#Ronny Writes

[steddielations]

Flight of Icarus lore dump part 2:

Part 1 | Character List

- Wayne has a green thumb. He reads Gardener’s Weekly magazine. It doesn’t say what he grows, but it says he buys vegetables from the store so I’m going to say that gruff old man Wayne has the prettiest petunias in the whole trailer park.

- Eddie sneaks into the Hawk with his best friend Ronnie to watch action movies and thinks Snake Plissken, Han Solo and Conan the Barbarian are cool.

- Eddie talks for hours about the intricacies of Elven politics in Tolkien.

- Eddie read comics as a kid and hid them all over the house "like a little squirrel" under the bed, behind the nightstand, under the rug. Wayne found his Uncanny X-Men in the freezer between stacks of tv dinners. Also, "Hellfire Club" comes from these X-Men comics.

- Floor time! There's a part where Eddie is literally just lying on his back on his bedroom floor counting down from a million. When Wayne comes home, Eddie army crawls on his belly to the doorway to see him.

- Eddie reads Gormenghast paperbacks, gothic fantasy novels. It mentions that Wayne saved them from the house fire along with Eddie’s guitar. It never says how/when Eddie originally got his guitar.

- Eddie says lots of cc’s original songs have D&D references. It's implied that he writes them. One is called “Fire Shroud” after a spell

- Eddie is called Freak King at school and Munson Junior or just Junior around town and he hates all of it

- Eddie talks about having anxiety a lot and it's implied he has had panic attacks in the past

- Eddie is the lead singer and guitarist of cc. He started the band with Ronnie specifically because it was required to participate in the school talent show.

- Neither Wayne or Al graduated high school. When Eddie (temporarily) drops out, Al celebrates.

- Eddie doesn't cook. He doesn't even own a spatula. The smell of cooking in their house actually shocks him and gives him a deep longing for family meals, which Al uses to manipulate him

- Eddie jokes about being into Saturday Night Fever and strikes the pose a couple times.

- Eddie knows how to hotwire and how to pick locks. Al taught him this at the age of ten. Eddie is "disgusted" with himself any time he does either of those things.

- Eddie "drives like a monster" when he's upset about something.

- Eddie smokes cigarettes occasionally. Weed is mentioned a lot in the book but it never says anything about Eddie smoking it or doing any drugs. He either doesn't smoke much or he hasn't tried anything yet in the book. Also, he’s just now meeting Rick. But It’s pretty clear after everything he went through why he would start

- There's lots of mentions of PBR and Bud Light. Though Eddie says he doesn't like to drink after his shifts at the Hideout (where he's a barback). He mostly drinks off-brand Big Buy soda in the book (he calls it "pop")

- Eddie's parents were married on March 12th, 1966. The date is inscribed on the bottle of their wedding wine. Eddie asks what kind it is and Al says they only had 'red or white' kind of money

- Al breaks out the wedding wine (to manipulate Eddie, you guessed it) it's red wine and Eddie really, really likes it

- Eddie went to War Zone with his dad for supplies for the truck heist (spike strips, coveralls, etc)

- Eddie's band played Exciter by Judas Priest at the talent show. The song was only approved because they emphasized the "priest"

- There was another (?) talent show in Winter of 1981 where Eddie's band played "Prowler" and they were kicked off stage halfway through because the song was considered Satanic, and the PTA visited all their parents for trying to convert everyone to Satanism.

- Eddie imagines hitting his dad twice. Once with a glass bottle and once with a metal wrench. (He should've- oops who said that)

- The only hug Eddie gets in the book is when his dad first comes back, Eddie knows it's the first step in his cycle of showing up, using Eddie and leaving, but Eddie still accepts the hug and feels guilty for enjoying it.

- It's implied Eddie gets close to tears a couple times in the book, but the only time they actually spring up is when his mom's favorite song (from Muddy Waters) comes on in the truck radio while Eddie is doing the heist with his dad and feeling awful about it. Eddie has several flashbacks of dancing with her to this song, it seems like his happiest memory that he always returns to.

- Whenever Eddie is doing what his dad wants (hotwiring, charming a person into their plans) he puts on what he calls his "best Al Munson smile" and he's terrified that it will eventually take over his whole face. There's a part at the end where Eddie is sitting in a jail cell and says "All I want to do is tear my face off. If a new one grows in it's place, maybe it'll make me a different person. Someone who isn't such a complete fuckup."

[ronniaugust]

How to Write on Final Draft (without it feeling so daunting)

It's incredibly difficult to open up a Final Draft document without feeling like you're literally writing your final draft, so here's a few features you can use your advantage!

1. Turn on dark mode

Dark mode makes it look like less of a script and more of an outline. Edit and rewrite in light mode, you will feel the difference.

2. Use speed view

Speed view gets rid of pages and page numbers and therefore you are only looking at the words you type.

3. Use focus mode

Focus mode removes the scenes, page numbers, and outlines you have at the top on the program while writing. Another way to forget about focusing on progress.

4. Make a messy beat board

Throw all your ideas onto the beat board, it should help make the document feel a bit more lived-in and less pristine.

Bonus:

5. Set a template with your formatting and use that to start every script you write

While a script format is very ridged, there are things you can do to personalize it. When you find those things, make them in a Final Draft doc (without actual writing) and save as your own template so you don't have to change all the elements every time.

[ronzombie]

imagine an AU where you're your F/O's OC.

they fall even deeper in love with you after every lore piece they write. after every trauma and flaw they inflict on you, they still love you and would do anything to have you there with them in person.

who knows? maybe one day their wish will come true...

[thefixations-ofmine]

In which Tommy has a thing for Evan's birthmark (18+)

Pairing: Tommy Kinard x Evan Buckley (911) Word count: 1.2k Warnings: sexual content, blowjob, cum play, facials, Tommy has a dirty mouth, daddy kink if you squint

A/N: This is my first work in... years!?! And I already have like 5 wip ideas in store. I wanna thank my dear friend Amanda @flannelplanet for a) getting me into the 911 fandom, and b) riling me up to start writing again!! Constructive criticism is always welcome. Hope this isn't half bad.

Main Masterlist | Drabbles Masterlist

The first time it happened was an accident. Or so Tommy told Evan.

“Shit baby, couldn’t control that,” he had lied, panting, leaning onto the kitchen counter with his other hand. As if he couldn’t aim his perfectly thick, straight-shooting cum onto any part of his boyfriend’s body that he wished to paint. As if he wasn’t perfectly crowding over Evan’s head that was caged between his body and the island cabinet. He stood straight and helped Evan to his feet.

“Yeah, yeah,” Evan chuckled. “Good thing I have good reflexes old man.”

Tommy had laughed at the joke, a bit dismissive, and simply washed off most of what had landed on Evan’s eyelid with his thumb, before bringing it to his lips. He allowed the few spurts that had stuck to Evan’s birthmark to dry, the poor boy too cock-drunk to realize he still had something warm on his face. They had proceeded to dinner, and eventually it was washed off in their nightly shower - where Tommy paid Evan back.

Tommy was gifted with the best partner he could have asked for; eager, good with orders, and the only cumslut he had stumbled upon in his years of practice. He made sure to put that to good use as much as possible, and relished in the bliss on Evan’s face whenever his offering touched his plush tongue. He would never have guessed that those little red dots would become his favourite playground.

“That’s good, Evan,” Tommy gasped, “right down that throat. Fuck just like that!” Evan had taken pride in getting his beefy boyfriend to lose all sense of control. From the moment he had felt him literally fold in half when the tip of his cock had hit the constricting ring of his throat, Evan knew he had found his secret weapon. Did he get a dildo to practice that when they had opposing shifts? That’s yet to be clarified.

“Working so well for that cum, huh?” Tommy had both hands on the mattress next to Evan’s shoulders, and was holding an unforgiving thrusting rhythm. He watched as inch by inch his cock expanded Evan’s throat, bobbing his Adam’s apple on its way in from how Evan had his head hanging off the edge of the bed.

“Pathetic little dick over there is drooling for my attention. But it’s about me tonight, right? It’s about what daddy wants.” Tommy managed a dozen more strokes before he pulled out and grabbed Evan’s hair to level up his head. Once more, he proceeded to drench the left side of his face with cum, enough to have it dripping down to his scalp and ear. His grunts mixed deliciously with Evan’s deep gargling breaths.

