled back at him with a blank expression. Driver took his hand and let him skate by his side. Ken makes it one lap around the ice rink and decides to call it for the day. Driver promises him he’ll only be a couple more minutes, and Ken heads to the locker room. Sure enough, Driver comes in less than 10 minutes later with sweat collected at his forehead.

“Are you okay?” Ken asked

“Yeah, just wanted to see how many times I could make it around the rink in 5 minutes.”

“Wow.” Ken whistled a little bit

“Let’s go home.” Driver nodded

“Okay… and thanks.”

“Thanks?”

“For finding a way to let me see snow.”

“You’re welcome.”

“Love you.” Ken said with a smile. Driver gave Ken a quick kiss on the cheek and wrapped his arms around the other man as they walked out of the rink.

[whatthefishh]

Bc I don’t see anyone anywhere talking about standard……..

[ravenwolfie97]

i keep thinking back to a period of time in me and my friends' collaborative fanfic writing days when we would write Truth or Dare fics

and the thing about it is we were all Bad at coming up with prompts ourselves so we used a random prompt generator online

but then we expanded to not just randomizing prompts, but also randomizing seating arrangements (cuz turn order and also some prompts specified doing things with the person on your left or right), randomizing whether or not each character picked truth or dare, and further randomizing the prompts by putting a number of both truths and dares in a list and randomly picking whichever one they chose

and one may ask, how do you write a fanfic that's completely random? that's the beautiful part about it - you figure it out as you go. it's a character study and a chance to come up with interactions on the fly, and if you're really lucky like we were on some of these, the random prompts and interactions would work Perfectly with the characters they were assigned to and it would turn into an awesome scene or even series of scenes that would build off of one another

it's a very silly concept, but we ended up turning a funny little game into some of the most dramatic teenage angst shit and had a blast doing it too

so i highly encourage everyone to give it a try with whatever fandoms you have lying around :3

[sl-walker]

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Booster Gold Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings Relationships: Michael Carter & Rip Hunter Characters: Rip Hunter, Michael Carter Additional Tags: Major Character Injury, Parent-Child Relationship(s), Angst, Time Travel, Depression, Post-Crisis, +Modern Age (1986-Present), [Booster Gold Vol. 2 - 2007-2011], Bi-Weekly Challenge #3: No Win Scenario Summary:

Rip has spent the past several years driving the man-who-is-not-yet-his-father towards a destiny that Booster didn't really understand or even quite ask for because the man-who-is-his-father told him that he had to.

But that's a cruel place for any man to be. And a cruel thing to do to your son, too.

[drivinmeinsane]

Mistletoe ※ 12 Days of Goosemas

Day Twelve ※ Driver / Reader

{12 Days of Goosemas Masterlist} ※ {Regular Masterlist} ※ {ao3}

※ Summary: Your apartment complex decided to decorate for the season and who else is with you but your ever-present shadow, Driver?

※ Rating: 18+ for explicit mature content.

※ Content/Tags: Cumming Untouched, Shy!Driver, Kissing

※ Word count: 1087

※ Status: Oneshot/Complete

As the sun sets, the temperature continues to drop further. It’s cold and you rub your hands together, fighting the urge to blow on them. If you’re this chilly, you can’t imagine how your neighbor must be feeling. The quiet man had moved all the way from California about a year ago. You’ve become fast friends since meeting each other in the parking lot. He had been there when another neighbor backed into your car. His intervention when the guilty party decided to pick a fight had been invaluable. Strangely enough, that neighbor broke the lease and moved out not even a week after the accident. 

Today, the mechanic is helping you bring in the groceries. Driver had softly insisted on carrying all the bags, leaving you empty handed. Your only jobs in this process until getting inside the apartment were to close his truck and unlock your front door. Almost all your trips have turned into mutual excuses to spend time together. 

