#Merry Christmas ya filthy animals

[cherryxblossxms]

🔞 The way all your friends and coworkers think Nanami is the perfect man to take home for Christmas to meet your folks. He's a hard worker, handsome, earns a great salary, and he's always so courteous and caring for you. Obviously he's the most respectful choice, why wouldn't anyone want to take him home to meet your family?

But you're not sure they'd be talking about respect if they saw the way Nanami was fucking you in your childhood bedroom right now.

[GN reader, just some dirty Christmas smut~]

He'd already had a chat with your parents, discussed his plans for the future and how they'd include you. Once introductions and a little small chat was out of the way, your parents went back to cooking. Nanami had of course tried to offer to help in the kitchen, wanting to leave as good of an impression as possible with your parents. But although they were tempted to accept, they eventually pushed you both out of the kitchen, urging for you to give a tour of the house. And so you did just that, showing him around your childhood home, the maple tree in the yard you've had all your life, the marks on the wall indicating your height every year of your childhood. The tour ended with your childhood bedroom, of course, now treated partially as a storage room since you'd moved out.

It started with kisses as it always does, but now that you weren't under the careful watch of your parents, what started as chaste and sweet turned into deep and dirty. It wasn't long before his long fingers were slipping beneath your sweater, teasing your nipples and squeezing the fat there, or he'd tugged down your pants just enough for access to your most sensitive parts. The fingers that worked so hard to type up work reports and finish documentation were now stroking you so deftly, teasing your hole and working you into a frenzy.

Nanami's mouth and fingers made sure to keep you occupied, sealing your lips with his when his fingers reached a particularly deep, sensitive spot, and bending you over in front of the window before eating you out from behind, licking you like the sweetest candy and getting your legs trembling. And keeping you bent, he used his hand to cover your mouth as he finally stuffed you full, trying his best to muffle your sounds as he pushed in to his base, basking in the heat of your body and the way you squeezed around him.

A little chill air leaked around the window, only serving to harden your nipples and make everything more sensitive. Nanami kept close as he started to thrust, nearly humping you instead, causing the mushroom head of his cock to press against that sweet button inside, over and over. One hand kept your mouth covered, but the other locked your hips to his, keeping you close and stroking your arousal again as he fucked you close. The close quarters meant every single dirty whisper was made right against your ear, spurring on your desires and only serving to make you hotter.

You both knew you wouldn't have long, a house tour only takes so long before it gets suspicious, especially with dinner on the way. But something about fucking in your old bedroom, desperately trying to keep quiet with your parents just a few rooms away, only seemed to heighten your pleasure. Nanami could read your body like a book, and it wasn't long before he could feel the telltale rhythmic squeezing around his cock, indicating your climax was coming.

Just as he felt you fall off the edge, he sped up his thrusts, fucking you hard and deep, catapulting you into your orgasm instead. Even his hand wasn't enough to entirely muffle the scream you let out, but neither of you could care right now as you tightened on Nanami, pushing him to his orgasm and milking him for all he was worth, taking his seed in as deep as you could. He was in love with the way you trembled in his arms, thrusting a little, risking overstimulation but not wanting to leave your heat anytime soon, drawing every last bit of pleasure that he could.

Of course, all good things must come to an end, and your lover finally released you from his hold. Gone was the wild beast from a minute ago, now back to your courteous lover, cleaning up the mess between your thighs and straightening each other's clothes. You two made it out of the bedroom just in time for a parent to come looking, inquiring about the noise. As you two quickly thought up the most plausible lie to tell, you squeezed your thighs and tried to keep a straight face, Nanami's little Christmas gift to you starting to leak out. And one glance at your lover's face was enough to glean that he knew exactly what he'd done to you, a subtle but clear look of satisfaction shining in his eyes.

No, you think, other's might not be so quick to call him respectful after the way he fucked you for Christmas. Not that you'd have it any other way.

[st0neymal0neyx0]

[minusforty]

🏠 HOME 💀 ALONE 🎄

Horror AU

A sweet gay couple buys a house in foreclosure, thinking they got a sweet deal 💰

The deceased spirit of a mischievous child who’d tragically died in the house years earlier awakens from slumber, not knowing where he is. In a state of shock, he goes wild.

The new residents quickly realize they had never been home alone.

[morriganjules]

Merry Christmas, peace and goodwill to all Tenno and Protoframes! Those who share my tastes can have Arthur on his knees, as a treat xx

[jedipoodoo]

Ruthlessness (Sergeant Hunter x fem!Reader)

"After everything you've done...how will you sleep at night?"

"Next to my wife."

Notes: Feral Hunter, above-average bloodshed and violence. Reader is implied to be a Jedi but it's never explicitly stated, inspired by that line from Epic: The Vengeance Saga.

Hunter tore through the base. He could smell your fear and terror, and he knew you were nearby. He didn't even need Tech's directions.