“Gooood boy,” Tommy praised. “Look at you!” This time, the cum was washed off rather quickly with a warm cloth, Evan’s face being a little too sticky from his efforts to go on doing anything else.

By the third or fourth time, Evan had caught up to what Tommy was really on about. For him, as far as he was concerned, it had simply been a huge kink for the both of them. Feeling Tommy’s cum on any part of his body was reassurance that this was real - warm and comforting, like their hugs. But it had been a while since Tommy had aimed to get every drop in Evan’s mouth and he was getting a bit whiny about it.

“You’re gonna have to explain this to me, babe,” Evan had finally brought up, mid makeout.

“What’s that?” Tommy waited for the answer with his lips on Evan’s throat, sucking purple patches on his sensitive spots.

“I remember you saying I was a good boy for never wasting a single drop, and that you love when I share my snacks.” Evan moaned at the sensations happening all over him, and regretted starting a conversation. He pulled back and looked his boyfriend in the eyes.

“I’m serious, Tommy,” he added.

“Oh, sweet boy. You miss the taste of my cum?” Tommy had a devilish smile across his face, and Evan knew he was in trouble. Good. “Daddy’s got a new… fixation, if you will.”

Evan was pushed from Tommy’s lap to kneel on the floor between his legs. Instinct kicked in and Evan found himself waiting for instructions, his hands lingering patiently on his own thighs with his bottom lip between his teeth. We’re getting there.

“Let me demonstrate”, Tommy said before taking his cock out of his sweatpants, letting the band slip under his balls. He gave Evan a headnod and the boy practically leaped onto him, setting his forearms over his thighs for support.

Hungry for a good filling, Evan pulled onto the laces of the sweatpants and meticulously tied them around Tommy’s balls as a makeshift cockring. Right away, the veins on Tommy’s cock bulged deliciously, and Evan started working on the head.

Evan had come up with a good list of gameplans when it came to sucking Tommy off. He kept them secret, deep in his subconscious and rotated between them, keeping score of every little reaction he pulled out of him. He especially loved running his pointed tongue on the underside of Tommy’s tip, right through his glistening slit. He closed his lips around it, before taking everything he could before gagging.

When Evan was given the task to give Tommy a blowjob with nothing expected in return, he loved to stretch this out for a while; his record, he edged Tommy for over two hours. Ironically, Evan came in his boxers twice that day.

Today though, he had a mission, and that meant he had to be efficient. Soon enough, the legs under his arms were shaking and he had to hold Tommy’s hips down just a bit - he loved when the tip bruised the roof of his mouth because Tommy would make the most elicit sounds. 

Tommy nudged Evan’s cheek for him to pull off, and he guided his head so it was laying on his thigh, left side up. He tugged at himself a few more times before rubbing his tip along Evan’s brow bone. Tommy brought his index to his tip - smart bastard - to make sure none of the cum would spray off onto the ground.

“Evan,” he groaned with a shiver and let himself fall into the wave of pleasure, filling the faint cup of Evan’s temple, expertly painting over the precious red spots. “Oh, baby,” he moaned, pulling on the word baby.

He looked down at Evan as he was shivering through his own orgasm, one of his palms rubbing onto the front of his shorts. His chuckle rumbled down his chest and reached his lower stomach, where another urgency was slowly building. That’s not something he wanted to explore with Evan for now.

“Follow me baby,” Tommy whispered as he helped Evan up and guided him to the bathroom. “Let’s get you cleaned up.” Evan didn’t argue, feeling his limbs weaken by the second, but he was not going to let go of his reward again.

As they were walking towards the shower, he tilted his head forward, letting the cum run down the bridge of his nose and onto his lips. Tommy paused at the sight, his mouth agape as Evan licked away the thick white liquid. Tommy grabbed his head and licked up the side of his face for the last few drops.

“Fuck, I love you.”

[powderblueblood]

NO SLEEP TILL - a runaway eddie au

summary sticking around town after the queen of hawkins high dies in your trailer is a fool's game. anyone could tell you that. but eddie munson's making a point of it; shaving off the excess. a canon divergent season 4 runaway eddie au with elements from flight of icarus. word count 1.1k warnings none, only that this is mostly an experiment.

Can you shut up and tell the story already?

It starts with a shedding. 

A snip, snip, snip and all recognition falling away under the dinge of a green-lit gas station bathroom. The acrid smell of piss burns through the stall, the kind that’s baked in and gets curdled by the heat. No bleach can cut through it. The ghosts of more’n three shakes and you’re playin’ with yourself rise when it gets above a certain temperature.

And it’s hot. Uncharacteristically so, for spring break. 

Snip. The last curling rat tail falls to the floor and he releases his breath. He hadn’t even realized he’d been holding it. 

Looking at himself, shorn, his eyes water. Not from the smell. 

He cranes his neck to the left, to the right. Tufts of hair stick up from his skull like he’s just shoved a fork into a socket. 

He wishes he’d thought of that instead. But.

A sound chokes up the column of his throat as he grips the sink’s edge, ringed fingers slipping on grime. He allows himself to the count of ten. 

‘To the count of ten, and then we dust ourselves off and get back at ‘em!’ His mother’s voice. Embedded in the recesses of his brain, this high rasp he’s never stopped harkening back to. It’s almost fourteen years since he’s last heard it. ‘There’s always a good reason to keep going.’

True. There’s always a reason to keep going; it doesn’t even have to be good.

He doesn’t have time to get all vitriolic about what’s been snatched from him. Not yet, anyhow. 

He’s still all hot with panic, even though it’s been hours since he left the trailer park. Gained a little clarity since then. 

Not much, but enough to shoplift a pair of scissors.

He tosses the hair in the sink into the maw of the shitcaked cistern and tears open a pack of disposable razors with his teeth. 

—

The red line he draws on the map squiggles up and shoulders out. A straight shot from where he sits across the state of Pennsylvania to New York City, a bullet out the nose of a rifle. He intends to make it there just as fast. 

He couldn't sleep if he wanted to. 

Every time his eyes fall shut, it’s a clear vision of her. Suspended in midair, sneakers hovering above the stained rug of the trailer. The lights flipping out, making him wonder if he wasn’t tripping out. The snap of her jaw to a crude angle, one that it can’t come back from. 

He wasn’t tripping out. He knows what he saw. Her skull impacted on itself. The sound of her tongue squelching as she choked on it. 

Like something was inside her. Tearing her apart.

He knows what he saw.

Doesn’t he?

Eddie groans as his stomach lurches. His hands tighten on the wheel. He can’t afford to spit up any more bile, not tonight. 

No time. No sleep. 

A crumpled envelope sits on the dashboard of the van. 

A letter he never responded to, because it’s easier to forget people when they’re not right there, bumming rides from you. 

A return address in Brooklyn. 

—

The moment the phone rings, she knows something is wrong. It gets yanked up in her gut, some feeling she’s tried to stamp down because she’s a grown up now and she can’t be caught mourning sandbox shit. 

The competitive pace of her life doesn’t allow for it. She doesn’t have room in her schedule for homesickness like that. Can’t cram it in between classes and looking for an internship at a law firm that can overlook her humble beginnings. 

This marks the second year she’s been away from home for spring break. It was harder to fill the gap the first time around, and to talk her grandmother down, but she made good use of being a country mouse in the big city. Found some bars and libraries and bookstores she’s kept as favorites. 

Tried not to think about how she was so bummed out that she was forced to enjoy them alone. And failed. 

She wrote a letter, a long one, in a dinky dyke bar on St Mark’s Place which was all strung up with Christmas lights. She’d obviously flinched when she heard it called a ‘dyke bar’--so open and proud like that. It wasn’t like when people flung the d-word around where she was from. It wasn’t derogatory; just a descriptor. Toothless, in the mouth of a chick with a shorn head that had told her so. Almost friendly. She told her that her name was Tina, too. 

“I knew a Tina,” she’d nervously said, plucking at the label of her beer bottle, “She was captain of the cheerleading squad. At my high school.”

Tina sniffed a laugh. “You’re a long way from home, ain’t ya?”

About a ten hour drive. 

She got an impulse to write after two Mai Tais and another beer and a half. Dug a copy of The Dark Tower out of her backpack and started tearing out the flyleaves.

Tina let her borrow a pen and she scrawled and scrawled away in that half-light, letter becoming more illegible the drunker she got. 

