#and I have like. four scenes to write and all of them Fuck Severely and now I'm excited about it again

[redeemingvillains]

three words, eight letters - mattheo riddle

summary: you confessed your feelings to mattheo months ago, and his unwillingness to do the same might be the very thing that breaks you apart for good.

word count: 2.3k

warnings: angst!!! y'all i literally hurt my own feelings writing this. but i had several requests for angst so here you go! ultimately it's flangst because please, we're not doing real sad on this blog.

a/n: this is the first of two v-day fics i have to share! happy love month my dears, you are all my valentines, no takebacks! ily! bonus points to anyone who gets the reference from the title!

Mattheo was slouched in the largest armchair in the common room staring blankly at the flames in the fireplace as he fidgeted with his lighter, flicking it on repeatedly. Chk, chk, chk. He was thinking about everything and nothing when he heard your voice and was shaken out of his stupor.

He glanced up to see you walking into the room with Enzo and Blaise at your side, laughing at something one of them had said before you parted ways.

Gods she's beautiful he thought, as a familiar warmth settled in his chest and fuck if I'm not glad she's mine.

You were searching the common room like you were looking for someone, and he was about to get to his feet when your eyes lit up in recognition, twinkling, as your perfect lips curved into his favorite smile, the one reserved just for him; but the warmth in his chest disappeared, replaced with a bolt of something that felt an awful lot like fear when he realized your smile wasn't for him.

Another guy was approaching you that Mattheo didn't recognize and the concept tickled something in the back of his brain... didn't he know everyone in this house?

He immediately began trying to place him, to size him up. He had a few inches on Mattheo and though he was loathe to admit it, he was a little broader and more muscular too. His hair was a bit darker, his curls a bit more tamed and the way you were looking at him had Mattheo physically shaking with rage.

He was approaching you with confidence, with ease, and with a lopsided smile and a look in his eye that hinted at exactly what he had in mind and Mattheo was on his feet and moving towards you before he knew what he was doing.

"Hey!" he shouted, his voice carrying in a way that demanded attention.

But either you didn't hear him, or worse, you were ignoring him because your eyes never left the guy who was now dangerously close to you.

"Hey!" he shouted louder, his voice booming now. "Get the fuck away from her!"

But you were totally entranced as the guy stopped before you, and you pressed your hands to his chest and ran them up around his neck, tugging at his curls in the very way Mattheo loved most; he could almost feel the ghostly whisper of your fingers on his neck now, even as he pushed people, shoved them aside in his effort to get to you, to stop whatever the hell was going on.

He was running but felt like he was going nowhere, he was shouting, but it was like no one could hear him. And then the stranger sunk his lips to yours and it was like Mattheo could have called up hell itself in his fury as he lunged for him, but met nothing, falling into deep darkness.

Mattheo's eyes flew open as he clawed at his chest, breathing frantically as he tangled in his sheets, sitting up in his four-poster bed.

...In his four-poster bed.

...In his dormitory.

...It was a dream?

He sat up fully, cradling his head in his hands as he tried to calm his racing heart and steady his breath. He was granted a single moment of relief as he realized the entire scene he'd just witnessed was a fabrication of his mind before he remembered why he was alone in his bed in the first place, why you weren't tucked into his arms, rubbing your eyes and granting him your sleepy smile, his favorite way to start every day.

Fuck he thought as he remembered your argument from the night before, dread settling in his stomach like a rock as he threw back his covers.

It was the last night before everyone returned home for winter break and Mattheo had probably had too much firewhiskey; maybe you both had, he thought, as he watched you wobble beside him as he walked you back to your dormitory. The corridor was empty given the late hour, the only sound the occasional rustle of a painting and your heeled shoes against the cobblestones.

"You're so unserious" you said.

"Well, not everything is as serious as you make it" he replied smartly, smirking at you.

"Not even us?" you asked as you stopped walking to face him.

He sighed and rubbed a hand over his face, drawing his gaze to the ceiling. He did not want to have this conversation with you... again.

You sighed, exasperated at his reaction and moved to keep walking. "Forget it" you mumbled.

Great, he thought. Now he'd managed to piss you off without even saying anything.

"C'mon, c'mere" he said, grabbing your hand pleadingly and pulling you back towards him.

But you didn't relent.

"You're not getting out of this this time" you said, pulling your hand back.

His face sat in an angry sneer, unfamiliar with the feeling of not getting his way.

"It's a simple question that you refuse to answer" you pushed. "How. Do. You. Feel. About. Me?—"

"—Why do you keep asking me this shit?"

"Because it's important to me! Because I want to hear you say it. That's not too much to ask Matty!"

And he knew you were right. So he rolled his eyes and sighed.

"I...care about you, you know that."

"And that's it?"

"Is that not enough?!" he asked, more loudly and harshly than he'd intended. But you were relentlessly pressing up against an insecurity he didn't want to face and it was wearing him thin.

Your eyes watered at his tone, which immediately made him feel even more full of self-loathing.

"I told you I loved you two months ago" you whispered. "And every day you don't say it back breaks my heart just a little bit more and leaves me wondering what I am to you."

He could physically feel your vulnerability, could see it written on your face in the tears perched in your eyes that were wide and desperately searching his face for answers he couldn't give you, in the wobble of your bottom lip that you were biting to keep from breaking down.

But he didn't have a single weapon in his arsenal to fight this emotional battle, he didn't have any context or experience with these kind of feelings, or any idea what to say to make it better. So he shrugged his shoulders in defeat, slamming down the walls around his heart that you'd been beating against since the day he met you.

And it was like you could see him put them up, because you shook your head in disbelief, in disappointment and swiped at your eyes.

"And there it is" you said quietly as you turned away from him.

The fact that you could see through him so clearly, so easily, and the fact that he couldn't bring himself to let you in infuriated him.

"Well princess" he snapped, twisting your once affectionate nickname, "If I'm such a disappointment, why don't you go find someone else who can tell you what you want to hear?"

You turned back to him slowly, your cheeks flush with the shock of his words.

"What?" you whispered in disbelief.

"I can't give you what you want and I clearly don't make you happy" he said, gesturing to the crumbling expression on your face, "So why waste your time?"

"Matty" you said, reaching for him, trying urgently to stop his train of thought.

"Nah that sounds like a great idea" he said, pushing your hand away as his lips curved into a sarcastic smile that terrified you, that brought to the surface every fear you'd had about how he'd break your heart, every warning you didn't heed along the way. "It's obvious this isn't working—."

"—Stop, please stop, that's not at all what I'm saying, Matty, I love—"

"—Don't" he said simply.

He shook his head, barely tracing his eyes over you before he turned to walk away, the distant echoes of your crying chasing him as they reverberated off the stone walls.

He hastily grabbed his clothing off the floor, wobbling as he pulled on his pants and grabbed his shirt.

"What time is it?" he asked gruffly, looking at Enzo.

"Well, good morning to you too—"

"—What fucking time is it?" he growled.

"Eleven" Draco muttered as he walked by. "The first train leaves in twenty."

"Fuck" he said as he slipped on shoes and made for the door, brushing by Theo and Blaise.

The castle was in disorderly chaos with students departing for the holidays; the corridors were crowded with luggage and groups of friends saying their goodbyes that acted as a veritable obstacle course for him that he wound through urgently to get to you on time. He didn't hesitate to give a shove when it was warranted, he knew you'd be on the first train home because you had planned to leave together before he'd thrown a fucking dynamite into your relationship.

His head pounded with his hangover and his regret, neither of which did anything to help the nausea he felt as he remembered what he'd say to you and the mental image of his nightmare that felt more like a reality every moment he couldn't see you, couldn't touch you.

His feet were moving faster than his brain and by the time he found you he wished to Salazar he'd spent more time figuring out what to say. Unlike him, you showed no visible signs of a rough night; your tear-stained face and smudged makeup were wiped clear and you were dressed beautifully as you hoisted your luggage onto the train and hopped onto the platform.

"YN!" he shouted.

But just like in his dream, you didn't hear him.

The sharp conductor's whistle sounded, signaling five minutes to departure.

"YN!" he shouted louder.

A few people around him looked up as he ran past and finally you did too, your eyes wide with surprise at the sight of him dodging around people to get to you, his cheeks flushed, his curls windblown.

You swallowed visibly as he approached you, but you didn't say anything as you stepped back off the train.

He reached for you before thinking better of it and pulling his hand back.

"I..." he cleared his throat and looked down at his feet as he tried to catch his breath.

"...Am sorry about last night. I shouldn't have said a lot of what I said...I shouldn't have spoken to you that way."

Your eyebrow quirked, though your face remained serious. An apology from Mattheo Riddle? Was the sky falling?

His eyes met yours and though they were red rimmed and told of a restless sleep, they remained a perfect, intoxicating shade of chocolate brown that caught your next breath, as it always did.

He paused again, his face scrunching as he carded his hand frustratedly through his hair.

"M'not great with words, or feelings."

You shot him a look as if to say "No shit."

He nodded. "Yeah, yeah, but I—fuck—I do— when you said—I..."

He was trying so hard to get whatever he needed to say out, you could practically hear the gears turning in his head.

Against your better judgement you reached out and tangled your warm fingers in his cold hand.

He looked down at your intertwined fingers and then up at expectant smile on your lips.

"I fucking love you" he exhaled heavily. "I have probably since the first time you let me kiss you. And it terrified me, because loving you means I have a chance of losing you, of getting my heart fucking destroyed, of giving you the power to destroy me, and I don't let people get that close to me for that reason. But not telling you how I felt was destroying me, destroying us all the same. So, fuck it. I love you. Now you know."

You had gotten closer to him with each word and were looking up at him now as you pressed your hands to his chest, just like in his dream and he was certain you could feel his heart hammering there as you smiled at him quietly.

"Can you please say something?" he whispered as he searched your eyes.

"Oh, you want me to say it back? Would it feel really really nice to hear me say it back? Like, you'd feel safe and seen and validated and not alone on a fucking island wondering where you stood with me?" you said with a tilt of your head, challenging him.

He pursed his lips, pushing his tongue into his cheek and pouting slightly as he broke his gaze from yours.

"I deserved that" he said.

You waited a moment longer, dragging it out.

"I love you too, Mattheo Riddle. I forgive you. And I promise I will never, ever destroy that perfect, stubborn heart of yours."

You smiled and looped your hands around his neck, tangling your fingers in his curls in a way that sent shivers down his back that had nothing to do with the soft snowfall that had started. It felt like the earth, the universe itself was back on its axis again and he smiled at you, wide and honest.