This is what he was made for.

He hadn't slept since he'd heard you'd been captured, and he wouldn't rest until you were safe in his arms.

He quickly dispatched the two TK Troopers at the door with blaster and knife. Before the first body could hit the floor, he snatched the key card from their belt. He could hear your heartbeat just beyond the door, sluggish and slow, along with one other heartbeat and the deadly hum of an interrogation droid.

The moment the door opened, Hunter found his target, launching his vibroblade at the droid.

The blaster shot took him by surprise. Hunter managed to dodge so that it grazed him just below the ribs, but it burned. Every nerve in his body screamed out in pain,but he had to keep moving forward Hunter dropped to his knee, holding his wound, and looked up at the blaster pointed at his face.

"Doctor Hemlock warned me you'd come after her," the Imperial officer said, his voice low and lethal. He sounded just like Hemlock and Rampart, a controlled calm with a storm seething beneath the surface.

Hunter had no use for control. Not when he saw you hanging limp in the officer's arm like the damsel in distress in some cheap holo novel.

"Let her go, and I might let you live." Hunter growled, pushing himself to his feet.

The blaster followed his every move, and the officer chuckled as if he hadn't just been threatened.

"That's not an option here. She's a traitor, as are you."

Hunter took a step forward, only to stumble against a table littered with surgical tools. The officer kept the blaster trained on him, smart man.

But not smart enough.

"You're a stubborn one, aren't you?" The officer chuckled, "You clones just don't know when to quit."

"Hun'red percent success rate," Hunter bragged through gritted teeth, forcing his legs to support him.

"And vain too," the officer scoffed.

Hunter turned his body just enough that the officer couldn't see him grab the scalpel, still trying to make his way to you. Your heartbeat was growing slower with each passing second. He had to get you out of here.

"And what do you call your Emperor, then? An empire that'll last a thousand years? The Republic's been around longer than that."

"The Republic is gone!" The officer snapped, "That is the difference between the Galactic Empire and your precious Republic!" He jabbed the barrel of his blaster against Hunter's chestplate, sealing his doom.

Hunter moved too fast for anyone but Crosshair to have really noticed. The scalpel met its target in the vein of the officer's wrist, and he dropped the blaster with a scream. Hunter grabbed the wound and twisted it, forcing the officer to drop your body. Hunter only took his eyes off the officer to make sure you were safe, but he recovered quickly. He reached for the blaster with his non-dominant hand, and Hunter kicked it out of reach. The officer went for Hunter's wound, digging his hand into the wound. The air was ripped from Hunter's lungs as he tried to focus his vision. He couldn't let you die here, not as a trophy for some fanatic Imperial sycophant.

He still gripped the scalpel in his hand, and as the officer grinned sadistically Hunter drew it across his face. Blood splattered everywhere, and the officer reeled back with his face in his hands. Hunter didn't let him recover. He stomped his booted foot on the officer's shin, shattering his bones. The officer writhed on the floor as he tried to crawl away, dark blood from his face and wrist staining his gray uniform and slicking the tile floor.

Hunter held his side and adjusted his hold on the scalpel for a firmer grip, standing above the insignificant worm of a sentient that had dared to lay a hand on his Cyare.

"You clones-" the officer spat, coughing on his own blood.

"Scraping by, betraying the glory of the Empire just to live hand to mouth..."

"How how do you live with yourself?

"How do you sleep at night?"

Hunter grabbed onto the officers hair, yanking his head back so that the last thing he ever saw was the clone who would kill him.

"Next to my wife."

He drove the scalpel into the monster's chest, over, and over, and over again, until he heard the silence of its heart.

Hunter heaved a deep breath, tasting the coppery tang of blood at the back of his throat. It took a moment, but Hunter knew it wasn't his own.

A shuddering breath echoed through the room, and Hunter turned to you, crouching in between you and the officer so that you wouldn't have to see him as you woke up.

"Cyare? Cyare, can you hear me?" He called your name, cradling your head in his lap.

You mumbled something unintelligible, eyelids twitching.

"Hun'er?"

"Easy, easy Cyare, you're safe. It's over," He said. He gently pressed his fingers to the spot below your jaw where he could feel your heartbeat. It was delicate, like the flutter of a bird's wing, but it was there all the same. He needed to get you to the ship.

Hunter lifted you into his arms and though you raised your arms to hang onto his neck, they weighed as much as a starcruiser.

"I've got you," He whispered, "You're gonna be alright."

Your knee hit the blaster wound in his side, and he winced.

"You're hurt," You gasped, still drugged but now worried about him.

He shook his head and straightened his shoulders, "Don't worry about me. You're safe now. That's all that matters."