She remembered that she’d written this, in closing–

‘In closing, I think you’re a fucking piece of shit stubborn asshole. A naive moron who’d step on his own uncle’s neck for an opportunity that looked shiny enough. Fuck you, and fuck California, and I can’t believe you’d fucking do this to me after everything and not even call or anything. I think you’re just like your dad. 

If you ever need a place to stay, you can’t come here.

But if you show up, there’s nothing I can do about it, I guess.’

Weeks later, gripping onto a pole on a crowded subway train, she got a chill down the spine that she was sure meant the letter had made it to Indiana. 

He never wrote back. Probably for the better. 

The same chill pulls in her gut when the phone trills at 6:30 in the morning. The phantom umbilical cord. 

She’s up, because she’s become all regimented now. Riding on a scholarship will do that to you. 

She picks up the slippery seashell pink handset so as not to wake her roommates, because they hate her enough already. 

Though, she really nearly doesn’t. Because she’s scared.

Silence on the line.

“What happened?”

“Ronnie…”

“Wayne? What happened?”

“He’s gone.”

Her whole throat constricts, her body fighting against whatever those words mean. Thoughts start running at hyperspeed– absolutely not, there’s no way, no possible way, I would know. I would know. It’s not that. 

“Whaddayou mean, gone?”

“Can’t find him anywhere.” The beat Wayne leaves makes her realize there’s cold sweat icing her brow. “But I found something else. Something bad.”

Not gone as in dead. Gone as in missing.

—

REBLOGS AND COMMENTS KEEP THE FIC ALIVE. lmk if you enjoyed this because i may continue to write it extremely non-linearly! as an exercise in examining friendships, paranoia and hanging out with eddie and ronnie.

[milf-harrington]

i wrote this in like an hour so please forgive the quality but here's some gentle steddie set somewhere in the early 90's mentions of canonical violence and trauma, but otherwise just a gentle morning scene

5:30 am found Eddie Munson on the back porch steps, watching their liver spotted dalmatian patrol the fence-line with her usual level of seriousness. Ronnie moved like a spectre in the half-light, her edges all blurred and smudged until she stopped to sniff at a weed and became solid again.

The cherry of his cigarette flared bright on his inhale as he brought his knees further into his chest, feet crossed over one another like he could trap the warmth in if he just curled up tight enough. With autumn creeping closer, the mornings were getting crisp.

Luckily, his ears were warm under both his hair and the hood of his jumper,but his legs were prickly with goosebumps thanks to his habit of grabbing whatever was on the floor. This time it was Steve's basketball shorts, the one's that used to be trackpants until he'd taken scissors to them in the summer of '88.

They definitely weren't suited for cooler weather, but they were comfortable and Eddie kind of liked the distraction the chill brought. It was harder to get stuck in memories of snapping bones and dead motors and being eaten by bats when your toes were trying not to freeze off.

Eddie sniffled without tears and wiped his nose with the back of his hand, bringing his smoke back to his lips for another drag. His hands were shaking, but it had nothing to do with the weather.

He'd dreamed of Chrissy again.

The problem with an overactive imagination, is that it could always make your nightmares worse.

After weeks of stress free dreaming, he'd wound up back in his trailer last night, but this time he'd known Chrissy's favourite song. Playing it hadn't worked, and instead the bats had come pouring from her mouth like it was it's own gate. They'd swarmed him before he even had a chance to run, breaking free through the windows and those damn vents before tearing him and Hawkins apart.

He'd woken in his and Steve's bed, in the house they bought with their shady government money, sweat slicked and on fire. His skin was tight and itchy as he'd crept out of bed, tapping the dog awake to take her outside and grabbing his smokes from the dresser.

Ronnie chose then to drop her favoured rope at his feet, head ducked and eyes flitting from between him and the toy hopefully, tail wagging. Eddie secured his cigarette between his lips so he could distract her with a scratch behind her ears, and grabbed the toy with his free hand before she could react. She'd turn it into a game of tug-o-war if he wasn't careful, and it was impossible to ask her to drop it when it took both hands just to keep hold of the thing.

The rope sailed across the backyard in a high arc, and Ronnie almost tripped over her own paws in her haste to get to it.

A few more throws later, the sky was brighter and the back door opened with a familiar wheeze behind him.

Eddie didn't turn as he threw Ronnie's toy again, but listened to Steve quietly walk closer and settle down beside him with a soft grunt.

A moment later, his cigarette was stolen from right between his fingers, but when he turned to complain, Eddie was met with a steaming mug shaped like a bear. He took it with hands that were steadier than they'd been 10 minutes ago.

Steve, meanwhile, had tucked the cigarette between his own lips like he used too when he was trying to seem cool and impressive (before they got their shit together), and unfolded the blanket he'd brought out with him.

It settled over both of their shoulders while Eddie sipped his coffee, feeling it's journey all the way down to his stomach. He watched Ronnie register Steve's presence and come bounding over.

She stopped in front of them with the rope toy swinging from her mouth, tail picking up enough speed to move her hips with it when Steve signaled for her to drop it.

Steve generally wasn't verbal this early in the morning, preferring to sign until the world felt awake enough for voices. Luckily their dog was deaf too, even if she was cheeky about ignoring signals by pretending not to see them.

Finally, Ronnie relented, dropping the rope between Steve's ridiculous old-man slippers as he passed the cigarette back to Eddie. She graciously accepted her vigorous head scratches as reward.

Eddie huffed a laugh and tapped off the excess ash, taking another drag and waiting until the dog was tearing off after her toy to pass it back to Steve.

He accepted the smoke with a smile and didn't ask why Eddie was awake so early, or why he hadn't bothered to dress warmer. Just made sure the blanket was wrapped around him properly, and pressed a kiss to his temple over the top of his hood.

Eddie sighed from somewhere deep and tired inside him and let his head drop onto Steve's shoulder, feeling it drop as he exhaled smoke towards the rising sun.

[maxmagic]

Couldn't even draw a date I had to be realistic khkhkhkh-

Loser Ronnie walking up to a pretty girl with sweaty hands and wobbly legs (me too brother how does one flirt)

Hanks a bastard (luckily he has two babysitters)

[jynzandtonic]

Ooooo how would any/all of the boys react to turning 40???

*Sigh* 40 is a damn fine age. Please accept these snaccs:

Charlie Barber: Henry's all set up to stay with his cousins for the week so you two can get away to the little villa he's booked in Tuscany for the two of you. You'll have the whole time to drink red wine, make homemade pasta, and fuck in the sunshine on the deck off the master bedroom.

Clyde Logan: He feels so damn lucky to be alive, to be with you. Growin' up with Jimmy, two tours in Iraq, all his adventures and misadventures, and he's finally settled down with you and happy as can be. All he wants is to sit with ya on the porch swing and watch the sunset with a beer in hand—but he won't say no to the butterscotch cake ya baked him.

Adam Sackler: Can't really believe he's fuckin' forty. He promises to put some of his commercial money in an IRA and take enough of a break from acting for a little staycation to fuck on every surface of your apartment together.

Flip Zimmerman: You sure you don't want to have a baby, sugar?

Phillip Altman: Perpetual man child. He offers to get matching cougar tattoos with you.

Rick Smolan: Motorcycle tour of Vietnam together, letting you take photos on his DSLR while you ride on the back of his bike.

Ronnie Peterson: Cabo San Lucas with you and all your friends. He wants to drink daiquiris, sing karaoke, and maybe get a sunburn at a nude beach!

[qsmpbutwithsignlanguage]

Do you think that Leonarda knew the way that the other people in Fobo walked?

Do you think that she could recognize Sunny's footsteps, light, but still sure of themselves, still confident in their own regard? That Leo could recognize Foolish's footsteps, because of course she would be able to recognize the footsteps of her own dad after so long of them together (even if he still sometimes stumbles late at night). That Leo could recognize Luzu's footsteps, because she always learned how to recognize the footsteps of family, and she always learned how to recognize the footsteps of threats, and Luzu was a weird mix of both. That Leo could recognize Ronnie's footsteps if she strained her ears, because they were always quieter than everybody else, quieter than even Sunny. That when Leo couldn't recognize the footsteps, she knew it had to be Charlie, or Lenay, or Chayanne coming to Fobo once again. And even if she couldn't always put a name to the footsteps, they were familiar in a way that made them home.