"Say it again?" you whispered as you leaned into him, brushing your lips just on top of his.

"I deserved that?" he teased, repeating the last thing he'd said, instantly feeling your lips pout against his own.

"Kidding" he whispered as his hands wound to your hips, pulling you into him.

"I love you, princess" he said quietly, slowly, reveling in the way it filled a part of his heart with warmth that he'd never felt before as he cupped your face and pressed his lips to yours.

@kenjikishimotoswifey @mattiesgf @sleepiibunniiii @darlingshecried @girllblogging777 @foivetimesacharm @clar2aa @broadwaybaby123 @slytherinscreamqueen @chelawrites @loverliner @smut-anarchy @locknco

[agneslovestheinternet-blog]

FUCK YOU, don't leave me

Part Four: Better Terms (Part One, Part Two, Part Three, Part Five)

Special Thanks to @gallyismylittlesilly for reminding me to keep writing this lol :)

Gally x Fem!Reader NSFW

Your purely-sexual relationship with Gally is threatening to blossom into something all-too-terrifyingly real. Your unsaid feelings for each other create an awkward tension that breaks abruptly one night in a very unexpected way. Is this the end of your relationship with Gally? Or just the beginning?

Genre: enemies to lovers, lowkey angst at the end, smut scenes sprinkled throughout

Word Count: 4.4K Read Time: 14 Mins

Warnings & Info: protected p in v sex, blowjob, Gally praise kink???kinda???, nonessential OC’s, movie versions, takes place in TMR with thomas but kind of in a vacuum the plot doesn’t move forward Gally's thoughts in green, Y/N's thoughts in blue

Authors Note: I KNOW I SAID THIS WAS GONNA BE THE LAST PART BUT IT’S ACTUALLY NOT THERE’S GONNA BE ONE MORE LOL. I picked a different format for these last two parts and I hope you like it. I cannot believe the amount of support I’ve gotten on this, I truly appreciate all of you so much. Thanks for waiting so patiently as I abandoned and then re-found this fic:)

–Prologue–

The time has come. That dreaded moment nobody who drank too much last night wants to reach. But it’s here:

The morning after. 

The time when the sun seems too bright, the world seems too loud and everything is moving too fast for you to collect the disjointed memories of the events that led you to the state you’re in now. You’re sweaty, shaky, have a pounding headache and a very weak stomach that is violently threatening to empty its contents, if it hasn’t already. 

This is usually around the time that you start swearing to yourself, your friends, and anyone that will listen that you’re “never drinking again”. This is almost always a lie. 

The version of you that downs shots like they’re water has never met the version of you that is bent over a toilet, feeling those shots come back up, burning your throat just as much the second time as they did the first. The drunk version of you thinks the hungover version of you is a buzzkill and the hungover version of you thinks the drunk version of you is a maniac. But they’ll never meet, so they’ll never reconcile their differences, and you’ll cycle between them continuously until you get older or more boring or die.

The hungover version of you and Gally are doing about as well as you’d expect them too. The former is currently ducking her head behind a bush next to the Med-hut to vomit up bile for the third time this morning and the latter is swaying unpleasantly on the construction site of a new hut that’s going up, silently willing the sun to stop beating down and the volume of his crew’s voices to silence. It is the opposite versions of these two people that have set into motion a chain of events that will lead to a conclusion neither of them would be able to fathom at this moment. 

In exactly 49 days starting from today, Gally will confess his feelings to you. And in exactly 49 days and several minutes starting from today, you will confess yours back.

How exactly does this happen? The versions of you and Gally that exist today still despise each other. 50 days hardly seems like an appropriate turnaround time to go from hatred to fondness. In fact when you look back on the events of this story, the timeline befuddles you as much as it would anybody else. It’s hard to look at the big picture and see the slow change from you two being The Glade’s biggest rivals to then becoming a steamy secret hookup, then a very strange situationship, and then finally two parts of a genuine, real connection. But when you zoom in on all the small moments, (ones that seemed insignificant at the time), it becomes clear as day.

{<--------->}

Day 1

“You came back late last night,” Gia poses suggestively while straightening out the covers on her bed.

“We thought you died,” Ariana continues with mock concern, braiding her hair while sitting on the hut floor.

“Or fell in the pond,” Lireale counters earnestly, setting a stack of her newly folded clothes into her trunk.

“So which one was it?” Elsie takes the direct approach while sitting on the edge of her bed, removing her socks.

“Neither; I just got lost for a bit. Drunk Y/N has a terrible sense of direction,” 

Your lie comes easily and your friends roll their eyes at your poor decision. You usually loved these nighttime debriefings but this one was starting to feel like a minefield.

“I thought you might’ve snuck off with a boy,” the newest Greenie pipes up quietly from atop her new bed in the corner, a smile tugging at her lips. The group breaks into barking laughter that’s just distracting enough to keep anyone from noticing the heat prickling under your eye sockets.

“Y/N isn’t exactly into boys,” Ariana pipes up with a knowing look at you as soon as the laughter dies down.

“I would be if we lived somewhere normal. But we don’t. Trust me, greenie, none of these shanks here are worth any of our time,” Your friends give a rousing cheer and the conversation pivots naturally to the new greenie and how she’s liking The Glade so far. You’re grateful their eyes have left your face, allowing your blush to dissipate gradually and your mind to stop replaying flashbacks of the night before.

Day 2

“Jesus, Newt, I don’t know! I was drunk, I don’t even remember going into the woods the other night. All I know is that I somehow made it back to my hut before morning” Gally snaps, trying to stop the barrage of questions tumbling from his friend's mouth.

“Well, drunk you seemed to be on quite a mission,” Newt counters with a grin, not at all phased by the Builder’s trademark aggression. Newt has a creeping feeling that Gally is full of shit and knows exactly why he entered the woods the other night, but he knows better than to press him. It’s rarely worth it to pick a fight with him.

“I’m sure he was. Next time I’m hammered, I’ll let you know what that mission was,” Gally grumbles, trying his best to put on a sarcastic tone. If he ever did get drunk enough to confess the mission he had been on the other night, he’d throw himself to the Grievers.

Day 5

It hadn’t taken much, really. Some lingering glances, a head jerk in his hut’s direction from Gally, an acknowledging nod from you, a hand signal from him; closed fist to open palm twice in rapid succession (flashing five fingers twice = meet at ten). You’d both been a lot more apprehensive losing your clothing sober, but you’d quickly picked up the passion that had burned the other night once more.

You’re on all fours with your back arched on Gally’s bed and he’s standing behind you, thrusting his hard cock into your quivering pussy as he grabs your waist tightly.

“Are you close?” the Builder huffs out in a low tone.

“Yeah…” He is determined to not leave you without a climax this time and reaches a hand around to your front, fumbling blindly until he locates the bundle of nerves hidden between your folds. When his rough fingers begin to fondle it, you feel a jolt of pleasure zap your body that causes your arms to buckle beneath you.

“Keep…doing that….and…slower….pleeease”. The whine on that last word makes Gally’s cock ache for release but he focuses on delivering you slow thrusts as he swipes at your clit. You feel the warmth building in your core as each stroke pushes you further to the edge until you’re gripping the sheets beside your head and pushing your thighs together, riding your climax to its satisfying finish.

“Did you..?” // “.....duh,” // “Can I-” // “Yeah go ahead,”

With your permission given, Gally quickens his thrusts for a few seconds, his own familiar wave of pleasure washing over him as his cum spurts into the condom buried deep inside of you.

Neither of you says a word while cleaning up and redressing, too high off the post-orgasm endorphins to trust your mouths not to say anything stupid.

“You fuck better when you’re sober,” you finally state with an air of constructed indifference.

“Really?” Gally raises a well-defined eyebrow at you, his blue eyes wide.

“You’re less sloppy. More…” // “...Focused?” // “...Intentional.”

Gally’s heart is pounding in his ears. Your praise of his sexual prowess seems to affect him more each time you express it.

“Thanks. You’re more…responsive, when you’re sober,” It was your turn to become skittish at his soft-spoken, rather clumsy compliment. 

This conversation has been backed into an awkward corner. You cross the room to his door, avoiding his eye contact in the process, ready to make a quick escape.

“‘Night” // “Yeah see you, um, later I guess” // “Yeah,”

The door closes quickly behind you, leaving Gally to curse his lack of verbal smoothness in his now starkly empty hut.

Day 7

You’re wrapping a thick gauze bandage around Chuck’s left ankle, which he rolled while trying to catch up with Minho earlier today. Why Chuck would ever believe he would be able to catch up to a guy whose only job is to run, is beyond you. The youngest Glader always seems to be tripping over his own feet, so this incident is nothing new. As he chatters idly, Jeff pokes his head around the med-hut’s dividing wall.

“Are you close?” he asks simply, entirely unaware of the context in which you last heard that phrase.

“What?!” you snap, your head swiveling so fast to meet his eye line that your hair slaps you in the face.

“Are you close to being done with Chuck?” he repeats, his forehead creasing in bewilderment at your reaction. “Fry burned his hand, we need the exam table,”

“Oh, yeah, give me two minutes,” you reply, relief coloring your voice now.

Day 11

Alby had sent one of his orderlies to fetch Gally “to talk”. The entire walk over, the Builder’s stomach had been doing somersaults. Had Alby somehow seen? Did someone else, and had they told? Did you tell him? His panic was for nothing, as it turned out the resounding answer to all of them was “no”.

All Alby had wanted to say to him was a generic message of praise. He gave sincere thanks for the incident-free bonfire night and encouraged him to keep up his civil behavior. He told Gally that he appreciated that he could be the bigger person.

The Builder had tried to conceal a chuckle at his leader’s choice of words as he exited the meeting room. He knew he shouldn’t be reminiscing about the walls of your pussy taking his cock as deep as he could bury it while getting genuine compliments from an authority figure, but the memories were too intoxicating to stop.

They had him riding a high of lustful endorphins for the rest of the day that confused his crew as they whispered theories to each other about what the hell was making their otherwise surly leader so easy-going today.

Day 14

“Dinner in the Med-hut tonight?” Minho asks comfortably, taking a spot behind you in line in the dining hall.

“Yeah, I’ve gotta restock supplies. Tomorrow Alby’s doing an inspection and the place is a goddamn disaster,” you sigh, not looking forward to your task but feeling it might be better with Minho to keep you company. The Runner was notoriously easy company to keep.