@photogirl894 @meadow-of-daisies-and-lavender @emperor-palpaminty @clonethirstingisreal (I just thought y'all would enjoy ✌️)

[dumbest-bb]

Unwrap me

[i-seek-solitude]

Since a few of you seemed to enjoy the light show <3

[wifiwuxians]

Song Lan Love Week day 3: Boundary / Surrender

you guys get the super cropped version lol

This is both Song Lan pushing his boundary and surrendering, and me pushing my own boundaries! As such it's not my usual, but I want him to be LOVED ON loved on this week. (And yes... You can of course tag this sxx (even though it's... xsx...?))

Since I don't quite ship the boys at the sides together (unless we're talking FRIENDship hehe haha) I imagine the dynamic to be like:

[talesfrommedinastation]

Is Fandom Friday a thing?

Everyone's (rightfully) going ga-ga over Hunter and Wrecker getting the civvies hot treatment in the previews of the five-part Bad Batch comics that's coming out.

Someone on Discord mentioned that it would be great if Tech could be shown in civvies too...so I figured why not?

(I miiiiiiight do Crosshair too - but it's the end of the semester, and I've got NSF reviews, baking, gift-making, and various other Holiday nonsense to deal with! Can't promise)

The suggesters be all: @arctrooper69 @totallyunidentified @eyecandyeoz @deezlees @autistic-artistech

[headspacedad]

y'all NEED to see the ornament my sister just got me for Christmas

apparently it's a Hallmark/Walmart ornament and that somehow makes it even more surreal.

[dilsdesigns]

well what did you mean by hang an angel on top of the tree?

this pin inspired by just one yesterday is perfect for the season. in a way. you can get one here!

by the way, my black friday sale is still in full swing! you can get 40% off all in stock items (including this!) in my shop.

[mldrgrl]

La La Land

by: mldrgrl Rating: Teen Pairing: Hanella Summary: Hank gets an offer he can't refuse and brings Stella along.

Never in Hank’s career had one of his novels been so sought after for a film deal.  Charlie had been fielding calls on a daily basis from studio execs and some fairly prestigious producers trying to smooth talk their way into buying the rights.  Some of the offers were so low it was offensive, but some had been worth listening to their pitch before Hank ultimately shot them down.  Charlie just assumed Hank was trying to start a bidding war, but no amount of money could tempt Hank over this book.  Maybe for the first time in his life, he felt extremely protective over this piece of work and he wasn’t going to let some studio bastardize his masterpiece, not for all the money in the world.

And then Netflix came calling and their offer to fly him out to LA and hear what they had to say happened to coincide with Stella’s spring break and well, why not take a free trip to the west coast, first class, for some wining and dining on someone else’s dime?  Three days and two nights at The Hollywood Roosevelt Hotel, because what could be more Hollywood than Marilyn Monroe’s former residence?  Sure.

Stella was whisked away almost as soon as they arrived.  Per the check-in clerk, “your wife has been booked for a spa treatment, Sir, and the studio has sent a car for your meeting.”  And with that, fingers were snapped, a bellhop appeared, and Hank went one way, Stella another.  Charlie was waiting in the black Escalade that was apparently his ride to the studio.

“Runkle,” Hank said, putting his agent in a headlock to rub his knuckles back and forth over his smooth, bald head.

“Dammit, Hank,” Charlie complained, slapping at Hank’s arm.  

“What?  It’s not like I’m gonna mess up your hair.”  Hank pressed his lips to the top of Charlie’s head before he released him.

“No, but you’ll wrinkle me.”  Charlie pushed himself across the car seat, away from Hank, smoothing his tie down his chest.

“Same Runkle, still as tightly clenched as a nun’s twat.”

“This is a big deal, Hank.  Netflix has more money than God and they want your book.  Maybe they want a whole development deal.  I could retire.  I could spend the rest of my days sipping mai tais on a lanai in Florida.”

“Florida is where rich assholes go to die, Charlie.”

“Hank, I’m telling you, I think this is big.  They fly you out here, they put you up at the Roosevelt, they’re sending private cars, they don’t just do that for a lowball offer.”

“I know how much dollar signs get you hard, Charlie, but try not to nut before we even get to the meeting.  Besides, I’m probably not even going to say yes.”

“Ohhhhhh…”  Charlie bent his head back and put a hand over his chest.  “Hank, you say things like that and it triggers my agita.”

“They’re gonna want to change the ending, which is a nonstarter for me, and they’re gonna want to cast some…some America’s sweetheart like Reese fucking Witherspoon as Miranda, which tells me that they haven’t even read the book at all, they had some intern pass on a synopsis and they don’t give a fuck about the actual material, they just want content.  They’re just a fucking content factory shitting out turdburgers that only like five percent of is even watchable.”

“What’s wrong with Reese Witherspoon?”

“Nothing’s wrong with Reese Witherspoon except you can’t cast Reese Witherspoon in a part that should go to…I don’t know who, but the opposite of Reese Witherspoon.”