Your apartment complex has decided to decorate for the holidays. String lights are twinkling in the hallways and along the awnings of the buildings. The effect is admittedly cozy. You’re looking up, admiring the lights when you spot it and come to a dead stop. Driver nearly stumbles over you.

“What is it?” His tone carries an edge of concern.

Pointing upwards at fake leaves and berries, comically large for visibility, you answer his question. “Mistletoe.”

Driver doesn’t move when you spin on your heel to face him. He makes a low, questioning noise, but doesn’t speak, There is a moment of silence while he processes the word. You see the moment when he realizes what you’re getting at. His eyes widen slightly and he looks as flustered as you’ve ever seen him. 

Biting down on his toothpick and clearing his throat, he finally speaks. “It means a kiss, right?”

“Is that okay?” You ask softly, not wanting to push him into something he doesn’t want.

The man quietly nods. He stays still when you step into his space and reach up, slowly, to pluck the toothpick from his lips. You tuck it into its customary spot behind his ear. Driver leans down, angling his grocery-laden arms out of the way. You lean up to meet him, mouth hovering over his. He makes no effort to close the gap. He’s waiting for you to make the choice, breath brushing erratically over your face. His blue eyes are hooded, nearly closed as he observes you. There’s a flush creeping up his neck, dusting his ears in pink. He’s so lovely like this. 

Reflexively, his tongue darts out and wets his lips. They glisten in the light. He’s almost trembling, his jaw working. Finally, you take pity on him and kiss him. His mouth falls open under yours. You had genuinely intended to keep the kiss chaste, but the way he melts against you causes you to kiss him deeper, thoroughly. 

When you finally pull away, he makes an involuntary, wounded sound. It’s so needy that you immediately catch the tall man in another kiss. His breathing is ragged, and you can feel the muscles in his upper arms tensing underneath your hands. Your teeth catch on his bottom lip and you suck it. He lets out an unrestrained whine and his body jerks, hard. You pull away, concerned. The man is trembling, chest heaving. He’s flushed and his eyes are glazed. His lips are kiss-swollen and shiny with spit. 

Worried, you visually scan him for something wrong. You start to open your mouth to ask him if he’s okay, but that’s when you see it. There is a sizable wet spot spread over the front of his jeans. You can see the imprint of his erection straining against the thick material. Under your astounded gaze, you see it twitch and the spot grows larger. 

In a daze, you reach out and press your fingertips to the clearly visible head of his cock. The denim is warm and damp to the touch as you rub over it. Driver’s hips instantly press against your hand. Your hand opens and he’s grinding against your palm, over sensitive but desperate for contact, as though he can’t help himself. He’s silent now, but panting. 

“Oh,” you breathe wonderingly. 

“Sorry,” he apologizes, sounding distraught. He can’t meet your eyes when you finally look away from the sight of his gradually softening cock against your palm, separated only by a single layer from the look of things. 

“Don’t be,” you tell him, voice gentle.

Reluctantly, you remove your hand from the front of his jeans. Driver sways forward after it before coming to his senses and taking a step back. Neither of you speak as he follows you back to your apartment, still carrying the groceries. He lets you close the door behind him after he enters and makes his way to the kitchen to set the bags on the counter. You join him, hastily putting away the cold items. The two of you stand there for a moment in crushing silence. The mechanic turns to leave, but you interrupt him. 

“Would you like a glass of water?” It’s irrational considering the man has an issue to take care of but you can’t stand the thought of him leaving. There’s a growing certainty that you will only see him in passing if this doesn’t get resolved. He’s clearly embarrassed. 

He’s quiet for so long that you’re certain he’s going to just walk right out the door. “Sure.”

Your hands brush when you fill the glass and hand it to him. There’s no missing the way his breath hitches and his eyelids flutter at the small amount of contact. Your eyes are glued to the movements of his throat as he swallows. He sets the glass down on the counter at his side. There’s something sad in his expression, like he’s in mourning. You can’t stand it.