Do you think that she used to be able to recognize Tubbo's footsteps? He wasn't her dad, but he was sort of family. He mattered to her dad, and he mattered to Sunny, and in little ways, he mattered to her. His footsteps were softer than Foolish's, but self-assured, and irregular in their own regular way. She knew that when she heard his footsteps chaos would follow.

But he died. Leonarda knew Tubbo's footsteps once, but she didn't know them anymore. Maybe that was the greatest tragedy of them all.

[your-mums-nuts]

Thinking about Dirtgrub and Ronnie the rat and how they are, at their core, still kids.

They plan ridiculous adventures, they come up with childish business ideas to get rich quick, they play with costumes and swords, they want their mums to be best friends.

They are friendship bracelets and playing make believe and smoking weed behind the school and skipping class and sleepovers and they don’t need to miss their childhoods because they’re right there.

Charlie still thinks Mac is tough, even though it’s been repeatedly shown to be false bravado. Because he still knows Mac as the town weed dealer with slicked back hair and abusive parents, who always stood up for him.

And Mac still tries to protect Charlie, e.g in the high-school reunion episode. Even though he gets thrown to the wolves again and again, he still looks out for Charlie, because to him, that’s still the little boy who is strongly adverse to touch and is most definitely getting molested by his uncle.

So Mac can fall in love with Dennis, Charlie can move in with Frank, Mac can come out, Charlie can sleep with Dee and It will never matter. They’re still thirteen years old, passing a joint back and forth.

[sentientcave]

Let's Riot!

When the Reader St arena gets bought out from under them by Morgan’s vengeful ex, Pippa Graves, The Reader St Riots suddenly find themselves without a practice space. Pippa may say she’ll play nice, but Morgan knows that she’ll either have to get back under Pippa’s manicured thumb or the whole team will be out on their ass in no time. Problem is, the only other practice space around that’s not booked up to the tits belongs to Jo Price, captain of the Femme41, and well… Morgan has a bit of ugly history with her too.

Still, Jo’s at least a little more reasonable than Pippa, and Morgan may hate to beg, but she’d hate to see the Riots disbanded more. And well, maybe there’s room for a little cooperation, especially when their teams get along so well.

Contains: Lesbians! Almost everyone is a woman (Alex is NB and there are like. A few men mentioned.) and most of them are gay, OCs: Readers and OCs from a bunch of my projects and also Bambi and Bricks who belong to the esteemed @dragonnarrative-writes , Roller Derby!, complicated dating histories, this is just a fun little palette cleanser because I got sad working on one of my other projects lmao, alcohol consumption, cannabis consumption

~3k - 18+ MDNI

“Frank, you’ve got to be fucking kidding me!”

“Come on, sweetheart, calm down—”

“I am calm!” Morgan snapped.

Chelsea quickly put an arm in front of Morgan and dragged her back a step. Calling Morgan sweetheart was a great shortcut to her blowing her top. “You are definitely not calm.” She looked back at Frank. He stood between them and the doors to the arena, a short, balding man that looked a bit sweaty and nervous in the low light. “You couldn’t give us any notice?”

“Look, I’ll return your deposits for the month—”

“That’s not the issue!” Morgan's brown eyes flashed with fury, her jaw tight, like she wanted to bite the man, which would be distinctly unhelpful.

Chelsea dragged her back another step. “It is a little the issue. What happened? We’ve never had any trouble, we’ve always paid on time, there’s no reason why you’d drop us like this.”

“New owners,” he said weakly. “I’m sorry, they cancelled everyone. You were just at the bottom of the call list, and you got here before I could.”

“New owners! Since when was it for sale?”

“Hell if I know. They don’t tell me shit either. All I know is that Gerry came in here with some blond bi—" He thought twice about his wording, giving Morgan another nervous glance. "--Woman and she’s the boss now.”

Morgan walked in a tight circle, looking up at the sky, hands on her hips. This wasn’t happening. It didn’t have to be her. Maybe it was some other blond woman with money to burn. “Fuck.”

The doors behind Frank opened. “Oh, hey sugar,” a too-familiar voice rang out, southern accent distinctive. “Fancy meetin' you here.”

Morgan turned around sharply. “Pippa.”

Chelsea groaned. “Oh here we go.”

“Go back to your office, Frank. I think I’ve got this from here.” Phillipa Graves patted Frank on the shoulder and walked past him. “Morgan, I’ve missed you. You never return my calls anymore.”

“Is that what this is about?” Morgan shifted her grip on her bag, glancing toward the parking lot. Bricks and Doll were lingering at the edge, talking to each other and looking back with worried expressions. They knew the history between Morgan and Pippa well enough to be wary of what might happen next. “You’re gonna steal our practice space because I won’t call you back?”

“Aw, honey, don’t be like that. We’re all big girls. I figure we can learn to share. Why don’t you join us tonight? And early next week we can grab dinner and make a new schedule. I’m sure there’s a way to make sure we’re all… satisfied.” Pippa twisted one of Morgan’s curls around her finger, leaning in close. Even ready for practice, she looked perfect as always, more like she was about to model for a roller skate advertisement than actually practice. Sleek blonde hair swept back in a low braid, a tight pink tank top, leggings that clung to her thighs, pads on, skates off, preparation interrupted by all the fuss she was certainly expecting.

“I’m the one that does the scheduling, usually,” Chelsea interjected. “Maybe it’s us that should get dinner.”

“If you like,” Pippa said smoothly, barely sparing Chelsea a glance. “The more the merrier, of course. Though I do have some personal business to talk over with Morgan too. Suppose it can wait.” She tapped Morgan under the chin with her first knuckle. “Come on, sugar, practice with us. We’re not so bad. And you’re all already here, ain’t you?”

“We’ll have to talk it over.”

“Course. Y’all come on in when you’re done talkin’.” Pippa winked at Morgan and sauntered back inside.

Chelsea sighed, elbowing Morgan as they walked over to the others. The rest of the team had gathered around Bricks, her height marked among the group of shorter women. “You’re gonna have to sleep with her.”

Morgan rolled her eyes. “I’d really rather not.”

“She’s not going to be reasonable,” Billie pointed out. “She’s pure evil. She’s the head of the PTA at Ellie’s school, and she runs that shit like the navy. She’s gonna bend us over a barrel to get what she wants.”

“Have you ever tried not having antagonistic relationships with your exes?” Bricks asked. “Because that’s what I do, and no one has bought a whole arena just to fuck with me.”

“Yet,” Doll said reassuringly. “It could still happen.”

“The whole team is awful,” Bambi said. “One of them works in my office, and she’s a real— Well, I don’t like her.”

“Harsh words, DB.” Bricks propped her hands on her hips. “We can suck it up for one night, a free practice is a free practice. And if you have to flutter your eyelashes at her the whole time, you’re gonna do it.” She pointed at Morgan accusingly. “This is your fault.”

“It is not!”

“It is,” Chelsea said solemnly, fixing her pink bun from on top of her head to low on the nape of her neck to fit under her helmet. “Pussy game is clearly too strong. Maybe try being a worse fuck.”

“She can’t.” Bricks gently turned Morgan around so that she was facing the doors, and nudged her forward a step. “She doesn’t know how.”

Chelsea turned fully toward the others, walking backward. “Alright, drills only, we’re not going to let them goad us into a scrimmage, they’re gonna play dirty as hell with no refs, and we can’t afford an injury this close to a game. Keep it loose, and if anyone hassles you, come to me, or come to Bricks. Do not tell Morgan or she’s gonna punch someone and we’re gonna lose our space for good.”

“I’m not!”

Bricks laughed and caught Chelsea’s arm, spinning her before she hit the edge of the door. “Yes you are, Morgan. Stay on your best behaviour. Maybe even try being charming.”

Bunny nudged Dancer, grinning. “If you’d joined up last year, like I told you to, you could have been here for the whole explosion. It was great.”

“Great?” Billie asked, raising her eyebrows. “Were we watching the same breakup?”

Bricks glanced over her shoulder warningly. “Save it for drinks, ladies, or Morgan’s gonna make us skate line drills till we drop.”