“Cool, I’ll give you a hand,” he states.

“No you don’t have to, you can just sit and talk to me while I-”

“I want to help,” Minho cuts you off, surprising himself with his boldness. Too forward, Minho, way too forward.

“Ok then. I’d appreciate your help,” you smile back, pleasantly surprised by his kindness.

Maybe not too forward?

Day 17

“...and thanks to Gally and his Builders for the new hut by the Map Room. I’m sure everybody who no longer has to sleep in a bloody hammock is grateful,” Newt reads from a clipboard of meeting notes, pride coloring his tone. A small smattering of applause ripples through the meeting room, with the inhabitants of this new hut clapping louder than all others. 

Gally gives an uncharacteristic smile that warms his usually stony face. You lock eye contact with him from across the room. Your gesture is small, (an almost-imperceivable nod and one singular clap of your hands), but he finds himself exceptionally appreciative nonetheless.

Day 19

You’re on your knees in the deadheads with the full length of Gally’s erect cock sheathed in your willing throat. He’s standing against a tree with shaking knees, his large fingers threaded through your soft hair, scattered moans and guttural whimpers falling from his lips.

“Fuck, ‘mclose…” he manages to breathe out, his grip on your hair tightening. 

Your heart flutters at this comment and you alternate between taking his entire length to the back of your throat in short, coarse jabs and swirling your tongue around his tip. The fluctuation is overstimulating for Gally, who still can’t believe you agreed to do this to him, in the middle of the work day. Maybe it’s this sudden surge of gratitude that brings a certain nickname to his mind.

“Thank you…princess…” he moans out, cringing slightly at his own comment at first but quickly losing himself in the pleasure once more. You run your tongue back and forth over the sensitive area just underneath his tip and stroke the rest of his shaft with your right hand.

“Princess…’m gonna…cum-” he chokes out, which serves as your cue to take his entire length deep in your throat and swallow every spurt of bitter liquid that ejaculates from his swollen tip. Gally releases his death grip on your hair and smooths it out softly, breathing heavily and trying to get his vision to quit spinning.

He looks down at you, as you release your mouth from around his cock and plant small kisses up and down his shaft that send shivers through his already-sensitive body.

“Sorry,” he mumbles through a blush, his rough hands traveling from your hair to your cheeks, where he cups them gently. The gesture is affectionate, which means it’s very out of character for Gally. So is apologizing, actually.

“Sorry for what?” you inquire, making eye contact with him through heavily lidded eyes.

“The nickname. I know it was dumb, I don’t know why I thought-”

“I liked it, actually,” you confess, standing and brushing away the dirt that sticks to your knees.

Gally pulls up his pants and boxers that had been pooling around his ankles and breaks out into a proud grin. He stretches himself to his full height and leans in to whisper in your ear.

“Well then; have a good day princess,” he coos, letting the lust color his voice as he slinks away before you can respond.

Day 21

The air in between you and your Runner companion is unseasonably chilly but calm. Birds chirping loudly in the trees, leaves rustling in the trees and two pairs of boots squelching on the wet ground creates the sonic palette beneath your easy conversation. You gather white-headed mushrooms littering the forest floor to make a pain-relieving salve and deposit them in the wicker basket Minho insists on holding for you. 

“No offense to those guys obviously,” you start, depositing a handful of mushrooms into the basket with a soft thud, “it’s just that I wish we could have, like, real clothes,”

“Ones that aren’t sewed by teenagers using whatever materials they can find?” Minho asks with a smile.

“Yes. Ones that might be a tad more flattering to my figure,” you chuckle, straightening up from your leaning stance to stretch the loose fabric of your tunic to its full size with your hands. Minho seems to ponder this comment for a moment.

“I don’t know…” he mumbles, “I don’t think your figure needs much flattering,”

The statement hangs in the air for a moment, almost creating a tense cloud that you quickly dissipate with a well-placed snide comment.

“Yeah right,” you snort, forcing down the smile that threatens to envelop your face.

Day 24

“Y/N, can you toss me that rope?”

Gally realizes his faux pas as soon as the question leaves his lips. Everyone in his immediate vicinity snaps their heads up to look at him, having never heard him say your name for any other purpose than to start a fight. He tries to keep his expression neutral, though internally he’s panicking. There’s no way his fellow Gladers could work out that you two were having sex based on him asking you to hand him a piece of equipment…. but could they? 

“Sure, here,” you respond evenly, tossing the rope that was sitting in the grass next to you towards the Builder. You try to ignore the stares and hope the heat in your cheeks can be easily excused by the midday sun.

“Thanks,” he mutters, and all but leaves a cartoonish puff of smoke behind him, as he turns on his heel and returns to the task he needed the rope for.

That was bold, you think to yourself, watching the Glade’s inhabitants dart their eyes between you and him in bewilderment. You fix your face into a neutral expression, and silently plot to slug Gally in the arm for being so obvious when you see him in his hut later tonight.

Day 27

As it turns out, Gally asking you to hand him a rope is indeed enough to stoke rumors in The Glade that have been steadily growing for several days now.

“It was so weird,” Gladers would whisper to their friends who didn’t witness the minor incident, that has now been retold so many times it’s akin to legend.

“I thought they hated each other?” another would ask.

“I guess they made up,” others would chime in reluctantly.

You and Gally’s outright display of civility seemed to have marked a distinct end to an era for the most prolific gossipers among The Glade’s midst. For months upon months, they could rely on your feud with him to create consistent, free entertainment that provided a welcome respite from the horrors of everyday life. But now the fireworks seem to be over and the only question on everyone’s mind is; why?

Day 29

Gally stands in front of the closed door and allows his eyes to linger on you longer than he normally does. It’s bonfire night once again, and the both of you got stumbling drunk and ended up back here, repeating the steps of last month’s escapade like a well-rehearsed dance. He watches your figure, clothed in just your linen bra and underwear, sway to a beat no one but you can hear. 

Gally can’t explain why, but he’s beginning to like this arrangement for more than just sexual gratification. After the stress of each day beats him down, he can look forward to moments like this. Watching you dance to an imaginary audience, concealed in his hut, away from prying eyes and Grievers and mazes and chores. Just you and him, in your own little world. 

Day 32

“You know, I don’t think you’ve ever actually told me what you’re into. Like, in words,” you say, pulling away from kissing Gally and continuing the conversation you’d been having a few minutes ago about your preferences in bed.

“Oh, uh, fuck. I guess…ok, don’t laugh at me,” he shoots you an acidic glare. “But I guess I like when you…compliment me? Like when you tell me I’m doing good or I feel good or whatever. It’s uh…it motivates me, I guess,” His face is bright red and his stomach is doing flips; he’s never been this honest and it’s making him feel uncomfortably exposed.

“I probably would have guessed that,” you chuckle, diffusing the tension, “Noted,”

You file this information in the back of your mind and pull him back into you.

Day 34

“So you and Y/N are on better terms then?” Minho asks tentatively over dinner.

“Uh…” Gally pauses. To an untrained eye it might seem like he’s embarrassed, but he’s actually searching his mind for an appropriate half-truth. He is an impressively bad liar and might not be able to contain just how much better the terms he’s on with you are when asked about them directly.

“Yeah kinda. We uh…talked and kinda realized the whole feud thing is dumb. It’s childish,” Gally dismisses, clipping his voice with frequent pauses to keep his tone steady.

“Oh, that’s…that’s great dude!” Minho exhales, trying to keep the swell of excitement from bursting through his chest. If Gally doesn’t want to kill you anymore, then there aren’t many other obstacles keeping him from pursuing you.

Minho steers the conversation away from his question easily, starting in on the newest Greenie and how he nearly took Newt’s head off with a backhoe earlier today. 

Both the Runner and the Builder are blissfully unaware that the slight blush in both of their cheeks have the same source.

Day 35

“You’re so big, Gally,” you moan out, feeling every inch of him stretch your walls deliciously.

“You fill me up so well…” he leans down to kiss your neck, “...no one else could make me feel like this…” his thrusts quickens as desperation for you sets in, “...you’re so hot…” he whimpers in your ear, feeling his climax looming, “...and strong,”

Your addled mind, too preoccupied with the feeling of Gally’s cock sliding in and out of you, starts babbling compliments that are a lot less sexual in tone. 

“You’re so pretty…and smart…you can do…fucking anything. I’m happy I can…do this…for you. You deserve…a fucking….break. You’re so strong…and good. Gally; you’re so good….you’re good…you’re so good…soooo good…Gally…”

It’s this phrase that causes the Builder’s heart to race like never before. You’re so good. Not good at fucking you, not good in bed, just good. Inherently worthy. 

He’s never had anyone tell him he’s good, full stop. He thrusts harder and sloppier, trying to repay you for the praise. When his orgasm does come, it’s better than all of the other times combined.

He leans down to kiss your collarbone. It’s gentle and needy, not frenzied like before. You feel a drop of liquid on your bare skin, then a few more, then a stifled whimper. 

Gally’s crying. 

His face is hot and he can barely process the feeling of finishing inside you over the shame that’s now washing over him. He kisses your skin, trying to cut off his sobs with the pressure of his lips.

You instinctively run your warm hands up and down Gally’s arms, which simultaneously soothes him and furthers his embarrassment. He sighs and slowly lowers his torso on top of you, nestling his head in the crook of your neck. His heavier body causes unpleasant pressure on your chest but something tells you that moving will spook him. So you don’t. 

Until he pushes himself off of you jarringly, wiping his face and beginning to dress under the oppressive silence that’s now fallen between you two. You do the same, trying to keep your eyes off of him. You debate whether you should just leave his hut without saying a word, until you turn to face him. 

He’s sitting on the edge of his bed, bouncing his left knee nervously, his hands clasped in a tight fist in front of his mouth, his eyes staring straight ahead. You sit down next to him and place a timid hand on his arm, which he immediately flinches away from.

“Jesus, dude, I can’t touch you now?” you hiss in a biting tone. You know that Gally deals with outright aggression a lot better than shows of vulnerability.

“I just didn’t know what you were doing, damn,” he responds in an equally huffy tone, though his body language doesn’t match. He lets one of his arms fall from his face and you both intertwine your fingers. Another moment of silence passes, and he finally speaks.

“I don’t-I don’t know what that was. I’m sorry. I just-I didn’t expect-I didn’t think that’s what you were gonna say and I-”

“It’s fine. I didn’t know I was gonna say all that stuff either. It just kinda…came out,”

“Yeah…yeah I get it,” 

Another agonizing stretch of silence fills the room.