“I think you’re really underestimating Reese Witherspoon here, Hank, she’s a fantastic actress, you know she’s an Academy Award winner.”

“Jesus, Runkle, you’re missing the point.”

“Okay, okay.”  Charlie put his hands up in surrender.  “No Reese Witherspoon.”

Hank closed his eyes.  It’d been years since he smoked, but he wanted a cigarette.  Every time he came back to LA it was more and more apparent what a hostile, toxic environment it was for him.  He didn’t want to go to the meeting anymore, he just wanted to have the driver turn the car around and take him back to Stella.  Take him back to New York.  He never should have come.  It would have been a lot less time consuming to just tell them to fuck off over Zoom.

After they arrived at the studio lot, Hank and Charlie were escorted to the production offices by a young PA whose voice had probably just cracked, but was eager to please.  He brought them bottles of water and a tray of snacks which Hank refused and Charlie happily dug into and ripped open a bag of peanuts.  The conference room they were left in had a long, sleek table made of solid oak and a view of Sunset Boulevard.

Minutes later, a young woman entered the room through a side door and an entourage of assistants, all women, filed in behind her, all sitting in chairs along one wall as she approached Hank and Charlie.  She was tall and angular and looked as though she’d stepped off of the latest cover of Vogue.  Her long dark hair was pulled into a slick ponytail and her heels were as sharp as her nails, painted black.

“Eloise Lambert,” she said, extending her hand to Hank.  “We appreciate you coming down.  Did Paul offer you tea or espresso or is there anything else we can get for you?”

“An espresso sounds nice,” Charlie said.

“You must be the agent,” Eloise said, shifting her handshake to Charlie.  “We spoke on the phone.”

“Charles Runkle.  Love the set up here.  Great production house you’ve got.”

“Settle down, Charlie, they’re supposed to be kissing our asses here, not the other way around.”

Eloise smiled and moved away to take a seat across from the two of them at the short side of the table.  One of the assistants slid an espresso in front of Charlie while another slid an ipad in front of Eloise.

“You know I was a PA on A Crazy Little Thing Called Love,” Eloise said, referring to the movie that had been made of Hank’s breakout best seller, God Hates Us All.  “It was the first film set I was ever on.”

“Oh?” Hank said, keeping himself as relaxed as possible as visions of sexual harassment charges started dancing in his head.

“And it’s when I vowed that one day I would be an executive producer.  It’s criminal how that was adapted.  It makes sense to me why you’ve turned down all the other offers for this.”

“I may or may not have punched the director in the dick at a screening, but I got over it, eventually.”

“Todd Carr.  Decent guy.  Shit director.”

“I take it he’s not on the shortlist for this?”

“I think he’s working on industrials these days.”  

“Too bad.”

“I’m going to have Sabrina here take over with the pitch.”  Eloise pulled out the empty chair that was next to her and one of the women came over to sit beside her.  She was almost a carbon copy of her boss with her dark, slick-backed hair and sharp heels, but she also resembled a child playing dress up.  

“Mr. Moody,” Sabrina said, nodding at Hank.  “Mr. Runkle.  I’m sure the two of you know Reese Witherspoon.”

Hank pressed his lips together and shot his agent a look.  Charlie’s eyes were wide, but he kept them forward.  Hank felt like kicking him under the table, but refrained.

“Uh, yeah,” Hank said.  “I’ve heard of her.”

“It’s not really a secret that her book club has been a major success and that most of her picks have then gone on to be developed from there.”

“Mmhm.”

“We’d like to do something similar, but we want to cultivate a selection that has a bit more…edge, let’s say.”

Hank relaxed a little.  “So you’re not looking at Reese for…casting?”

“Casting?”  It was Sabrina that tensed now.  “That would be a very interesting choice.  Is that…is that who you had in mind for Miranda?”

“God, no.”

“Okay, great.”  Sabrina nodded and then gestured at someone over her shoulder.  ��We do have a few choices in mind, if you’d like to take a look.”

“Yeah, sure.”

One of the women gave some papers to Sabrina and then she slid them across the desk to Hank and Charlie.  It was a standard breakdown of the characters and the first name on the list under Miranda was Catherine Keener.  He could see that.  He could even get behind that.

“Okay,” Hank said.  “Back to the anti-Witherspoon book club.”

“Not anti, just…alt.  Material that might have a bit more grit and that may not always have the neat little happy endings tied up in a bow.”

“So you’re okay with the ending?” Hank asked.

“We’re not trying to give this the A Crazy Little Thing Called Love treatment,” Eloise said.  “There’s no reason to not be faithful to the material.”

“Which is why we’d like you to write the scripts,” Sabrina added.  “Be the showrunner.”

“Wait, what?  Showrunner?”

“Hank would make a great showrunner,” Charlie said.  “I think this sounds like a fantastic idea.”