They dropped their bags along the benches and geared up, watching the Shadows zip around the track. The Shadows were mean, not just on the track, but off too, in that sugar sweet way that left you wondering if you were just reading into it. They were a pretty well-rounded team, and coordinated, thanks to Pippa. She did nothing in half-measures. It seemed impossible that she’d be able to raise children, run school events, coach a junior team as well as an adult one, somehow have a job on top, and still have time to run around keeping two relationships secret from each other for nearly eight months, but Pippa was the kind of woman who really could have it all.

The Riots were… A good team. Pippa had poached two of their players during the breakup drama, and Pepper had moved back home to take care of her grandmother, and they were still trying to get back to where they had been a year ago. Kitten Caboodle and Break Dancer were pretty solid for fresh meat, but with a small team and only four of them with more than a few years experience, it was rough going out there. Hard not to get demoralized when Kortac had beaten them 240 to 60 during their last game. No one’s fault really— Bunny and Sweetpea had been out sick and neither Kitty or Dancer were prepared to jam more than a few rounds with players that rough. They’d gotten shaken, so Morgan and Billie had done most of the jams. Nobody and Freddie Kruger had just torn right through their weakened pack while Morgan and Bill tried to wrestle their way past Queenie.

Once Dancer and Kitty got more confident, they’d be hard to catch. Kitty was tiny, and Dancer was agile, but they both needed more time. Doll and Bambi, who had joined a little over a year ago had turned out to be a highly effective set of blockers— Small, but sturdy and hard to knock down. When they were out on the track with Bricks or Chelsea, they were nigh impossible to get past, which would leave their fourth blocker free to assist the jammer, in an ideal world.

The ideal world simply had five more players in it. Maybe more, since no one but Morgan and Bricks made it to every game.

Later on, worn out and sweaty from practice, crammed into the biggest booth at a diner that was roughly equidistant between everyone’s homes and the arena (and the young man that worked the fryers had a massive crush on Sweetpea, which meant everyone got more fries), they debriefed.

“That’s gonna be tricky for me to stomach long term,” Morgan admitted. “I’m gonna sleep with Pip if I have to be too nice.”

“You don’t actually have to sleep with her, you know,” Bricks said.

“No… I’m gonna.”

“We can find somewhere else,” Billie suggested. “I don’t want Morgan and Pip to get back together, it was so annoying when they were. All in favour of Morgan not fucking Pippa, say aye.” She raised her hand to note the measure.

“Aye,” they intoned together, all raising their hands as well.

“Simone says the Femme41 practice out of Jo’s warehouse now. Pippa did the same thing to them eight months ago. I bet they’d let us skate there.” Bricks tossed another fry into her mouth. “If someone behaves herself.”

Morgan scoffed. “It’s impossible for me to date another one of her girlfriends, her relationships hardly last the weekends now.”

Bunny mouthed the word Pippa at Kitty and Dancer.

“Then you won’t have a problem asking her,” Chelsea said. “Maybe bake her something nice as an overture. A pie or something. You make good pies.”

Morgan winced. “We have a game against them this weekend. We could ask her all together.”

Billie shook her head. “No, this one’s on you. Captain to captain conversation. You have Chelsea’s schedule key, you can negotiate for a time that works.”

“And if she says no? She hates my guts.”

“Wear something low cut and bake her a pie,” Bricks suggested. “Maybe just go wearing nothing but an apron.”

“I’ve got one that says Born To Be A Lesbian Housewife,” Doll said. “You can borrow it. It’s very frilly.”

Bambi giggled. “I’ve got one that says Vagitarian.”

Doll laughed too, knocking her head against Bambi’s shoulder. “That’s way better, Morgan, borrow that one.”

"I'm not going to-- Did you people hear me when I said she hates my guts?"

"She still has eyes, Morgan," Bricks said. "And you have nice tits."

"If you don't sort this out, we might have to disband to other teams. And I don't want to. I like you guys." Chelsea looped an arm around Kitty. "We started this team because we wanted to get together and have fun and challenge ourselves without it getting so damn competitive or mean. Bill and I are not going back to the Shadows, and there's no way Bricks wants to go back to Kortac. So put on your big girl panties and a cute dress, and charm Jo into sharing the warehouse with us. Got it?"

"Got it." Morgan sank back into her seat with a groan. I'll talk to her after work tomorrow."

"Good," Billie said, a note of finality in her voice. "Now, did anyone else watch Game of Dragons last night? I have opinions."

By the time Morgan got home, walked Laika, showered, ate cold leftovers out of the fridge and stepped out on her balcony with a joint, it was well past dark, and she was bone tired. Jo was out on her own balcony, feet up, smoking a cigar. She was a thick, barrel chested woman, wearing a tank top and jeans, cigar in one hand, glass of whiskey in the other. Her hair was longer than usual, tucked behind her ears, like she'd been growing it out. It had been a while since Morgan saw her without a hat on.

They acknowledged each other with a curt nod, and Morgan settled into her swing chair, tucking her feet up underneath her. Laika went to the railing to give Jo the biggest, saddest eyes she could.

Jo maybe didn't like Morgan much, but it was hard not to like Laika. The big goofy rottweiler loved almost everyone, and knew exactly how to get what she wanted (big sad eyes, a few pathetic whines, a raised paw, if need be). It was only a minute before Jo was up and leaning over the railing to give Laika a pet.

Usually they didn't speak. The smallest things seemed to spark up into fights between them, and Morgan found it was easier just to keep their interactions to a minimum.

So it was a surprise when Jo spoke first. "Rough night?"

"Yeah. You could say that."

"Want to talk about it?"

“Thank you for pretending to care, but not really.” She grimaced. It really was the perfect opportunity to ask, but it was hard to shake the habit of brushing Jo off.

Jo snorted. “You know, I really preferred fightin’ to this cold shoulder treatment.”

“That’s because you’re a disagreeable sort of woman.”

“That’s the spirit, pet. But you can do better than that. C’mere.”

Morgan glared at her. “No. I’m good where I am actually.” She looked the other way, puffing on the joint. She could ask tomorrow. She wasn’t in a mood to deal with anyone else tonight. Having to smile and play nice with Pippa had been bad enough. She needed a good sleep before she could even pretend to be friendly to anyone else.

She startled when Jo’s thick fingers plucked the joint out of her hand. “Hey! I didn’t invite you over here.”

“Your weed’s better than mine.”

“Probably because I grow it myself. What do you want?”

Jo sat down on the solid little coffee table in front of Morgan, holding her cigar and whiskey glass in one hand. She leaned forward, glass resting lightly on her knee, bleeding condensation into the denim. Mixed drink, then, not straight whiskey. Jo drank the better stuff neat. “Pip called me today.”

“Oh yeah?”

Jo hummed, offering the joint back, blue eyes stern. “Don’t be coy, if you’re fuckin’ her again I’d rather know than get blindsided bumpin’ into her in the hallway.”

“Did she tell you we were?”

Jo’s jaw clenched tight. “She said she was lookin’ forward to seein’ you tonight.”

“Well I’m sure it was super nice for her. She bought my team’s arena. I am gonna have to start fucking her if I want to keep our usual practice slots. She made that… Well about as clear as she ever makes anything.” Morgan handed the joint over again. “So not very, but I still got the gist of it.” She scrunched up Laika’s ears, humming. Laika’s tail solidly thumped against Jo’s shin, bridging the space between them.

“Extortionist,” Jo scoffed.

“Yeah. Pretty much. Bricks said you might take pity on us if I asked nicely. I know you practice out of your warehouse.” Morgan lifted her eyes back up to Jo’s face.

“Is this you askin’ nicely?” Jo leaned forward slightly, her soft stomach spilling over her belt a bit, biceps flexing as she leaned more weight on her arms. “You can do better than that. Not so much as a please.”

“It was not me asking nicely. I had no intention of talking to you until tomorrow, and I’m still not asking until I’ve had at least four hours of uninterrupted sleep.”

“Surprised you’d come to me.”

Morgan looked away first, just like she always did. Jo had an intensity to her that was hard to match, blue eyes drilling into her own like she was looking for faults she could use to crack her open entirely. It was much easier to study the freckles on the top of her shoulder, just above the pinup girl sitting on the curve of a crescent moon that looked rather a lot like her ex wife, Sadie. “I wouldn’t if I had literally any other option. But I have to admit that you are slightly more tolerable than Pippa. Even if you do park half in my spot and fuck squealing college girls at all hours of the night.”

“You don’t need the space. You have a bike.”

“So that gives you the right to park your big-dick pickup truck wherever you please?”