“Did you, uh…did you mean it?” he winces as his mouth forms the words, as if anticipating a gut-punch.

“Mean what?” Playing dumb won’t stop this display of feelings but it’s your only defense. Gally doesn’t realize that vulnerability terrifies you just as much as it does him.

“What you said. That I’m…” his voice falters. 

He knows he’s about to puncture the nonchalance of your dynamic like a pin through a balloon. But he can’t stop himself. He thinks about the way your praise made his heart race and the rush of affection towards you he’s feeling right now as your hand is wrapped in his and out comes the word vomit, stinging his throat almost as much as the real thing.

“…pretty and uh, smart and that you like doing this for me…” he’s nervously scanning your face for a reaction but it’s your turn to look straight ahead now, becoming frozen with panic. “...and that I’m-I’m good. Do you…really think I’m good, Y/N?”

Yes, you want to scream, yes of course I meant it. All of it. Yes Gally; I think you’re-I mean, yes; you’re good. 

But you don’t say that. You can’t bring yourself to. This is all starting to feel very real and very far from the no-strings-attached sex you signed up for. You’re not ready to admit that this might be something more. So what you actually say is,

“I don’t know. It was just bedroom talk, Gally. I-I just got carried away. I’m sorry if I gave the impression that any of that meant-”

“Right, yeah, ok,” Gally cuts you off quickly, feeling a terrible ache rumble his chest, like a wall’s been dropped on top of him. He feels the hot sting of humiliation like flames connecting to his skin. He drops your hand quickly and resumes his original position of clasping his fists in front of his mouth, his elbows propped up on his knees.

“Gally I-” It’s already too late for justifications. The moment has passed.

“I think you should leave,” he’s still staring straight ahead, his eyes glassy.

“Uh, ok. Like, now?” you try to keep the pain out of your voice by feigning confusion.

“Yeah. You came here to fuck me and you did so, you can leave now,” he snaps back. Anger always seems to suit Gally better; it’s more becoming of him. 

“I don’t…I don’t understand what I did wrong,” Yes I do.

“Nothing’s wrong. We’re done having sex. Get the fuck out of my hut now,” Please don’t leave.

“Fine asshole; I’m leaving!” I’m sorry.

You rise to your feet dumbfounded. I’m sorry. You grab your jacket from the floor. I’m sorry. You walk to the door. I’m sorry. You turn the knob. I’m sorry. You step over the threshold. I’m sorry. You shut the door behind you. I’m sorry.

Despite the hundreds of times the phrase “I’m sorry” pounded in your ears as you left Gally behind, you never found the courage to say it out loud. You wipe your own tears from your eyes as you walk back to your hut, hoping that wasn’t the last chance you’d ever get to say it.

{<--------->}

Tags: @katie-tibo @my-little-universes @cthood @decaffeinatedpuppygiver @sarahstar11

[paradiseismine]

Instant Chemistry (part 1) - Finn Wolfhard x reader

Pairing: Finn Wolfhard x actress!reader

Warnings: none yet, but of course, this fic will be packed with smut in its future chapters.

Summary: reader is an actress and her agent has a surprise for her - a hot scene in an indie film with one of her favorite actors, Finn Wolfhard.

Format: This is NOT a one shot like the ones I usually post, it’ll likely be a 4 part story (maybe longer).

Love note from Nina: I had a dream about Finnie recently and decided to write it down into a fic. Hope you like it 🫰🏻

Everyone in the industry plays an archetype: that was a given. Some actresses were the goody two shoes, some were femme fatales, some were girls next door. And as crazy as that might sound, you were growing into a femme fatale. That meant that showing some skin and partaking in more sensual roles was bound to happen - and it’s not like it bothered you.

Leo, your agent, had gotten you pretty far for a 22 year old with your background: you had gone from model, to extra in some bigger productions, to main star in a few indie films. You had started acting classes a couple years ago, and was trying really hard to become an actual actress, and make a living solely out of your acting.

One day, you made Leo a huge favor by preventing his future husband of figuring out Leo’s proposal before it actually happened, as it was meant to be a surprise. “I owe you one” he had texted you later that evening, “and I’ll make it count when I pay you back”.

Several weeks had gone by and a project you were once dying to get your hands on was finally going strong. You had gotten home after a long week of shooting your new indie film - a complex and delicate story about a young marginalized prostitute whose dream was to have a romantic relationship and live a normal life. It had some intense sex scenes, but lots of dramatic charge that would surely put your name on the spotlight. With your body exhausted but with your heart smiling, you fell asleep in your new apartment in L.A.

“Morning, rising star” you woke up to Leo texting you, your phone buzzing with his messages. “Remember that one I owe you? Just paid it”.

“lol what did you do?” you responded, the tips of your fingers rushing through the keyboard on your phone screen, curious. Leo was always full of surprises, and you loved that about him.

“You’d told me your fav tv show was stranger things, right?”

“Yeah, so?”

“Well, I think I just got one of the ST kids to be with you on a spicy scene next week hehehe” he texted, and your mouth went completely agape. “You’re welcome in advance, darling” he added, his jokingly cocky tone nearly audible.

“omg who????”

And… he didn’t text you back.

Your head was cooking for the entire weekend, trying to figure out which ST actor Leo had convinced to partake in the movie. He had said “ST KIDS”, so it was one of the core four, for sure. You crossed them out in your head after some extensive online research: Noah Schnapp is gay, so he probably wouldn’t be comfortable with such intense sex scenes with a woman… Ok, he’s not it. Gaten Matarazzo is probably busy with some Broadway play, he always is. Not him as well.

Finn Wolfhard is always juggling twenty different gigs at the same time. You wanted him the most, but it was very unlikely he’d take the role. So, Caleb McLaughlin was your best chance. He was surely a darling to work with, you’d heard, so you were still excited to meet him, of course.

As you entered the set on Monday morning, your mind was hung up on the idea that Caleb was your special guest. You’d rehearsed in your head how you’d introduce yourself to him, the things you’d say, everything.

Your brain turned into complete putty once you spotted FINN WOLFHARD sitting on a foldable chair, holding a stack of paper, eyes roaming through the script. Fuck. It was him.

You’d get to kiss him, to rub your body all over him. Not for a minute. Not for an hour. But for a whole day. Heck, maybe even two days. And you’d still get PAID for it. It seemed nearly illegal that a job would do that.

You approached him slowly, trying to gather words into your mouth to simply greet him. Soon, he raised his eyes from the script and spotted you.

- Hi - he smiled sweetly. - You must be y/n, right? I’m Finn, nice to meet you.

He shook your hand politely, and you tried your best to give him a firm handshake (Leo always says that a good handshake is important in a Hollywood career), preventing your fangirl reaction from shining through.

- Oh, hi - you smiled back at him, still trying to seem normal and unimpressed. - That’s me. Should we get to the chemistry read? I’m so excited for this project, you have no idea.

- Me too! I loved the script so much, this is just great - he flipped through the pages, his teeth showing through a cute shy smile.

- Quite a departure from fighting inter dimensional monsters, isn’t it? - you joked.

- Definitely - he laughed, standing up to follow you towards the chemistry reading table.

Once everyone was sat down and settled, the reading began. Finn would be one of your character’s clients, and was only supposed to be in a scene or two, in a cameo appearance type of thing. But at the end of the reading, that seemed likely to change.

The chemistry between the two of you was electric, the director had said. The whole crew was amazed at how naturally you seemed attracted to each other just through your words, how easily the scenes would develop. From a small role, Finn was now asked to play your character’s main love interest.

He called his agent on the spot and pushed back a few band gigs on his schedule and said yes to being half naked with you for a few more days. I mean, the project itself was an indie film, so it wasn’t even good money. His main reason to take the part must’ve been you.

[bamsara]

Have you seen cannon Eclipse yet?? Will Ruin be effecting how you portray them in SL?

(Ruin spoilers) Long post!!! Sorry I rambled klsdhglksd plus I pulled out some of my older art so it's a bit of a ramble post about Eclipse and how I write/draw them / the duality of man (robot) / and SL's AU universe

Most likely not since a fully-booted-up Eclipse in SL wouldn't be too terribly different from what I could work with coming from Ruin. I've already made several art pieces and writing drafts about the 'scary looking but sweet' Eclipse type more than the murder murder murder scary kill kind having to do with the virus's invovlement, so I think this developement is actaully pretty steller for me

Not to say my Eclipse won't be a bit more intense than what was shown in the DLC, but I think it still works out

I mean Look at my doodles and writings of Post-Solar Lunacy Eclipse and how they act: you've got your spooky behavior that comes from Five Nights At Freddy's being a horror game + based off of the DCA's behavior + general alternate universe junk :

and then your silly goofy:

I've always adored the Duelity of Man (Robot)

So basically: Ruin DLC will probably not affect how I write Eclipse at all because from the short few lines we got from them kinda already alligns with how I see Eclipse behaving, at least Post - Solar Lunacy. Sweet boy.

Eclipse's dialect is a bit different in the ruin dlc then how I've had it planned but I think that's okay too, considering how I had their dialect/manner of speaking pretty down similar to how Sun & Moon were speaking in the DLC at least (the short sentences, phrases, occasionally long ones) although this is kinda just a writing flow choice / au character interpretation thing that's a personal preference, since I personally have Moon less verbal than Sun and Sun a lot more talkative in my fics than even the og Sun in Security breach.

Appearance wise? Nothing really changes! The hat and sunrays combo can switch inbetween having a hat or just having sunrays (like how arcade game Eclipse just has sunrays, but character model Eclipse has Moon's hat) and it really just depends on the scene and/or if the DCA was already wearing the nightcap as Eclipse makes an appearance.

I'm keeping the four-arms deal. Best thing the fandom came up with and love it when they do that for characters. Insert 'i just think its neat' image here.

Solar Lunacy has been and still is a AU universe so like said before, some aspects of canon are choosy to whatever I think makes a good entertainment story and all, so not too worried about sticking to canon all that much. Yippie for transformative and creative expression!

THAT BEING SAID, I absolutely fucking adore the glimpse of personality we got from the few scenes of canon Eclipse in the Ruin DLC and it fits an idea of character in my head for them, so I won't really need to divert from the original draft too much for Eclipse!

I'm really happy ahh!!!!

[sil-te-plait-tue-moi]

Got shocked.

Quick summary: Before he knows why, Rust is fixating on you.

Warnings: Not much except it does get literally sick here kind of; sexism and really gross remarks; kind of workplace harassment; Rust being unsettling.