“Shut up, Charlie.  What do you mean, showrunner?”

“We’d like to shoot this as a limited series,” Eloise answered.  “Eight episodes, possibly ten.”

Hank managed not to fidget through the rest of the pitch as they explained what they wanted from him in terms of scripts, the responsibilities of casting, hiring directors, even the minutiae of costuming and set decoration would fall on his shoulders.  The weight of it freaked him out, but the opportunity to maintain creative control over one of his works was enticing.  He was suddenly taking this offer very seriously.

“And what about location?” he asked.

“What about it?” Eloise inquired.

“The novel’s set in New York.  I’m in New York.  I’m not spending eight months in Atlanta or wherever the fuck the tax break du jour is for filming these days.”

“We have relationships with the studios in Queens, not to mention a plethora of east coast based line managers and location scouts to choose from.  That won’t be a problem.”

“I don’t know the first fucking thing about running a show.”

“Fortunately, we do.”  

Hank felt backed into a corner.  He had no good reason not to say no to such a deal.  He looked to Charlie, who had the same panic written on his face as that time he’d stupidly thought he could handle a chili dog with sauerkraut from a street vendor on Melrose.  His silence was loud.

“There is one other potential offer we’d like to make,” Sabrina said, cutting the tension that suddenly seemed to fill the room.  “The daughter in the novel, Paige, she isn’t really part of the story, but she’s mentioned quite often.”

“Yeah.”

“We were thinking that, if this were to be successful, that maybe we could do a second series exploring her perspective.”

“I don’t know that I care to explore Paige’s POV.”

“Not you, necessarily.  Isn’t your daughter also a writer?”

“I don’t know that Becca would be interested in Paige’s POV either.  You’d have to ask her.”

“Just food for thought,” Eloise said.  “A father-daughter created series might make for a potentially interesting gimmick from a marketing perspective.”

“And lucrative,” Charlie suddenly piped up.

“You’ll have to excuse him,” Hank said, glaring at Charlie.  “He’s got his sights set on a condo in a golf cart community in Florida.”

“Wouldn’t be a very good agent if he wasn’t interested in numbers,” Eloise answered, gesturing over her shoulder at another woman who passed her what Hank recognized as a set of contracts.  “I’ll presume you’ll want your lawyer to look things over.”

Charlie immediately started flipping through the pages as soon as the contract was in his hands and Hank stepped on his toes under the table.  He stood up, and Eloise stood as well, coming towards him with her hand outstretched.

“I think you’ll find our offer more than satisfactory,” she said, shaking Hank’s hand.  “But, if there’s anything we’ve left off the table, I’m sure Mr. Runkle will be in touch to let us know.”

“I am a little disappointed you didn’t even try to hit on me.  I thought that’s what all the big Hollywood executives did.”

“My wife probably wouldn’t appreciate it if I did.”

He shrugged.  “Neither would mine.”

Hank left the offices in a cloud of quiet dread.  Once upon a time he would’ve just signed the contract without giving it much thought as to how he would pull it off, but the older he’d gotten, the more contemplative he’d become, less impulsive.  While his agent may have been ready to open a good bottle of champagne, he wasn’t quite there yet.  There was only one person’s input that mattered to him.  

Wanting to avoid what was sure to be his Charlie’s incessant babbling on the ride back to the hotel, Hank opted to walk.  He thought his agent would put up a protest, but Charlie waved to him from the back seat, already on the phone with their lawyer.  He watched the Escalade pull away and made his way west on Sunset.  The too blue skies and palm trees lining the streets fed into Hank’s already contemplative mood by adding a dose of nostalgia and melancholy.  

At Vine Street, Hank turned right, wanting to catch a glimpse of Capitol Records on the way up to Hollywood Boulevard.  He casually browsed the walk of fame stars that lined the side street, tallying up how many were dead and gone and were largely forgotten.  He had to pull out his phone to take a photo of the star of Richard Dix and set a reminder to himself to search for a wikipedia page later and find out if the man was a porn star or his real name was Dick Dix.  

He crossed Hollywood to go stand in front of the famous recording studio building and daydream about what his life might look like if he’d went into music instead.  Probably dead.  He snapped a photo of the building and texted it to Fish.  As he put his phone back in his pocket, he paused as his attention was drawn back to the sidewalk.  

“I’m a writer,” he mumbled to himself as he crouched down over the star of Billy Wilder.  “But then, nobody’s perfect.”

Hank had made it no secret that a lot of his career had been driven by money and he’d always found it to be a more honest, less vulgar motivator than fame, but secretly, deep down, he’d always admired the real storytellers of the world, the ones driven by passion and need to express.  Even more, he’d always admired the ones that could make their art last.  He had the soul of a tortured artist, all he was ever lacking was the brain brimming with stories.  He took a photo of the star and made no other stops on the rest of the walk to the hotel.