“Sure does, sweetheart.”

“Don’t call me sweetheart! We have one conversation that doesn’t make me want to punch you, and you have to ruin it.”

She grinned, shifting back again. “Not being very nice to someone you want to ask a favour from.”

“I’m not asking the favour until tomorrow. I’m too grumpy to be nice tonight. You invited yourself over and plopped yourself down in front of me and started smoking my weed.” This was not helpful. Why did Jo always manage to get her this worked up? She drew in a centring breath. “No, you’re right, I should be nicer.”

"I did bogart your joint," Jo conceded. "That's on me." Rather than hand it back, she took a long drag, the cherry burning bright all the way down to the folded cardboard filter, and dropped the remains in the ashtray. She leaned forward again, cupping the back of Morgan's neck with a strong hand, and blew smoke directly into Morgan's face. She grinned wickedly when Morgan spluttered a bit. "What's wrong, pet? Thought you wanted me to share better."

"Maybe I am better off negotiating with Pippa," Morgan grumbled, swatting Jo's hand away.

"Hm. Maybe. Why don't you think about how you'll ask me about practice space tomorrow, and I'll get out of your hair." Jo stood up, gave Laika another pat, and climbed back over to her side of the balcony without another word.

Morgan ushered Laika inside, fuming again, and furiously got ready for bed.

She was sure of one thing; Jo Price was going to make a truce between them nigh impossible.

Title card made on Canva - Image Credits: 1 - 2 - 3 - 4 (Stickers are Canva assets) Dividers by @/cafekitsune

[ronniaugust]

How To Write Good Dialogue (Part 1)

I'm gonna start this by saying I'm not trying to sound like a know-it-all. I am just tired of posts like these being absolutely fucking useless. I am aware this is basically me screaming into a void and I’m more than okay with that.

This guide is meant for intermediate screenwriters, but beginners are also absolutely welcome. :)

(about me)

-♠︎-♠︎-♠︎-♠︎-

I've noticed a rise in film students who want to make films that have no dialogue. Probably after your professor showed you Doodlebug, right? Fuck that.

I'll make another post about writing a short film, but all you need to know is: Don't waste the audience’s time. Most of these no-dialogue shorts have very little substance and take way too long to tell the shortest possible story. Not a good idea.

Useless Dialogue

Plain and simple, don't write useless dialogue. Useless dialogue is dialogue that just doesn't fucking matter. Dialogue matters by having ✨subtext.✨

What is subtext? Subtext is the meaning behind the action. That's it.

If I tell you that I love you and I got big doe eyes while I say it, it means I love you. If I tell you I love you through a clenched jaw without looking at you, I don't necessarily love you right now.

Simple, right? Great.

Now think about the subtext behind every line. Does your character mean what they're saying? Are they doing it to get what they want? What is going through their mind as they say it? As long as you know your character, you’ll have these answers ready to go. If you don’t, you’ll figure it out eventually. Just keep writing.

When you write your character walking into a Starbucks and saying, "One venti iced coffee," does that do something? Why do I need to see someone's boring Starbucks order? Do I need to know that your character's boring? Why are you writing a boring character? [Of course, in the rare situation where this is some revealing clue to the massive crime investigation, then it makes sense.]

Useless dialogue is any dialogue that has no meaning or purpose in your script. Delete and move on. You don't need to write entire conversations or scenes that bore us, just write what we care about.

I took a class once where my professor called a version of this "trimming the fat." Get us into your scene and out of your scene in as little time as it takes to have it achieve its full purpose in the script.

[P.S. You don’t “inject” subtext into your lines. Idk who started that vernacular in subtext teachings but I hate it.]

Show vs. Tell

I remember a glorious fight I got into with a Redditor last year about show vs. tell… TL;DR: Dialogue is “show” if you write it with intention and subtext. If someone says that dialogue is inherently “tell,” they’re wrong and can go fuck themselves.

Dialogue that is “tell” is expositional dialogue. But, hot take: Exposition isn't just in dialogue. It’s also those annoying clichés that make you roll your eyes in the theater (which we just call clichés and not exposition). I’m sure every professor I’ve had will disagree with this and then get me into a long conversation about it, but let’s ignore that for right now.

Have you ever seen a movie where a character rubs an old, worn-out photo of a young girl while looking depressed? That's exposition. That character has a dead daughter. No shit.

Clichés are incredibly annoying. We all know that. Assume that any cliché you see - in this context - is exposition and try your best not to write it. (Tropes are different and sometimes necessary, so I’m not talking about that.)

Point blank: When you have subtext in your lines, they are "show,” not “tell.”

Before moving on, I'll bring up that while technically the dead daughter photo is subtextual, it is as close to the character saying “My daughter is dead,” as you can get. Don't treat the audience like we're fucking stupid.

The First 15

If you don’t know what the Inciting Incident is, please look up “3 Act Structure” before reading this.

The first 15 pages of your script is the part that comes before the Inciting Incident. This is the part you want to get right because, although people probably won’t leave the theater, they will absolutely find something else on the streaming service they’re using. The people making said movie will also just toss your script in the trash before it’s even produced, so it's best to get it right.

Dialogue in the first 15 generally follows the same rules, but carries a heftier additional rule. All dialogue in the first 15 minutes must, must, must tell us something about your character.

Remember when I talked about that boring Starbucks order? Why is your character boring? Don’t write that. Don’t write nice characters. Or pleasant characters. Or friendly characters. No one cares.

You want empathy. This does not mean “relatable.” It means “empathetic.” There is a difference.

I personally relate to Vi in Arcane, but I empathize with Theo in Children of Men. Both are excellent, but one personally resonates a bit more with me. You cannot write a character that deeply resonates with every single person, it is impossible.

With each line of dialogue, you must be saying something about your character that generates the empathy. Instead of telling you how to do this, I’ll direct you to a movie that will do better than an explanation: Casablanca.

Watch how Rick interacts with the world. What kind of man is Rick? Watch what he does, what he says, and how he treats people and himself. Watch that empty glass on the table. Watch his contradictions. Everything. Those things matter and it’s what makes you want to watch Rick for the entire duration of Casablanca.

“Realism”

This is maybe more directorial, but make your characters human enough, not too human.

Too human is when you’ve tried your best to capture all those little life-like speech patterns. You know, the ones that no one fucking cares about.

If your character coughs, they’re sick. If they clear they’re throat, they’re uncomfortable. If a bruise isn’t going away, they’re going to die. Simple.

Every moment on screen matters. Everything the audience sees is meant to lead them to a conclusion. Not the conclusion, just a conclusion.

The realism you want is in the choices your character makes, not how many times they say “Uh,” in a sentence.

Conclusion

Dialogue matters and should not be treated lightly or without care. Once you have this all engrained in your mind, dialogue should become effortless.

If you want an excellent way to think about this, Robert McKee's Story has an excellent chapter that helped clarify this all for me. Here's an excerpt and the context.

Warning, spoilers for Chinatown.

"If I were Gittes at this moment, what would I do?"

Letting your imagination roam, the answer comes:

"Rehearse. I always rehearse in my head before taking on life's big confrontations."

Now work deeper into Gittes's emotions and psyche:

Hands white-knuckled on the steering wheel, thoughts racing: "She killed him, then used me. She lied to me, came on to me. Man, I fell for her. My guts are in a knot, but I'll be cool. I'll stroll to the door, step in and accuse her. She lies. I send for the cops. She plays innocent, a few tears. But I stay ice cold, show her Mulwray's glasses, then lay out how she did it, step by step, as if I was there. She con-fesses. I turn her over to Escobar; I'm off the hook."

EXT. BUNGALOW-SANTA MONICA

Gittes' car speeds into the driveway.

You continue working from inside Gittes' pov, thinking:

"I'll be cool, I'll be cool ..." Suddenly, with the sight of her house, an image of Evelyn flashes in your imagination. A rush of anger. A gap cracks open between your cool resolve and your fury.

The Buick SCREECHES to a halt. Gittes jumps out.

"To hell with her!"

Gittes SLAMS the car door and bolts up the steps.

Story by Robert McKee, pg 156

The context of this page is McKee's way of explaining how to write characters. I found it very helpful.

-♠︎-♠︎-♠︎-♠︎-

Thanks for reading! I probably forgot something, so I made this a “part 1.”