Word count: 3.6K

A/N: Erm this is not the second part to the Idler Wheel but I just thought I’d write this because whyyy not! It was kind of written quickly so if there are weird grammar mistakes just ignore them lmao 😭😭 might come back and edit when it’s not past midnight if you know what im saying. Anyhoo it’s September now?

***

The brain-rotting contents of his colleagues’ pass-time conversations was an unfortunate byproduct of Rust’s refusal to pay mind to his own thoughts. He needed it, he thought sometimes, though he’d rather not have had need for anything: it served as a focal point for his attentions, which, otherwise, might be directed inward at himself for too long.

He didn’t pay much attention to the exacts of it all. Bar last night, dick jokes, some wild sexual exploit from their twenties: once Rust had heard it once, he did not need to hear it again. Even before they spoke, Rust had had most of them figured out. He only had to watch them, his first day at the office. Still, initially, he let them tell their shit to him and believe like maybe they could be friends, like, maybe, Rust was one of them, too, that he was entertained by their boring fucking carousel of stories. Fucking arrogant. Plagued by the crack and froth of some dry ash-type taste, Rust would swallow it down. Just the first time, though. Not the second, and not any time after that.

No, he did not care for the details. More like, it was the tone of their voices that he could plaster his resentment on. Proud, girthy, spread over too much ground, self-important. For the most part, if he had to talk to one of them, more dogs than anything else, his throat would feel too full—his mouth, too. It was what it was: force-feeding. Why anyone in their right mind would pretend to enjoy it, Rust had no idea. Everything down here displeased him, but no less so than it had in other places. Everywhere he went, Rust came with himself, though he’d tried to sever that unwelcome tie a long time ago. If he was lucky enough, some floating sensation would find him, and Rust would get to leave the conversation for some worthy train of thought. Finally, he would get to pry apart a crime scene - in his head, he did not have to use gloves: he could play it like a tape, a thousand times, a thousand different ways.

Hear them now. Rust’s lip begged to curl, which was odd. It was then, coming to terms with the sensation of his instinct, its physical demands, that he understood that something was strange about this conversation.

Slow, crawling, his eyes made their way to Marty, who had scooted his chair over to Rust’s desk. With steely eyes, he took note of how his partner’s elbow was flopped over his paperwork, how his body was sprawled open wide so unnecessarily.

Rust removed a pen wedged under Marty’s forearm. He didn’t even shift.

With the aim of cleansing his mouth of that bitter swell, he took a mouthful of cold coffee, and another, and another. When he was alone, Rust took one sugar, but, here, it wasn’t enough. Shit, it was never enough to neutralise that foul taste. Sometimes, it grew so strong that Rust would take a little longer on his smoke breaks, making his way through one, two, maybe three cigarettes. Yeah, that usually quenched it. But it was no use inside - no, he needed an open sky above him, to let all the fumes out, like smoke from a smouldering kitchen. Something about four walls and a ceiling: how many men like them had sat there, sweat there, jawed there, pissed there, before them? It just made him sick, made his head spin.

There was no need to turn to know how the rest of them were arranged. So predictable. So deeply interwoven into their psyches: the strong belief that they deserved the space that they took up, and, shit, they took up a lot. Fighting for dominance of the conversation, pushing, shoving, overlapping, each trying to mark out a platform for themselves. He wouldn’t, and it unsettled them, just as they could never comprehend anything else that wasn’t like them.

Gradual-like, Rust let his mind melt back to the specifics of the conversation, the messy, brutal abstraction of their voices condensing into words and phrases, like ink-blots soaking back up into the brushes from which they were dispelled. It didn’t take long listening for him to understand that you had drawn the interest of the hoard.

Johansson would’ve said something—if he were here. The more Rust listened—to them inching closer to what they really wanted to say, hopping around the hot topic of women and their ways on them—the fatter his tongue felt, sitting big and swollen in his mouth like it shouldn’t have been there, like he ought to have cut it out by now.

With his spectre hands, he reached into his pocket, slipped a cigarette between his lips, lit it with one flick of his lighter. That click was enough to make his mouth water, most days, although not now. Breath scraped painfully through his throat, like sandpaper.

You were distinct from them - that was a fact. When he’d been thrown into the department, he found it odd that more remarks weren’t made to your face about most things: your capability, your temperament, your looks. More often, it’d be behind your back, huddled over in the office kitchen, passed around like a note in a fuckin’ middle school classroom. He figured it was because you were smarter than them, and they knew it. At least you were only a woman, they told themselves. They couldn’t beat you up, but they could do whatever they wanted to you in their heads. They could talk about how they’d pin you down if they ever got the chance.

That last comment only happened once. At least, only once when Rust was around. He’d ended up in the captain’s office, his fingers still twitching with the way that that pulse had begged and struggled for release.

His body ached with the effort to keep himself from shaking - the tremor in his fingers would not be eased by the deep, punishing drag of smoke into his lungs, nor would the dirt clouding his brain be cleansed and sanitised by the sting, the burn of the breath he held close to him, until it hurt his chest. No, he needed the sky—but he didn’t want to leave you either.

Rust’s head swung under a bout of nausea, which hit him like the impact of falling in a dream. Briefly, he closed his eyes, taking another drag, swallowing down the husk of it. It only made it all worse.

Punch him, he thought desperately, like maybe you could be telepathic, like maybe he was as well. Who?—he didn’t know. Any of them, all of them. It was all the same.

When Marty let out a bellow of a laugh, full and selfish and fucking stupid, Rust had to look at the photograph of the dead girl in front of him again to steady himself.

Delusion did not seduce Rust. Relying on what he knew to be true, he figured that you must’ve known what you were doing. You had worn your hair down today, not in a bun as was your usual - it hadn’t taken long for Bishop, this morning, to tug on a strand of your hair, like it was just waiting to be done, like bait on a hook. If he hadn’t done it, someone else would’ve. He was inclined to simply because you dared to exist in his presence. Even then, Rust’s throat had tightened, like this. So, even though his back was defiantly turned to the hoard, Rust knew—he knew—that, when you grunted softly, it was because it had happened again. Rust closed his eyes and willed that you would hit whoever did that.

People already knew the decision they were going to make, always, in some part of their minds, so Rust didn’t see the point in attempting to console or consult anyone about anything. If it was detrimental to a case, then he would explain this to Marty, calmly point out or even correct his mistake, but, on the most part, that was the extent of his reasoning. If his partner was in a bar, flushed and loose, and flirting with the twenty-one year-old bar-keep, he wouldn’t intervene. He hadn’t. Marty dug his own grave, and Rust let him. To do otherwise would be to overestimate the sensibilities of the other and to inconvenience himself. Fuck that. People didn’t want to be changed and Rust certainly had no interest in trying to. It was a losing game, a dumb one at that. Waste of time, waste of space. Rust knew better than to take up space - he would keep what he could close to his chest; otherwise, it was dead weight that needed losing sooner rather than later.

Everyone was begging to tell, to be fucking heard. It was a naïve, selfish way to look at the world: to assume that every other human put on Earth was someone to unload onto, to purify yourself with. Rust stared hard at the twenty-four year-old woman in the photo, sprawled over her bed, that long gash down her belly, like gutting a pig. He thought of how satisfied that the killer must’ve felt, to be able to finally share his urges with someone, to get to sit, placated, with their shoulders finally light.

He looked over the coroner’s report again, despite already knowing every statement on there, trying to fill your silence—which scratched over his eyes, the front of his brain, like claws—with the lull, the truth, of the case.

They were talking to you, now.

“Let’s get you down to the bar, buck,” somebody said to you, and he was pretty sure it was Geraci, oily, slick, fat. The skin over the back of Rust’s neck, thin, had crawled.

The boys liked to call you that—buck—like you hadn’t run the same track as them, jumped the same hurdles as them. You’d transferred from Brooklyn. Same shitshow, different department. They could tell, some of them said. City girl, high up on her horse. Not really, though. Your nature threw some people off at first, he speculated - you were not cold or brash, which he sort of thought maybe you ought to be, but, somehow, decidedly kind. Not gentle. There was a difference.

You were smart, and this was why you were not choking Geraci out right now. Did you want to? Rust could not get it out of his mind. He wanted to turn and look at you—not now, just some time—and figure it out. He had an outline, like the edge pieces of a puzzle all joined up. That was always a good start. Still, he didn’t appreciate it: the effort. It made you interesting, which was inconvenient. The people who worked here were not difficult to understand - their innermost desires were eager to be released, Pandora’s box, bursting at the very seams of their mouths, and, shit, Rust let it happen. It played out that way most times with the monsters he sat across from in the box: he would listen unflinchingly, and that was attractive to a lot of people, apparently. Someone who would not shy away. Maybe that was where Rust was misstepping with you. It wasn’t like him to be glad for things, but he was when it came to the orientation of your desks: your back was to his, and he did not have to look at you, and he was glad for it. He could not pin down why.

His knuckles were glowing, he was sure of it: if he looked down at them, Rust could’ve seen that illumination, his violence emanating from within, daring to break the skin like splitting, old leather. He could smell the embers already. Maybe that was you, though, or something else.

The heat bubbled up through his nausea. No, it was him - he would be up in flames soon, some sight to behold. His eyes pulsed against the thin skin of his eyelids, so he ruled out the option of closing them.

He flexed his hands slowly, passing feeling all along his weary tendons, before he continued typing, though the letters spun and jumped out at him like bugs in long-grass. Crickets in his ears, deafening. Was almost like he could understand them, some language he knew to respond to as a child, now long left behind. He was not alone, as much as he wanted to be.

When you spoke, Rust’s shoulders tensed, like a cramp. “I got business tonight,” you drawled, ever-polite, even sweet. That raw, thick, sugary taste oozed over his tongue, clogged his throat - Rust almost gagged.

Bishop’s voice emerged from the clatter: “What business you got on a Friday night? You got better plans?”

Fuck if you did, fuck if you didn’t.

A shrill whine speared through Rust’s head then, like a fissure in the Earth’s crust, his brain a liquid, churning beneath. He fought the urge to touch his own face, make sure everything was in its right place. He knew it would be, so he didn’t move. Sensation did not indicate reality. If it did, then Rust would have had to have discovered a whole other world a long time ago. He sat still, a statue, for several heartbeats. Then, he resumed his typing. A suspect’s alibi. He did not kill her.