The same check-in clerk from hours before nodded to him as he headed to the elevators.  He double-checked the room number written on the keycard holder and punched the number three.  A fully-stocked wet bar greeted him beside the door and he called out Stella’s name as he grabbed a glass and looked for the whiskey.  His wife emerged from the bedroom door in a plush robe, looking more than freshly showered.  Her hair was pulled back, but fluffed.  Her face was dewy and her cheeks were pink.

“Netflix spring for the deluxe spa package?” he asked, pouring himself a drink.

“A lovely facial and a wonderful Swedish massage,” she answered.

“Happy ending included?”

“I was waiting for you for that.”

Hank grinned as he took a sip of whiskey and opened up one arm as Stella slipped her arms around his waist.  “Good answer,” he murmured, and lowered his glass to kiss her.  She licked a drop of whiskey off his bottom lip when he pulled away.

“How did it go?” she asked.

Hank grunted and took one of Stella’s hands, crossing his arm over her chest as he shuffled them out to the main area.  He caught a glance of the pool over the balcony view from the wall to wall sliding glass doors as he pulled her down onto the black leather couch.  He crossed both feet on the coffee table that looked like it had been carved from driftwood and she put her hand under the side of his jacket to run her hand across his chest.

“They want to give me everything I never knew I even wanted,” he said.

“How very unsatisfying for you.”

He grunted again and took another sip of whiskey before he handed her the glass to sit up and pull his jacket off.  She tucked her feet up under her and balanced the glass on her knee as he leaned back and sighed, crossing his feet on the table again and lacing his fingers behind his head.

“They don’t want to change the ending?” she asked.

“Nope.”

“Did they share their thoughts on casting?”

“I saw a list.”

“And there was no Reese Witherspoon, I take it?”

He chuckled and then turned his head towards her.  “No, they seemed to be spot on with the breakdown.  And, they were thinking a limited series format, not a movie.”

“For television?”

“More or less.  Eight to ten episodes.”

“Is that preferable?”

“They want me to develop it.  Be the showrunner.”

“What does that mean?”

“Write it, cast it, set decorate the fucking thing if I want to, basically be the czar of the show.”

“I see.”  She hummed and then her expression turned pensive.  

Hank took the glass of whiskey out of Stella’s hand for another drink and then offered it to her.  She shook her head so he quickly downed the rest, coughed once from the sting of it and pounded a fist lightly against his sternum.  Sometimes he forgot that he couldn’t drink the way he used to.  She took the glass from him and put it on the table and then settled next to him again, her hand on his chest.

“What are you thinking?” he asked.

“Is this something you want to do?”

“I’ve never had full creative control over a project before.  It’s tempting.”

“Hm.”

She was quiet again.  He slumped towards her to nuzzle his face against her neck and closed his eyes as he breathed her in.  She smelled like coconut and her skin was warm and slick as he slipped his hand through the gap in her robe to caress her breast.  “God, you smell good,” he mumbled.  He dragged his bottom lip back and forth across her collarbone and she finally reached up and put her fingers in his hair, scratching her nails up the back of his head how he liked it, but didn’t say anything.  

“Tell me what you think I should do, Sherlock.”

“I think it sounds as though you want to say yes, don’t you?”

“I want to know what you think,” he murmured, tipping his chin down and opening his eyes to gaze at her half-exposed breast.  He circled his fingertip around her areola in the way he knew she liked, very lightly, counterclockwise.  “Be my voice of reason.  Talk me out of it, maybe.”

“I would never talk you out of something you want to do.”

“But?”

“What will the timeline of this be like?  I have exams approaching and I don’t know how flexible I can be with the time I can take, not like previously when I was in London.  If it meant weeks apart…months, even…”

“Mmm say flexible again, but let me get my dick in my hand first.”  He pulled back with a smile to let her know he was teasing before she could develop a frown or chastise him for not taking her seriously.  She frowned anyway and he began massaging her breast as penance.  “Not to worry, Sherlock, I’ve already made it conditional that I wouldn’t even consider agreeing to their offer if they weren’t willing to shoot the show in New York.”

Stella shifted and pulled on Hank’s hair so that he had to tip his head back to look up at her.  “Are you telling me they’ve offered to let you write your own show, cast it, direct it, shoot the ser-”

“Don’t forget set decorate the fucking thing if I wanted to,” he interrupted.

“Set decorate the fucking thing, and shoot the series in New York.  You who has no experience with any of these things?”

“I thought I was going to have to pinch myself, but no one offered to blow me, so it was pretty obvious it wasn’t a dream.”

“You actually want to do all those things?  Be responsible for all of it?”

Hank sobered and sighed as he pulled his hand free from Stella’s robe.  “Take the hits if it’s a failure, you mean?”