I hope this helps someone since I’m really tired of finding short films on YouTube that are all fucking silent. The few who have done it well have been copied to death, so please write some dialogue. I promise you it’s so much better if you do.

Asks are open! :)

[seeingivy]

genuinely so excited to write my little enemies to lovers/fake dating academia setting eren au just so i can let all my frustrations about my research lab job in a fic

[thefixations-ofmine]

Pairing: Evan Buckley x Tommy Kinard AU (911)

Word count: 3.3K

Warnings: age gap, blowjob (m receiving), rimming, pet names

Summary: Former high school football star Evan Buckley navigates his new adult life. A broken down car takes him to the nearest body shop, where a very handsome 30-something mechanic catches his eye - and he's good with his hands too!

A/N: Yay, a new fic! This has been sitting in my head for a while and I finally put it down into words after seeing this manip photo of Oliver with longer hair. Sadly, I put aside some things I had already started, but I'm happy to get more work out there! Constructive criticism is welcome. Enjoy!

Main Masterlist | Drabbles Masterlist

“Helping number 36!” A young lady announces over the intercom. A shared gasp fills the room at the loud intrusion, and everyone has a look at their ticket. Evan sighs finally! He walks into the service area and heads to where an assistant is waiting to get his ticket.

“36?” A short man in glasses questions.

“That’s me! I’m Evan,” he answers with a handshake.

“Great, Evan. What brings you in today?”

He goes on for a solid fifteen minutes about all the troubles with his car. From the screeching breaks to the clicking steering and so on. His folks couldn’t afford a new car for when he got his license, and with their money and his combined, a deadbeat ‘64 Buick Skylark was all he could get - while still looking badass. It got him from point A to point B, albeit all the times he had to stop to nudge something back in place or to make sure the oil level was still right. He was saving to get himself a car that was at least of the decade, but it was proving longer than initially planned with all the fixing and maintenance on this one.

“Well, we have a really great old school mechanic, and an open schedule, so we can actually get started today if you’d like!” The assistant states, and proceeds to give him a rundown of the costs. Evan nods and runs back to his car to back it into a garage spot.

“Little further!” He hears a voice call from behind the trunk, unable to see the face of the man in the mirror. “Alright!” He adds waving his hands, and Evan breaks abruptly. He gets out of the car and starts rambling about what needs to be fixed, until a hand on his shoulder stops him.

“We’ve got it, kid.” The deep voice says again, and Evan turns this time, getting a first look at his face. And what a face! He’s surprised at first that he has to look up at him (even for just a few inches), and he rapidly gets lost in his striking blue eyes. “We’ll take care of it like it’s our own,” the mystery man says, bringing Evan back to reality.

“Um, thanks. Yeah, that would be, um, great!” He’s met with a reassuring smile, crinkly nose and all. He smiles back, trying to act as cool.

“I see you play,” Tommy (Evan remembered he could read for a second and saw his name tag) tries to start a conversation, pointing at the high school logo on his t-shirt. He nods. Tommy laughs. “I also used to a few years back. Same high school. Didn’t stick though, I was good with my hands but for different reasons.” If the blush on Evan’s cheeks wasn’t already apparent, that last statement accompanied by a wink surely painted his face a lovely crimson shade. If anything, it keeps Evan from telling him he actually graduated last year, but that’s besides the point.

He lets his eyes wander on the man’s body as he walks around to the hood; he guesses he’s around thirty. His thick veiny hands run along the metal, and thicker, veinier arms struggle to stay contained in the white t-shirt, proving he did in fact play sports in his youth. He likes what he sees, and doesn't know how to act about it. There was one thing a small town high school couldn’t provide you with; a well diverse sex-ed class. Not that nobody talked about it, but it was more often in a bad light than in a supportive kind of chit-chat in the back of a locker room. He had only been exposed to “educative” material through dodgy websites - though he owed his quarter-back wrist strength to that!

Today though, Evan would be happy to learn and explore.

“I’m sorry, do you guys have any water?” He manages to blurt out, running a finger into the neck of his shirt and his other hand up the side of his jeans.

“I’m afraid you’ll have to use the hose, kid.” Tommy points him to the side of the building a few feet away. Evan rushes to it, and almost drowns from the big gulps he’s inhaling, and doesn’t notice Tommy’s watching. Doesn’t see how he licks his lips at the sight of his own mouth pursed, and the sway of his Adam’s apple as he swallows vigorously. How Tommy’s eyes run down his arched back as he’s holding himself up with a hand on his knee. When he’s done drinking, some stray drops run down his chin and Tommy wants to lap at them. He clears his throat and goes back to examining the engine when their eyes meet.

A couple hours has brought the awkward moment to a well established conversation between the two as they exchange about cars and Fantasy Football predictions - both of them stealing looks every once in a while, silently eating the other up. When Evan runs his hand on his stomach as it growls, Tommy takes the opportunity to ask:

“Do you wanna grab a bite?”

“Huh?” Evan asks, his brain scrambled from the heat and the blood filling his semi.

“I think I’ll need at least another day before I’m done, and the last piece I took out will keep you from driving home,” he begins. “I thought maybe we could grab a bite and I can drive you back?” There’s another sensation added to the hunger in Evan’s stomach, one he had felt a long time ago when an exchange student from England had arrived at their school. He’d gotten Evan in a corner one day and kissed his lips, and Evan let him for several seconds before he pushed him away, embarrassed - confused. He told him he wasn’t mad, but that this didn’t have to happen again or be made known to others. He still hates himself after all those years for not apologizing before the guy went back home.

“I. Yeah, yeah. That would be great.” He finds the strength to answer.

“Awesome. Let me get out of these overalls and I’ll be right there.”

Evan guides Tommy down the streets of his neighbourhood after leaving the diner, where he had the best burgers of his life. Didn’t I tell ya, kid? He remembers Tommy had said when Evan moaned at the taste of the greasy patty. He turned red right there again, but when his eyes landed on Tommy’s, he realized they were both bothered and hot by the situation. If he was reading it right…

Kid. Evan can’t shake the hold that pet name has on him, a weird mix of adoration and degradation. He wasn’t a kid! He was 19! But then again, in contrast to the well-established, rugged man sitting next to him, as he watches his fingers drum absentmindedly to a Kiss song on the steering wheel, Evan can understand why he uses that word. He hopes it isn’t derogatory, but is willing to prove Tommy wrong. 

When they get to Evan’s house, Tommy drives his car into the empty driveway and turns the engine off with a content sigh. “I guess that’s my stop,” Evan jokes and clumsily goes to tap the center console, unaware that Tommy had leaned his arm onto it, the contact of his hand hitting the strong skin sends a shiver down his spine. Like a deer in headlights, he stays like this, not budging a finger until he hears Tommy chuckle deeply.

“You okay there, buddy?” That was a new one, Evan notes, and he’s sure now that he read the situation wrong because Tommy must see him as a bro, as his little brother’s friend who’s always squatting in the basement. But the second later, Evan is shoved into a new reality when he feels Tommy’s left hand come to cradle his chin to turn his head his way. He’s unable to tell if he’s still breathing, but that can be done manually so he should survive even in the confined space around them. There’s a tentative look in Tommy’s expression, a light smirk as his eyes volley in a triangle between Evan’s lips, his eyes, and the few bunches of curls that pop out of his cap. When the hand on his arm tightens instinctively, Tommy takes the plunge and crashes their lips together.

It’s hungry and unfiltered, and what Buck gives in clumsiness Tommy can redirect and show him he’s really into this. As if his grunts or the hand creeping to the back of Evan’s neck weren’t enough proof that Tommy wasn’t just trying to be nice. That’s when Evan realizes he’s kissing back, and grunting too, and he’s not going to have to feel sorry for the near future because of his stupid brain. He unfastens his seatbelt to try and kneel onto the seat until Tommy laughs into his mouth, now open from having been explored by a hungry tongue.

“Evan,” he begins, “are you sure about this?” There’s a frown on Evan’s face and he wonders what he did wrong, until Tommy corrects: “I mean, is this okay here in the car? Won’t anybody just walk by?” And then Evan smiles.

“My parents are out of town for the week, if you would, um. If you’d like, we can go inside.” It’s like the puffiness of his lips is keeping him from talking properly, but Tommy’s eager to get out of the car and follows Evan to the door, hooking one of his fingers into a loop at the back of his jeans, that way he can pull Evan against him as he shuts the door. They makeout in the entryway for several minutes, hands rushing to touch the other’s skin.