“You don’t gotta spend a dime with us. We’ll take care of ye,” Howard added, and the hoard hummed and chuckled their agreement, a sick tilt to all of it. Rust wished his desk were anywhere else - he rarely wished for anything.

Conviction was not an area in which you lacked. You were a quiet, formidable force. Nobody at the precinct admired the way you worked the way it ought to have been. Not enough people gave enough fucks when you conducted interviews. Once, he had seen it. He had wanted to find Marty, and Marty was with Johansson, and Johansson had been on one side of the mirror, the other side behind which you were smiling warmly at a woman who had not long ago eaten about two thirds of her boyfriend, holding her hand. She had been twice your age at least, but you were the two-headed mother there, walking that fine line. For a moment, Rust had thought to himself that you would’ve worked him, wrung him out, if he was the one across from you. Not just a thought: a realisation. It unsettled him whenever he thought about it too long. What had confused him was your distinct lack of calculation. At least, he perceived it that way. Was it instinct that let you master that certain slope of your shoulders? No amount of practice could let him fabricate it to the same standard. Or maybe you had really felt it: sympathy.

But no. Once it was done, you’d exited, and your attention was searing. Rust had left before you had time to notice him.

Stoicism: you had mastered it, and Rust itched to know you, to understand how. How was the vein in your neck not throbbing like it would burst? How were your hands not fists, white-knuckled?

And you spoke through a smile, of all things: “That’s nice, but I can’t.”

“C’mon, buck, what kinda business you got that’s so important?”

Once again, Rust scoured over the coroner’s report, flit between the list of observable marks and wounds, correlating them with the visual aid of the photograph of the entire corpse. Total ten lacerations, eight of which had been on her stomach. Other two, on her face: slicing into each of her cheeks, those soft parts.

If he did this, Rust did not have to read into your answer, which was what his mind immediately raced towards, a bullet train, blindly searching in the darkness for some semblance of you. “My own,” you replied, and it did not mean anything to him because he was doing this.

Rust body itched to leap up and lay someone out, right then and there. His fist yearned for it, for the contact. For however often Rust felt like his body was not his, he had rarely considered the possibility that it might be in charge. People did what they would with him - his job was merely to take it. There was a strange sort of peace in that type of compartmentalisation, the kind where he could simply leave what apparently made up his person. If he was away from himself, he wouldn’t have to face whatever he was doing. An education in the dissociative state, an underutilised tool. He’d even had a course on it, he was sure. It was part of the reason he could keep his pulse so low, retreating so far into this meat shell that not even his blood flowed too close to the surface. But he felt it now, thrumming in his neck, a riptide. Taking his pulse now would do nothing to save it. The muscles there were stiff, flexing oddly under the strain of choking back on the natural instinct that, it appeared, was his. It tasted like vomit. Maybe that was real, though.

You were not some lamb that needed a shepherd. Fuck, he could never be one, not any version of him: he’d only be leading a thing to rot and ruin, and the parasite would get them, too. No, Rust wasn’t the shepherd. Never the shepherd. Rust was critical and cold. He might’ve been the wolf.

Ten lacerations. Raped.

The laughter of the hoard circled his head again, again, again. Someone must’ve picked at your hair - you grunted.

Abruptly, Rust stood up, like he got shocked because the room was on two different circuits. His spine like some iron rod, so unnaturally straight, his body so unnaturally tense, so unlike himself, he momentarily drew the attention of the other detectives all clustered together in the bullpen. If he didn’t know better, he’d have thought they knew, that he was fighting for the wheel, that he was battling back the grey that had begun to vignette his vision. Why was he suddenly so tall? Not even that. Alive. He could hear it: life rushing, roaring, in his ears, crackling like a wildfire. Rust’s body, that strange entity, was momentarily reborn as something else, whose neck was never bowed, whose shoulders never rounded, who conducted itself like it was powerful. Maybe it was.

Marty eyed him like he had grown another fuckin’ head.

Despite the dissipating attention, murmurs to the side, you were still looking at him, too, with your eyes so hard, almost black, like two cherry pits. Rust was piloting, and he would not look away. No. He would look on, as he always did. No matter the electricity burn of your attention, which he preferred to avoid - the energy was coursing through him, bright, his veins fried and blackening. Beneath the surface, his being spasmed and seized. But he knew that you were no different than anything, so he looked.

If he didn’t, he would hit someone. That could be taken the wrong way.

Geraci’s hand was braced on your desk, just next to you, his fat, greasy palm covering some paragraph that you had no doubt been trying to read. Rust’s hands twitched, but he had managed to bring himself inward, had relaxed most of his body thus far, and he would not fuck himself over by letting fists form now.

So, Rust stared at you, cool, unrelenting.

He was surprised by the distance of his own voice when he asked you if you could come over to the files room just a minute and give your opinion on something for him. It was like his own mouth was at the end of a long, stretching tunnel, his words far away from him. He crushed his cigarette into the closest ashtray, annihilating it.

He tasted pennies there, in his mouth. Perhaps he had been biting his tongue. Perhaps it was just the look on your face.

Okay, you said, quiet-like, before you rose, prying yourself away from your desk. As you stepped past him, Rust let himself look at Geraci. People dug their own graves, but that did not cancel out Rust’s thirst to kill. That kind of justice lies in the bones.

Most likely, he just needed to sleep. It was coming up on four days, nearly, without, which did not aid in the dizziness that threatened the stability of Rust’s every step as he slowly turned to follow behind you.

In the files room, you were waiting for him, staring up at the flickering halogen bulb that illuminated this section, the chain still swinging from when you had just pulled it.

Rust stared at your back, far away from himself, almost stumbling back when he closed the door, sealing the two of you off from the real world. His anger flung about like a whirlpool behind his eyes, thrashing and throbbing. If he had mind to say something to you—which he did not—he wouldn’t have been able to anyways. Saliva pooled in his mouth, pushing under his tongue. He cleared his throat, delaying a gag.

When you began to turn to look at him, Rust almost begged out loud that you wouldn’t, his heartbeat thrumming in his throat, almost daring him to start panting for air like a dog. The assault of the light from the halogen bulb was invisible to you, so it could not be real. No, you were looking at him now. With his hand still gripping the handle like it could save him, like he could escape it, you, he almost closed his eyes, cringed away. But what was he?—some child? He could not. Sensation was not necessarily reality, and he was not sick, and you were not of concern to him. Still, he turned slightly, his body angled toward the door at which he still stood, refusing to step any closer. He couldn’t close his eyes—you could get the wrong idea—so, instead, he opted for the linoleum floor, careful to avoid your feet.

Fuck, he could feel your relief washing over him like a warm wave. It almost knocked him clear off his feet, and it left his knees weak, threatening to buckle. Once, he had gone out west, to the coast, with Sophia and Claire. Nothing like where he grew up: out there, in that endless cold, his pa used to warn against any and all large bodies of water, ice. Even when you thought the surface beneath you was safe, it could give out, and you’d fall through into waters you didn’t know could be so deep.

Rust had reason enough to believe that this might’ve been worse.

There was salt spray in his mouth, now. Your ebb and flow churned in his stomach like the beat of a drum, reverberating through his flesh, which he was suddenly very aware of.

You’d figured it out: he didn’t need your help. He didn’t need to be in here either.

Something tangible rolled around on his tongue as your eyes scanned over him, a meticulous, slow rake. It grit between his teeth, like a grain of sand or a seed or something. Rust swallowed it and then fought a proceeding dry heave, smothered by a bright feeling in his throat that only flared up when he heard your breath hitch, too.

You were polite to spare him, to stare at your hands. Wordless, you left him to go busy yourself with nothing in the back of the files room, melting into the shadows, concealing yourself behind a shelving unit.

Even though he couldn’t see you, though, your sweetness still flooded Rust’s mouth, inescapable. He knew you were there, thinking, maybe about him.

He almost wished he had done nothing.

[dogbinary]

Amomaxia┃Helena Eagan/Mark Scout

Read on Ao3 Here

rating: E (MDNI 18+)

wc: 4.4k

tags: car sex, drunk sex, hate sex (kind of), drinking, light choking, multiple orgasms, age gap, dom!Mark Scout, Mark is fully clothed/Helena is not, Severance 2x06 Atilla, post-Chinese Restaurant Scene

summary: based on this post by @kestrel-of-herran

a/n: I can't believe we didn't get nasty Mark/Helena sex in season 2 so this is my way of coping. This was also my first time writing for these two, so it may be a little self-indulgent. Huge thank you to my beta @imaginarydromedary for taking time out of their ridiculously busy schedule to edit this.

It started with a couple of drinks.

Several, actually.

She bought the first two rounds, he bought the third and fourth, then he lost track after that.

The Chinese restaurant had a special going on cheap shots of well tequila. They burned like battery acid going down, but four dollars is four dollars, and despite her reputation Helena didn’t seem to mind the price point.

He remembers watching her wrap her lips around the rim of the fifth glass, her throat bobbing as she downed it without using her hands; no idea where she would have learned something like that. His throat tightened as her tongue peeked out to lick the salt off her wrist.

Mark’s cock had been acting disobediently the whole night, but what really did him in was watching her shake some of that salt on to her finger and line the edge of his lips with it.

He almost crushed her hand leading her out into the parking lot, and she giggled the entire way, like this was all some sort of little scheme and he was falling head over heels for it.

As he hits the unlock button on his key FOB, part of him starts to feel slightly disgusted with himself. A little bit of alcohol and attention from a girl almost 20 years younger than him was really all it took? Well, that and the devastating grief, he supposes. At one point he’d read an article about how people use sex to cope with grief. So in that regard, at least he isn’t alone.

It also doesn’t help that said woman is Helena fucking Eagan.

She climbed onto his lap as soon as he shut the door. The two of them take up all the space his shitty, beat up Volvo had to offer. He only feels slightly embarrassed. She’s the head of his fucking company, which means she probably knows what he makes in a year, so if Helena has a problem with it, she can just ask Daddy to give him a raise.

The taste of the lime lingers on the roof of her mouth, and he’s chasing it as he sucks on her tongue. His hands are all the fuck over her, shaking as she helps him strip off her dark, heavy peacoat. Just that one piece of her outfit has to be worth more than a month of his rent, easily. It looks obscenely out of place tossed in the flaking faux leather of his passenger seat.

Privacy wise, he had been thankful he’d parked away from the imposing glare of the streetlights, but he's cursing himself now, because he has to feel his way through the buttons of her shirt. Her skin is so, so warm underneath. it’s like her body has naturally adapted to living in this freezing hellscape all her life.