“No, that isn’t what I meant at all, though it would be something to think about.  Trust me, being in charge of a number of people can seem alluring, but it’s also a heavy burden.”

“You don’t think I can carry the load?”  He put his hand up and scrunched his face.  “Wait, don’t answer that.”

Stella wove her fingers through Hank’s and pressed her palm against his.  All he had to do was give her a gentle pull and she lifted up onto her knees.  He held onto her as she straddled his thighs and he slouched into the back of the couch.  He took her other hand and for a few quiet moments, she stretched her fingers between his as he rubbed circles over the insides of her wrist with his thumbs.  She finally twisted her hands free and then brought them to the back of his neck and laced her fingers together. 

“This is a massive offer,” she said.  “It will mean a lot of time and work and energy.”

“I know that,” he answered, unknotting her robe.  Her breasts were bare, but she had plain white cotton panties on.  Nothing fancy or lacy, but a view he could still appreciate for the dark shadow of pubic hair through the thin material and the wet spot that hinted at her arousal.    

“It’s a huge commitment.”

He let his thumbs drift down and dip into the waistband of her panties.  “I think I’m pretty good at commitment,” he murmured.  “Don’t you?”   

“Very, very good,” she whispered, thighs clenching against his legs.

He took a deep breath and moved his hands up her body, over her breasts to her shoulders and back down again.  “Do you know who Billy Wilder is, Sherlock?”

“Should I?”

“Golden age of Hollywood filmmaker.  Wrote and directed Sunset Boulevard, Some Like it Hot.  On his tombstone, he had them put ‘I’m a writer, but then, nobody’s perfect.’”

“Ah, I see.”

Hank cocked his head at her.

“Some Like it Hot,” she said.  “Paraphrasing the last line of his own film.”

“Your well of knowledge never ceases to impress.”

“It’s a rather shallow well, I’m afraid, but I do know that one.”

He hummed and ran the flat of his hand down the front of her chest to her navel.  “I don’t know what they did to you in that spa, but I don’t think you’ve ever felt so soft.”

“All but the happy ending.”

“Oh yeah, let’s not forget about that.”  He made a move to slip his hand back between her legs but she grabbed it and pushed it away.

“Finish your story,” she said.

“And I saw his star on the walk of fame today, the end.”  He tried to touch her again, but she pushed him away again and raised her brow.  He sighed.  “And I saw his star on the walk of fame today and it made me think about how lucky he was to have been able to put his words out there and that we can sit here what, sixty years later, and remember what he wrote.”  

“I’ve been snobbish about it in the past,” he continued, “and thought that people who could quote novels were somehow superior to people who could quote movies, but honestly, so what?  Someone had to write it first for someone to say.  And then someone out there thought it worthy of their grey matter.  I have always wondered what it could be like to see something through from page to screen.  Not have to complain when they inevitably get it so fucking wrong.  So, if Netflix has faith in me, maybe I should have faith in myself and take the chance.  No, I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing, but I never know what the fuck I’m doing so it’ll just be another day ending in ‘y’.”

Stella’s eyes, dark blue and piercing, softened and lightened.  She smiled and her mouth descended onto Hank’s in a firm kiss.  He squeaked in surprise and then chuckled.  He managed to grasp her hips again and pull her firmly down against his chest.

“My brief affair with an existential crisis turn you on, Sherlock?”

“No, but your commitment does.”

He grinned and then flipped her down to the couch.  “Now, then,” he said.  “I finished my story.  I’d say it’s time for your happy ending.”

“About damn time.”

The End

[rainyssafespace]

less sfw version under the cut

[pseudowho]

can you bully me into studying for my SATs?

I could, but I'm ruthless. The only person I bully into working hard is myself, and I promise you do not want me to speak like that to you.

I always tell myself, be your future friend. Would future you be happy with past you, for knuckling down and studying? Or would future you be disappointed with you for slacking off and wasting an opportunity?

Be your future friend. If you can do something now that will benefit the you of the future, you should, frankly, give your head a wobble and fucking do it (barring any serious, significant restrictions, including mental health, life being on fire, etc etc.)

Here is the bullying: this is how I talk to myself. I abhor this and I do not talk to anyone else like this...are you ready? Are you sure you want to go ahead? Do you mean it? You must know I don't think this about you...but here we go. Bullying below the cut.

If you want to be a worthless sack of shit and die anything less than the best version of yourself, then sure, slack off. If you want to be pathetic and make lame excuses, then sure, slack off. Otherwise, stop being a little bitch, put your toys away just for now, and WORK. You see that nice thing over there that you want? You see it? Fucking earn it. Don't expect life to be handed to you on a silver platter, because of you want to have even a fighting shot at beating Nepo baby after Nepo baby, then pull your finger out, get your head down and fucking challenge yourself. Will it be hard? Yes. Will the you of the future be proud of the you of the past? Also yes. So you fucking focus just for now, eat well, drink well, sleep well and work well. Work hard: play hard. Get on with it and stop finding reasons not to.