“Oh look, more mistletoe.” you say, tipping your chin at the ceiling.

“Yeah?” He asks quietly.

“It’s the invisible kind,” you confirm, getting a smile out of him.

Driver reaches out, sliding his hand over your side. He crowds against you. The devastated look is gone, replaced only by his searching gaze. You tilt your head back for him and then he’s kissing you. The way he groans into your mouth when you slide your hands under his layered jackets makes you thankful for your apartment management company for the first time since you moved in.

[blackseakraft]

I’m preparing some stuff for whumptober, mostly gonna be OC stuff I think. I’ve only very recently gotten into fanfiction (I’ve been on tumblr since 2011 and was never interested until I joined TBB fandom) and have been doing a lot of reflection on why I love fluff and whump so damn much. Sometimes I feel bad about actively seeking out fics where my favs are suffering. Then I learned the German/Yiddish word “Verklempt” from my coworker, she said it after I drew a pic of her dog and showed it to her. And it perfectly describes that intertwining of pain and love I feel about certain things.

It’s the same feeling I get when I see something so cute, but there’s something slightly sad about it (like really cute old dogs). Tragic cuteness? Like the proclivity to listen to really sad music late at night just to have a good cry. Ugly crying to 3rd planet by modest mouse while driving home on a Friday night, for some reason that song gets to me so hard. It’s that pinching feeling that hurts good, and I am sure there’s some amount of oxytocin release going on related to it. It feels like getting one of those hugs that you really needed. That’s the same sensation I get when I read really good fluff/whump fics and I’ve become totally addicted to seeking it out. I’ve always had this sensation but never had any words to describe it. I get it ESPECIALLY strong when a fav is getting taken care of by found family, or a love interest. Anyway, this is a “I can’t sleep” sideblog ramble. I’m trying to decide if I should post my whumptober stories/drawings here or in my main.

Anyway, if y’all wanna recommend any Star Wars whump/fluff fics I’d love to find more.

Actually this makes sense why I love the sw prequels so much, is their inherent tragedy. You can feel every story building up to the ultimate demise of everything. That verklempt feeling of loving these characters who are doomed. Here’s a post that describes it really well.

[lusthurts]

writing meme about me!

no official tag but thought maybe time to share more about myself! mostly because I want to know more about you all as well, and @sperrywink extended an invite to seblaine mutuals so I will do the same!

How did you get into writing fanfiction?

I discovered it on accident as most of us do - I was on the Glee wiki I think? There was a link to select fanfics on the ship pages at the time, and I started reading one of the Finchel ones, and it was game over for me lol - I started writing my own a while after that, and I participated in a variety of Glee RPGs that inspired me to write other characters. I was in one of those massive Glee RPGs in like 2011 on fanfiction.net, and it was very formative for me in terms of connecting with the rest of the fandom and wanting to do more of that. RPGs are also so great for exposing you to ships you never would've liked or even thought of before, although all my current ships came from elsewhere lol

oh, and there was the whole escapism from family shit that was going down at the time thing - that was a huge factor for sure

2. How many fandoms have you written in?

I've almost exclusively been writing for the Glee fandom since the beginning, although the ships I've written for have changed drastically throughout that time. I've dabbled in some other things as well depending on my special interest at the moment, but I always come back to Glee. Other fandoms I've written for include The Outsiders, Degrassi, How I Met Your Mother, 13 Reasons Why, Girl Meets World, and Skam ! none of these are published anywhere anymore though as far as I know, it's all far too embarrassing (and yes I'm aware that's the most bizarre mix of fandoms ever)

3. How many years have you been writing fanfiction?

at least 12, I wanna say I started around 2012ish?

4. Do you read or write more fanfiction?

I genuinely think it's about equal, but it comes in waves. Sometimes I'm reading more, sometimes I'm writing more. I'm almost always working on something and I'm also almost always in the middle of reading a long fic.