“Your shirt too,” she says, pulling the offending fabric over her head. He almost chokes when she aggressively places his hands on her tits.

“No, Helly.”

They don’t know each other like that, so he’s not sure why that name came to mind. It would feel inappropriate if she weren’t grinding down on his dick through his pants. “In case I have to get us out of here.”

He’s mesmerized by her silhouette, the edges of her just barely etched out from the residual light of the parking lot.

No part of this is as careful as it should be. He grabs at her chest like a horny teenager, rubbing and pulling at her nipples until they stiffen under his fervent attention. She runs her fingers through his shitty mop of hair, scrapes the back of his scalp with her disgustingly expensive manicured nails.

The most embarrassing, guttural moan escapes him when she collects the strands at the base of his head and pulls. He’ll blame that on the alcohol later, if he remembers it. That must satisfy her though, because he can just barely make out the glint of her Hollywood smile before she’s licking a hot strip from collarbone to ear.

It’s like she was made in a lab specifically to turn him on, and he’s just along for the ride.

“Help me get out of this thing so you can fuck me,” she whispers, and again, he remembers she’s one of the greatest minds of her generation.

Through his drunken haze, it occurs to him that there’s no way in hell he’ll be able to get her out of these stockings. He’s panting like he’s run a mile, and, shit. The dizzying hot press of her cunt through her underwear is already threatening to make him spill out all over his jeans.

As if she can read his mind, Helena fucking Eagan takes pity on him. “Just rip ‘em,” she instructs, like he’s stupid for not considering it – like they weren’t made in Italy or France or some other place he could never afford to go.

The thin, sheer fabric comes apart with a resounding rip.

When mark’s thumb traces the cloth, no, fuck, the lace of her panties, he finds them thoroughly, devastatingly soaked. Ruined.

Fuck. He’s too fucking old for this. She’s going to kill him.

Helena whines and grinds down to meet his hand, but she’s so wet, the fabric slides to the side on its own, and suddenly he’s rubbing circles into her clit.

She’s whimpering as he teases it out of its tiny hood, like she’s some sort of barbie doll or porn star or something. Every part of her is perfect, because of course it fucking is. His cock is aching where it strains against the denim of his jeans, and he has to bite down on his tongue so he doesn’t cum himself and end this before it starts.

“Fuck, Mark,” she gasps, as if she can’t believe how much she’s dripping onto his wrist. He can’t remember the last time someone said his name like that. This goes far beyond anything he’s ever experienced – even before he became a sad sack of shit, and the endless revolving door of antidepressant cocktails. Did you know that your dick can literally stop working if you’re depressed?

The windows are fogging up against the chilled night air from the two of them panting. There’s enough heat radiating off of them to power his shitty apartment. At least half of it is coming from her drooling pussy. The poor thing is making a mess all over his wrist. He slides his thumb back, wrapping his rough fingers around the meat of her thigh, and dips it into her entrance, teasing and testing the give of it. His digit sinks into her. Another whimper – a shaky breath from Helena as he hooks it into her and fucks her with it, rocking in and out. The skin between his forefinger and thumb catching and grinding on her clit.

Helena presses her forehead to his. A thin sheen of sweat is beginning to form on her brow, face all screwed up, jaw loose and brows pinched in concentration as she chases her high. The fringe of her bangs is almost ticklish. Mark’s other hand traps her head there, gently. He can’t stop staring at her. When she starts to flutter around him, he swallows her breathy moan. She’s coming apart so easily with just his hand, chasing the friction with her hips.

When he pulls away from her mouth, a thin strip of saliva connects them.

Fuck, he can feel her tightening her grip, both on his shoulders and inside. Her nails are digging sharp half crescents into his brown corduroy jacket. He’ll never be able to wear this stupid thing ever again without thinking about her, like the image of her riding his hand is seeping into the fabric. He’ll never be able to wash her out.

“Fuck,” he grunts, “Do it, please. Please,” Mark Scout is begging her to come. It feels like he’ll die if she doesn’t, like the world will collapse around him. A black hole will swallow him up if she doesn’t take what she needs from him. He’s never felt more sure of anything in his life.

“Mark, fuck, I’m –”

“I know, shh.” He has no idea why on God’s green earth he shushes her. If he had his way, she’d be screaming so loud, any good samaritan within five miles would feel the need to call the cops on him, but it’s what feels right at the moment. She’s shivering above him like crazy, twitching in the thighs, making an absolute mess of his pants, dripping all over him. It feels right, though. Everything about this feels right, as fucked up as it is.

He places a grounding kiss to her forehead “I want to feel you, Helly.” Again, it’s something that should feel like an inappropriately intimate thing to say, but it doesn’t. It feels like she belongs in his arms, like whatever this is was somehow inevitable. The alcohol must be clouding his judgement. “Let me feel it.”

With a bit more pressure, Helena comes apart exactly as he would have imagined it – with a strangled cry, head tipped back, and greedy. Her walls have his digit in a stranglehold, gripping him like a vice; experiencing a poor imitation of everything he really wants to give her. Her hips stutter as she gasps for breath in his space, taking the air out of his lungs with her.

He’d give her that, he thinks, a bit deliriously. Anything she asks of him, she could have it. Which would be a dangerous thought if he had anything to actually give. His body, though, at least, is hers. That much is for fucking certain.

It feels like it’s been hers. For months, at least. Maybe it’s been hers ever since that night he almost ran over her in the parking lot, as if being in her presence planted a seed deep inside his chest and it's starting to take root now. The vines are spreading like fingers around each rib and cracking the bones open to make space for her.

She’s still twitching, riding out the last waves of her high, when she places her hands delicately on his face and kisses him like she’s starving. She grabs the bottom of his jaw, tilting his head to deepen it, and her tongue drags across the roof of his mouth like she's staking her claim. The responding groan that escapes him is one of surrender.

Helena makes quick work of his jeans, and doesn't even bother to help him by dragging them down. Her impatient hands pull his flushed and leaking cock straight through the hole in his boxers. It sits hot and heavy in her hand, and Mark hisses as she swipes her thumb across the leaking tip, spreading the wetness she finds there around the head. The small gesture has him gripping her hips so hard he’s surely going to leave a bruise.

He’s not going to last long. He just barely made it this far.

It feels like she can tell. Maybe it’s how pathetically he groans when she rubs her swollen red slit against the length of him, or how his hips cant slightly more towards her when she notches him at her entrance. She’s wearing a slightly amused smile, half of her bottom lip between her teeth while she toys with him.

When she finally takes pity on him and sinks down his cock, it's like all of his breath is strangled out of him. If he thought her skin was warm on the outside, she is absolutely burning on the inside. Every single one of his nerves is on fire. She fits him like a fucking glove, whining as he stretches her open.

The second she’s fully seated on top of him, his hands fly to her waist.

“Wait – wait,” he begs, fuck he’s begging again, his voice is unsteady, “Don’t. Just – shit. Just give me a second.”

“What’s wrong, Mark?” Her voice sounds so innocent. The grin she’s wearing is anything but. Helena giggles, tracing a thumb across his bottom lip. He has to wrench her hand away— the memory of them drinking, the salt, all of it comes rushing back to him in an instant.

A realization slaps him hard in the face: This is just a drunken, sloppy fuck.

She thinks this is funny. This princess in front of him; this girl who's never had to want for anything, rolling around in the dirt with him, dripping wet down to his balls.

He almost forgot how far beneath her he actually is, born into privilege beyond his imagination. Helena Eagan, multi-billion dollar heiress, is going to retire to her solid gold plated mansion tonight with his dirty, low-born fingerprints all over her.

He almost fell for it, didn’t he? That’s what these rich types do, make you feel important and thankful for any ounce of money or attention they deem appropriate to bestow upon you. God, he feels like a fucking idiot all of a sudden. What is he, her pet?

“Hey Mark, where’d you go?” Helena’s concerned eyes scan his face. He blinks back at her, suddenly remembering himself, remembering her wrist is still caught in his crushing grip.

Mark almost apologizes, but then decides against it. That’s not why they’re here. He didn’t drag her out of that restaurant to act all sweet or make love to her, call her fucking nicknames.

He doesn’t answer her at all actually, not with words. Instead, he reaches behind him and pulls the adjustment lever, causing both him and the seat to drop back. The sudden dip causes Helena to lose her balance and fall on top of him, arms caging both sides of his head.

He doesn’t spare her a second glance as he shifts his hips beneath her, pretends she isn’t staring at him wildly as he lifts her up and wrenches her panties to the side.

Mark’s too drunk and angry at himself to care about anything other than fucking the living shit out of her at this point.

No, if she wants to play these little games, she’s not making it out of this car unscathed.

He starts pounding up into her, raising his hips off the seat with every hard thrust to make sure he gets as deep as he can. Helena has to steady herself of her elbows from the force of it, lining her perky little tits up perfectly with his mouth. He takes advantage of the position to suck one greedily into his mouth. There’s nothing nice about this anymore. He’s not interested in taking his time with her, and he’s certainly not going to let her slip back into her little bubble and forget about this, or him.

“Agh fuck –” he bites a bright pink mark roughly into the side of her breast. There’s a responding clench around his dick, and it feels amazing so, fuck it, he does it again. This time, he sucks the skin purple around it— and she replies by gripping him even tighter.

It’s loud now. Every single thrust is punctuated with the weighted slap of his balls. She loves it rough. This would definitely hurt her if her body wasn’t begging for it. He can tell by the way her pussy is swallowing every inch of him up and drenching his cock. Mark’s punching into her so hard he’s sure some of it is going to splash onto the steering wheel. Her hitched breaths are more than enough encouragement to keep him going.

The slap that lands on her ass is ear-ringing. Helena whimpers, drops her forehead onto the headrest, and starts bouncing down in time to meet him.

God, she’s beautiful like this, she’s fucking perfect. He could get addicted to the way her walls squeeze and mold to fit his shape. He’d give up the bottle, hell, he’d give up his job, maybe even his sister if it meant he could have this – have her, wrapped around his dick, keeping it wet and warm twenty-four-fucking seven.

One of Helena’s hands grabs his hair above him and pulls it tightly in her fist. The sudden, sharp pain rips a deep, wrecked moan out from his throat. His balls pull up tighter against his body in warning, and he almost panics, thinking he’s going to come right there.

Mark’s hand moves before he can think about it, wrapping around Helena’s throat. Maybe he did it thinking it would slow things down, or maybe it was to put her in her place. Maybe some part of her really does just fucking want to kill her.