“Sit on the couch,” Tommy says firmly. Evan’s stomach flips again. He obliges, and sits awkwardly on one side of the couch, leaving room for Tommy, completely oblivious to his intentions. Until Tommy grabs both sides of Evan’s ass and manhandles him onto the center, and finds a comfortable spot between his legs on his knees, then Evan understands where this is going and he’d be lying if he said it didn’t send a sweat down his back.

“I, um,” he struggles. “This is um... Has never happened before.” He’s already a panting, sweaty mess even though he’d been in this position before - granted the subjects on the floor were much more petite, delicate and feminine. This was uncharted territory he definitely wanted to wander into, but he felt like he forgot his flashlight and was walking barefoot in gravel through the expedition.

“It’s alright, kid. I just want to take care of you for tonight if you’ll let me, no expectations.” It reassures him already, and he nods in approbation. “You stop me whenever, tap my shoulder and I’ll be gone.” He chuckles along with Tommy, and bites his bottom lip when he’s already working on his fly. He makes quick work of it; good with his hands, Evan thinks back.

And boy does he prove it fast. Evan’s not sure he even got to take three breaths in before Tommy was running his thumb along the bottom of his head, applying a faint pressure that had his blood pumping just right, filling his length the rest of the way, causing him to hiss sharply through his teeth. There seems to be a surprised excitement in Tommy’s expression, and he’s not sure if it’s at his size or the way he’s pathetically putty in his hands already, but he’d let that live in the back of his mind forever.

“Breathe, baby boy,” Tommy encourages as he pumps him now. It’s not the usual technique he’d use on himself, but Tommy found that one to be a safe bet most of the time. He feels Evan relax under him, his legs falling a little further apart and Tommy takes advantage to creep into the new space. His arms are holding Evan’s hips down, his left hand wanders under his t-shirt onto the tight, soft stomach of the sweet boy before him. He’s in pain, straining the zipper of his jeans and he curses himself for wanting to look nice rather than throw on some sweats. But it’s not about him. He hasn’t had dick in his mouth for way too long now, and when that buff twink walked into the garage, he knew there was something to play with in those hugging blue jeans.

“That’s it,” he praises, kissing the tip and sucking the bead of precum that had threatened to glide down. “You taste so good.”

“Than- Thank you sir,” Evan moans from deep in his chest. Tommy’s eyes roll to the back of his head, and he sucks in just the tip, then maybe an inch or two, then three, until Evan is a shaking mess under his grip. He sucks his cheeks in on his way up, trying to wet him as much as possible, before connecting their gaze and sinking down fully in a single movement, his nose poking the taunt pubic flesh. Tommy could almost come in his pants at the sight of Evan’s reaction. He can only imagine nobody had gotten that monster down fully without struggling before, and Tommy secretly thanks his first busy years out of the closet for the practice. He pops off after a few seconds.

“Is that okay?” He’s teasing, of course. The wet sounds of his hand pumping with purpose already answer his question.

“Is that… Are you, are you fucking kidding?” He throws his head back with a punched laugh, sending his cap to fall onto his lap. Tommy grabs it and puts it on backwards, and Evan has to shut his eyes or he’ll embarrass himself in the next seconds. The look makes Tommy pass for one of his team mates, and there’s a jolt in his stomach at the idea of fooling around with him in the lockers in high school. Though the age difference dynamic is still strongly present; he can confirm from the tricks Tommy is pulling on him. “It’s, it’s so good Tommy.” He pulls out his name in a high pitched moan. Tommy knows he doesn’t have that many pulls left before he’s tipping him over the edge.

He pulls the coffee table behind him a little closer, until his body is slightly nudged underneath it, and he gently lifts Evan’s feet so they rest on it, spreading him just how he intends. He doesn’t waste his time plunging in, dragging his nose along the crease of Evan’s thigh, then the other, pushing into his balls in the passing. His hands have found a safe place just under his knees, so his dick can get a break as he explores him, smells him. He digs a little lower, and gives a trial lick to Evan’s taint, reading his immediate moan as a sign to keep going until he’s fully making out with his asshole moments later. Tommy groans into him when he feels the curious drag of the boy’s fingers into his hair,  the cap long discarded, asking him to stay right there just a tad longer until he’s a writhing mess and Tommy knows he’s gotta take action. Evan’s legs are burning, his stomach feels stiff and he’s not sure whether the pressure in his head is from an upcoming aneurysm or simply that he’s never had his soul sucked out of his body this expertly.

Evan doesn’t even realize Tommy’s lips are back around his dick until he teases his teeth along the top of his tip, soothing it immediately with a pass of his tongue, ellissiting the loudest, most embarrassing sound he’s ever let out in his - numerous - sexual experiences. His fingers are going numb into the fabric of the couch, his nails threatening to strip off. But he’s not close to putting a stop to whatever Tommy had going on; he hasn’t peeped down in a few minutes, scared that the sight of Tommy looking back at him would have him spill way too quickly. He’s biting his tongue now, because he’s just as close and doesn’t know how to let Tommy know.

There’s no actual moment to think because the next second, Tommy’s nose is up against his pubes and he swallows around him once, and twice. And maybe a third time for good measure. And Evan has to let him know he’s about to coat the back of his throat before he’s making a fool of himself, but Tommy’s deadly grip onto his hips is acting on his ability to enunciate anything.

“To-” He’s at least going to try. “Tommy,” he adds. He brings a hand to venture into his curls again, tugging a little hoping he catches the clue. But Tommy is urging on and has his mind set on the goal. He looks up, winks at Evan and takes one last breath before sinking back down fully, swishing his tongue on the bottom of Evan’s dick and managing to bring it out just enough to give his balls some attention.

Evan’s ears start ringing, he’s seeing white. Am I fucking dying? Then Tommy pulls back and tugs on him a few times until the string snaps and he’s emptying himself into the cup Tommy formed with his tongue, moaning and screaming and gasping for air and he’s panicking at the never ending ropes. He’d come again if he had any energy left when Tommy retrieves his tongue and swallows his load with a deep groan of satisfaction.

“I knew you’d be fucking sweet,” he states. Tommy runs his hands along Evan’s thighs, soothing the downfall of such a high.  He kisses along the muscles of his stomach and up to his neck, where he lays a long, open-mouth kiss to the sweet spot behind his ear. “Was that okay?” He’s genuinely asking.

“You’ve gotta stop doubting yourself, sir.” Evan puffs out a laugh. “This, um - This was the best fucking thing I’ve ever experienced.” He leans back into the couch and runs a hand into his hair, still unsure if the light from earlier wasn’t the end of the tunnel. But the warmth Tommy radiates around his body proves he’s still very alive..

“Well, I’m glad you had a good time, baby,” Tommy answers, daring a quick peck to his lips. He gets up and extends his hands to help Evan up also, making the poor boy realize the big problem he’s created;

“Do you, um. Should I-” He looks down.

“Oh, kitten, no. Don’t worry about me, okay?” Tommy deflects his intentions, hoping to buy himself a separate alone time with the pretty boy. “Plus, I’ll see you tomorrow for your appointment, huh?” He winks. Evan makes a mental note to be refreshed and energized for the day, already planning his undeniable turn for the deed. There’s a light stress in his chest at the thought of having his first experience as a giver with a man be so soon. But he’s on fire standing in front of the most handsome man he’s ever seen, who’s more than likely going to ravish him as soon as he lifts a finger, so he’s not going to fuck this chance up.

“I’ll be there on time, sir.” He nods, walking with Tommy to the front door. He owes him at least a decent goodnight.

“Bring that cute smile of yours.” Tommy has Evan blushing effortlessly, but he’s feeling a little bold. Before Tommy’s hand can turn the handle, he’s got him plastered to the door, and rushes to kiss him silly, moaning and toying with his tongue until they’re both breathless again - and as a preview, lets his hand cup at the slowly dying erection in Tommy’s jeans, earning a playful bite to his bottom lip.

“I’ll bring more than that.”

[byexbyez]

chat how do we feel about a silent hill 2 james x mary one-shot

[histhoughtslately]

“…January through December, we had such a perfect year. And then a flame became a dying ember all once; you weren’t here…”

- Ronnie Milsap, “It Was Almost Like a Song”