5. What is one way you've improved as a writer?

I think I've gotten a lot better at writing comedy and ensemble dialogue. I like writing the silly goofy scenes with large friend groups a lot, especially when I feel like I've nailed the character's voices enough that I don't even need dialogue tags to know who said each line.

6. What's the weirdest topic you researched for a writing project?

Ohio geography lmao - I like always have Google Maps pulled up trying to map out different locations and how far drives would be, etc. I also have researched a ton about various colleges (especially for my current WIP since these characters are actively applying for college rn) and France (never been there, constantly have to write stuff that takes place there).

7. What's your favorite type of comment to receive on your work?

I genuinely do love all comments! I especially loves one that are specific/mention parts of the chapter or the fic that they enjoyed or thoughts that they had while reading. I also like chatting about the characters and canon and their predictions/hopes for the rest of the fic. The length doesn't really matter so much - I love long comments and short comments, and I try my best to respond to all of them.

8. What's the most fringe trope/topic you write about?

Idk I kinda write a lot of infidelity and toxic relationship stuff. Seblaine is the main ship I write for nowadays, and the nature of their relationship lends itself to a lot of infidelity in their process of getting together. I also just love writing angst, so even when I'm writing established relationships, they end up being sort of toxic throughout especially given the traits of both characters. I just find it more fun and probable to write a slightly toxic relationship than a 100% healthy one.

9. What is the hardest type of story for you to write?

PWP - I struggle so much with writing smut, although I like to think I've gotten a bit better at it recently. I'm also trying to get better at writing ensemble fics, but it's definitely a struggle for me to give each ship/character enough attention. And I'm pretty awful at world building, so anything remotely fantasy, sci fi, etc. is a huge struggle for me.

10. What is the easiest type?

slow burns! I've gotten so much better at delaying the characters from getting together for a really long time in fics and it's soooo fun. I prefer a character centric slow burn with lots of sexual tension and an arc that involves characters moving from enemies/friends/strangers to lovers over the course of many months or years.

11. Where do you do your writing? What platform? When?

I like to write outside of my own home - something about physically relocating makes me way more productive. I write a ton on planes (I travel a lot for work). I also love a good coffee shop, Panera, park, library, etc.

I write in Word and publish to AO3 - used to write in Google Docs but it's so slow and laggy so I much prefer Word. Used to publish on fanfiction.net but I will never go anywhere else now that I've transitioned to AO3, the far superior fanfic site lol

I am most productive with writing either during the day if I'm somewhere other than at home or in the middle of the night in bed - my most productive hours at home are between like midnight and 3 am

12. What is something you've been too nervous/intimidated to write, but would love to write one day?

I recently got over my fear of PWP and published a one shot that I'm very proud of. I have many ideas for things similar that I'd like to work through in the future!!

Most of this is fandom specific though - I'm super intimidated to write for big fandoms because I've gotten so comfortable in the Glee fandom, especially writing Seblaine which has a relatively small audience in comparison. I'd love to write Marauders, but that fandom is HUGE and very intimidating because there is so much lore and fanon to mess up. I hope to give it a shot one day though!

13. What made you choose your username?

it's a song lyric! lust hurts comes from the song "Barcelona Boots" by Arlie - the lyric goes "Lust hurts, could you bear it for me?" and I thought that was very fitting for someone like me who's obsessed with romance in fiction but can't be bothered with it in my real life

any of my mutuals are welcome to participate! I'll specifically throw in a tag for @daisyishedwig @calsvoid @xonceinadream @andyandersmythe bc these are the ones that come up first when I go to tag haha

[tblsomedoodles]

1

1.How did you get into tmnt?

Oh boy, that's a weird story lol.