Alright. Good talk, kiddo. I love you. Don't hate yourself like I hate myself.

(nobody in my life ever spoke to me like that; I did it all to myself I'm afraid, and continue to do so)

Love,

And good luck,

-- Haitch xxx

[therealraewest]

Love an Ellis run callback

That time he just noscoped a guy with a moon dart

Which, surely the cops went and cleaned things up after MK was done, right?

... Marc I know things are desperate but maybe not bringing all your friends to a room with a dead body in it would be nice

[i-am-too-sick]

5 times Quinn was sick for his birthday

5.)

'Twas the evening of Christmas, when all through the house, barely a creature was stirring and Quinn would not arouse. The stockings were hung by the chimney with care, and Orrin hoped soon their mother would be there.

Quinn lied alone in his bed, feeling absolutely miserable. That was where he'd been since shortly after making it home yesterday. He managed to socialize with his family a bit, hearing about Orrin's time at school and sharing his own experiences from work and class. A deep aching tiredness had taken hold hours before he'd arrived, and after finally admitting that he didn't feel well. He forewent dinner and saw himself to his room, wanting nothing more than to be horizontal in bed.

He was restless throughout the night, unable to find a position comfortable enough to keep his whole body from aching. Aside from being on his feet all day when he worked at the clinic, he wasn't an overly active person by nature, and he couldn't fathom what he could have done to leave his muscles in so much pain.

Christmas morning rolled in, his birthday, and Quinn woke to the sounds of Orrin clamoring and Ruby barking around the Christmas tree, eager to open gifts. Even as a moody 15-year-old, Quinn loved how his brother still retained his childlike excitement on Christmas morning.

The smell of his mother's coffee wafting in from the kitchen, usually such a welcomed and pleasant smell, now turned his stomach and made him groan. The sound irritated his sore throat and he coughed into his pillow.

He curled into a ball and closed his eyes, drawing the covers over his shoulders. Why was he suddenly so cold? Perhaps it was the snow that had started falling last night...

The next time he awoke it was to a tap, tap, tapping sound on his bedroom door. It took him an agonizingly long time to realize what the sound was and where it was coming from. His head was throbbing and his mind felt muddled and slow.

"Come in..." he croaked, devolving into a fit of coughs shortly after.

The door opened and Orrin stepped in cautiously. "You sound like shit."

"Language," Quinn reprimanded automatically.

He shivered, groping around for his comforter. Where—? There it was, at the foot of the bed and completely out of his reach unless he sat up and pulled it toward him. He must have kicked it off at some point.

Orrin stepped further into the room, setting down a glass of water on Quinn's nightstand and standing awkwardly beside the bed. "You look awful," he said.

Quinn turned away from him and coughed. "I feel awful." Realization dawned on him and he leaned back away from his brother. "You probably shouldn't get too close."

Orrin rolled his eyes and huffed. More than anything, he hated being fretted over, but because of his heart condition, others were frequently trying to look out for his well-being, much to his annoyance.

"Are you contagious?"

Quinn considered his question for a minute. He palmed his forehead, then touched his cheek with the back of his hand. "Do I have a fever?"

Orrin extended his hand, laying it against Quinn's forehead. "You're hot."

"Why, thank you." The blush that flared up on his brother's cheeks was almost worth it, but the subsequent punch to the arm was not. "Ow... Sorry, I couldn't help it." He cleared his throat, wincing. "But to answer your question, yes, it's highly likely I'm contagious."

"Mom said she'd be home in a couple hours," Orrin said, changing the subject. The blush was still prominent, especially on his ears, and he kept his eyes cast downward, obviously still embarrassed brother's attempt at humor. "You can have Christmas Eve leftovers and we can finally open presents."

"Oh, bud, I'm not hungry," Quinn said. He was only vaguely nauseous, and while he was sure nothing would come from it, the thought of food just seemed unappealing right now. "Wait—you haven't opened gifts yet?"

Orrin scoffed. "Mom wanted to wait until you were feeling better."

Quinn sighed. "I don't think that'll be anytime soon. You should open them when she gets home. I'm sorry you had to wait."

Orrin shrugged, playing nonchalant. "It is what it is."

"Thanks for bringing the water, but you really should stay clear of here so you don't get sick," Quinn started. "If you want, you can open your gift from me. I don't tell Mom."

Orrin's eyes lit up. "Really?"

Quinn nodded. "Knock yourself out."

Before Orrin darted from the room, he did Quinn the tremendous favor of pulling up the sheets for him, probably seeing how Quinn's body was wracked with fever chills.

Quinn pulled the covers close again, listening to the faint sounds of tearing wrapping paper from down the hall. If he couldn't enjoy Christmas right now, at least he could make sure his brother did.