So. My parents all but forced me to watch the 1990 tmnt movie as a child. (i didn't want to at the time. Then after watching it i kinda liked it.) Didn't really click at the time so just went on with my life.

a few years later i had a dream about ninja turtles (i don't remember what it was) that prompted me to revisit it.

queue turtle brain rot.

i literally watched everything i could get my hands on (which, at the time, was the 1990 movies, next mutation, and 2003 off of youtube) and went absolutely feral about it. When i couldn't find anymore content, a friend introduced me to the turtle side of FF.net and i discovered what ✨✨fanfiction✨✨ was. Then i started writing fanfics for turtles. And then i started posting fanfics.

that was around...2011 i think? yeah, b/c the 2012 turtles were just starting to come out.

and yeah, that's about it. ninja turtles is essentially why i have any sort of online fandom presence. Without my initial drive to consume any ninja turtle content, i would probably not be writing or posting today.

Thank you!

[female-buckets]

omg reading diana and penny's story was like reading some prime time fanfiction what the world. Like I'm happy for them that they worked out but jeez that was a lot 😵‍💫

It's common for two close friends who've known each other a while to develop feelings for each other. And it's even common for that to happen while they're both in relationships with other people.

But then there's the parts of the story that sound straight out of a telenovela. The Moscow mansion. Diana getting a DUI driving a car full of Storm and Mercury players. The mafia assassination. Lauren and Rodrigo flirting with each other on facebook. Penny and Lauren dying their hair different colors to signal their feud. Diana's college friends siding with Lauren so they could win a WNBA championship together. The Australian national team locker room fight at the world cup. Cappie leaving the Mercury and then slapping Penny during a game. The doping scandal at the sketchy Turkish lab.

2008-2011 was one of the craziest WNBA periods. Can you imagine being rookie Sylvia Fowles or rookie Dewanna Bonner? They both started their WNBA careers by getting placed right in the middle of Diana's most chaotic era.

[thrill-seeker-vn]

i was wondering what are some of ur fav tropes?

thank you for the ask!! and sorry for how long it took to answer USHFHUSFIFHUI

Found Family - I love a good found family trope. This doesn't even have to really involve orphans tbh.... I really admire writers who are able to write strong, platonic and familial connections between characters. It's always such a feel-good trope, I never get tired of it!

Adoption - Idk like anyone else watch those adoption compilations on yt that are literally made days before you watched it but still look like it was made in 2011? Like that's how I feel when I read these. I feel my eyes watering IUSDFHFDI

Someone who is very gentle and naive with someone has kind of seen the horrors of the world. I find a lot of authors can either do this wrong or perfect. This doesn't just have to be in the romantic context either! But basically two people who have very different lived experiences, one being very hurt and the other not having gone through it, but is able to hug them, to give them a good talk, to listen, to kiss their scars.... the list goes on.

Rivals to Lovers (especially academic) - this is one of those tropes that I actually don't think I could ever stand IRL. Like I remember once when I was in high school and a classmate of mine started a nonsense argument with me (which he had been doing for DAYS for NO REASON) and since I had been reading fanfiction the whole week as I'm arguing with him a voice in my head says enemies to friends to lovers??? I.... I left. I had to walk out of the room. However! This is such a cute trope to have someone like see all your bad sides and love you regardless.

One Bed.... cringe but well. I fall for it hook, line and sinker EVERY time.

Injury Patch Up - I love one member getting injured, and the other patching up the wound, and there's like tension... like you care too much.... BONUS POINTS IF RIVALS!!!

Opposites - !!! I'm thinking like fireboy and water girl. Like thematically opposites! Opposite habits, details, color palettes-- I love these small things. It's one of my favorite comedic tropes!

Rebirth/Reincarnation - ESPECIALLY with a revenge plot. I better see you die and be revived 3 years prior to just before it all went wrong and girlboss your way out of it.

Transmigration - I LOVE TRANSMIGRATION. I've been REALLY enjoying Lord of Mysteries recently, I would recommend it!! I can also share a Google drive to it if interested.

I really like childhood queer best friends to lovers??? I dunno if that's even a trope name tbh. But like the longing????