This isn’t really like him. It feels like it’s too much, too dangerous, like holding a lighter too close to the skin. But, as he’s about to remove it, he feels a smaller, more delicate hand land on top of his, squeezing and encouraging.

He does just that, and it’s like throwing gasoline on a fire. He presses his thumb and fingers together until he can feel her racing pulse beneath them.

Mark has never choked a single woman in his life. Not Gemma, not any fleeting girlfriends or one night stands, never.

Similarly, he has never felt more powerful in his entire fucking life than he has in this exact moment.

It’s decided, then. He’s not going to stop until she comes again, not until she’s screaming.

Mark slows his thrusts, and Helena greedily speeds up to compensate.

“Ride it,” he demands in a voice not entirely his own, “Go on, show me.”

He’s acting like a complete asshole, but Mark wants to see it so much it hurts. He wants to watch her use him, to see where his cock disappears inside her. There’s little chance his brain will remember it, not through the swimming haze, but he knows for certain that his body will. Later – when he wakes up hard in the middle of the night from dreaming about this, because he knows he will, and fucks his fist like a cheap imitation of her, he’ll remember. Every drag of his wet first will remind him how she squeezed him within an inch of his life.

Yeah, he’s totally fucked.

She’s a good listener, though, well behaved despite whatever possessed her to seek him out tonight. Helena does as she’s told, rolling her hips in a perfect, steady rhythm, sliding deliciously up and down his length. He could watch her do this forever, the shape of her dark silhouette riding him, deriving pleasure from him. Her pulse jumps beneath his fingers and, fuck, he can feel that same heartbeat in her pussy.

She has one hand on his arm, holding it in place with a tight grip, the other riding up his shirt so she can feel his chest beneath it. Her head is lolling to the side, mouth open with a silent gasp. She’s a vision, taking him so perfectly. He can just barely make out her furrowed dark brows.

He squeezes her throat just a bit tighter.

“You’re close, aren’t you?” It comes out a mean, as if even beneath her like this, he’s trying to put himself above her. He already knows the answer, can feel it in the way her legs are twitching again, how her rhythm is starting to break just slightly, but he wants to hear it for himself. They’re probably never going to see each other again after this, and that makes it matter more to him, for whatever reason.

She nods her head, quick and shallow.

“What’s that?” he asks, positioning his free thumb just barely on to her clit.

The grip on her throat loosens just a bit, “Yes,” she gasps, like she forgot she needed to breathe, “Yes, I’m close.”

“Good girl.” He doesn’t know where any of this is coming from. He’s never fucking said that before. “You look amazing,” he adds, because it’s the truth, “You feel fucking amazing.”

She’s taking him deeper with each pass of her hips. In and out, in and out. It’s going to drive him crazy, being inside her like this, feeling all of her wet heat. It keeps making him forget himself, like she’s soaking into his skin and bones.

As much as he doesn’t want this to end, his back is starting to kill him, and he thinks if he waits any longer he will really be the first known fatal case of blue balls. His sack is genuinely starting to ache from holding it all in, so he decides to take pity on her, pressing quick, deliberate circles into her clit.

Helena doubles over from the sensation, claiming his lips again. They aren’t kissing as much as they’re breathing into each other's mouths. “Fuck, Mark –” she says, grabbing his face.

Tears are beginning to bead in the corners of her eyes, and he begins to wonder how he compares to the laundry list of men she’s likely had in her past. She could have anyone, really. Not just because of the whole money thing, but because she genuinely is one of the most beautiful women he’s ever laid eyes on, especially like this.

She looks even more stunning like this, whimpering directly into his mouth, coming apart and making an absolute mess all over his cock and his jeans. Her pussy is gripping him like a vice, milking him impossibly tighter, soaking him through his underwear as he helps her ride out the waves.

“Fuck, Helly –” The nickname flies out right past his teeth.

He can’t help it. He’s going to come. He has to. He doesn’t have the strength to hold himself back anymore, not after that – not when her cunt is gripping him and literally sucking him in and out every fucking time she clenches. It’s too much. It’s all too much. He’s trembling beneath her.

“H–Helly, Helena, quick,” Mark urgently pats her on the shoulder, “I have to –”

“Shh,” she hushes softly, hotly, into his ear, “It’s okay, go ahead.” Then, she kisses him again, slowly, while grinding lazily against him. It feels less rushed and desperate than before, like she’s exploring his mouth rather than taking from it. She’s taking a moment to just feel him, savor every second she has his cock stuffed inside her before this ends and they have to come back down to reality.

Her hands cradle his head and scratch gently against his sideburns, down his chin. It makes him feel completely enveloped in her, like there’s no escape from the ruinous onslaught of sensation.

Why she would be fine with him coming inside her, he has no fucking idea. They didn’t think to talk this through beforehand, so he doesn’t know whether she’s on birth control or if she’s sterilized or whatever the fuck because he cannot begin to imagine she’d be comfortable with him fucking a baby into her, but Jesus Christ he’s just a man.

The battle within himself is lost when she pulls at his bottom lip, pinching it between her teeth.

Fine, if that’s what the princess wants.

Mark wraps his arms around her and crushes her body against his, pounding into her just a bit wildly. Her tits are rubbing up against his chest, and just out of focus, he can hear Helly giggling between moans.

The heat that’s been building at the base of his spine spreads up to his brain, and Mark comes so hard he blacks out for several seconds. It feels like a part of his soul is breaking off. Helly rides him through it, milking out whatever he has left to give her. It’s a tough angle, since he’s got her trapped in his arms, holding on to her like a lifeline. Every contraction of his balls pumps rope after rope of come into her, filling up her pink, used pussy.

He comes until there’s no more room for him to fill, until she’s so stuffed full of it that their combined mess starts leaking back out onto his jeans.His pants are thoroughly, disgustingly ruined. He’s going to have to fucking burn them when he gets home.

After he settles, they lay like that for several seconds, chests heaving, catching their breath like they’d just run a couples 10K marathon together.

Mark feels noticeably more sober. And younger, honestly. After years of going without, he has no idea how he kept up with this woman. She rang him out though, hung him up to dry like one of her ridiculous 700 thread-count towels – probably has her initials embroidered in the corner of them. He feels a little bit like that too.

They’re still connected when he’s starting to soften up inside her. He gently pats Helena’s back in an attempt to move them both so he can clean them up. There are plenty of tissues in the glovebox, but he’d never imagined he'd be using one like this.

When she turns to face him, he can’t help the ridiculous smile that comes to his face. She’s smiling up at him, too, with her Hollywood whites, and they both start to laugh at the ridiculousness of it all.

They don’t get far at all. She seems reluctant to move from her place on his chest.

“Was this some sort of espionage thing?” he asks, running his fingers down her spine. She’s thinner than he thought. Every vertebrae can be felt beneath her skin. Maybe he should invite her over for dinner at some point, though he doubts the frozen meals from the gas station sitting in his freezer would do much to impress her.

“Yeah,” she admits, looking up at him with her ridiculously blue eyes. What the fuck did she see in him, again? “I was really just hoping you’d be more willing to talk about the OTC with me.”

“Drastic measures.”

“Well, anything for Lumon.” Helly rolls her eyes. There’s goosebumps starting to form on her arms. He can feel them, more than he can see them.

He grabs her discarded coat from the passenger's seat and lays it across her back.

Mark wipes just enough fog from the window to take a glance at the empty parking lot. The neon lights of the restaurant are casting a faint red glow, stretching out just far enough to touch the front wheel of his car.

He supposes they can stay there for just a few more minutes.

[f0point5]

MAD MAX FIGHT SCENE WHEN?? I have never needed a written piece more than right now

I also reserve the right to imagine Emilia throwing a shoe at someone in this scenario. Idk why i just feel like it could happen. She is not happy about it

MAD MAX FIGHT SCENE NOW!!!

Tell me why this went four different ways before I came to this version. The alternate version took place in a club and had Emilia spraying champagne at a bunch of people but fundamentally it didn’t work as a written piece because you can’t hear what anyone’s saying in a club for shit 😂 No shoe throwing but I hope you like it anyway 😂

Me writing action scenes is like something out of that book After it’s so bad I’m sorry but I hope you got where I’m going 😂

✨set after the Monaco Grand Prix 2018✨

I don’t regret it one bit, ‘cause he had it coming

Another Monaco GP, another yacht party. You’re not even sure whose yacht it is but you don’t care. During GP weekend, drivers can pretty much walk onto whatever boat they want. You, Max, Clara, and Laurent had wandered onto the biggest boat with people having a party and set about forgetting Max’s nightmare weekend. The party is chaotic, you’re not sure how long whoever is in charge of the marina will let the noise and overcrowding go on, but you’re enjoying the high, four shots down with Max on the upper deck, lazily moving to the music emanating from the DJ playing his set downstairs.

“Where’s Laurent?” Max asks, practically shouting in your ear. He’s tipsy, which he deserves to be, his arm slung over your shoulder as he looks around, jerking your body as he turns. He’s out way too late, you can tell by how his t-shirt is clinging to him, and the fluffy top of his hair has completely broken free of the gel hold. He looks positively feral. You don’t hate it.

“I don’t know,” you shrug, pushing up onto your tiptoes so you don’t have to shout. “Probably fucking Clara in a bathroom somewhere,”

Max chuckles at that, taking a sip of his Red Bull. He offers it to you but you shake your head.

“I thought you were supposed to be supporting me,” he jokes as you avoid the can.

“Not by rotting my insides,” you tell him, squirming in his hold as he bops to the Dua Lipa remix he’ll pretend he’s never heard before. He manoeuvres you in front of him as if you don’t even have feet, wrapping his arm around your stomach so that you’re still trapped, but comfortable.

“Je bent niet leuk, schatje,” he says into your ear. The air on your neck makes you shiver against him, and he must think you’re cold because he holds you tighter.

“I don’t know what you’re saying,” you tell him, which makes him smirk. “And I’m not your baby,”

“Ja, maar-“

“Max!”

You twist in Max’s hold when a guy you don’t recognise appears from somewhere in the crowd. Max lets go of you to greet him, and without being entirely engulfed by 80kgs of Red Bull and audacity, you realise you’re parched. You tell Max you’ll be right back and scoot out of reach before he can say anything. You creep through the crowd and then downstairs to where the drinks are without twisting your ankle, which, given how drunk you felt back upstairs, sort of surprises you.

There’s several ice buckets lining the edge of the deck and you peruse the options. You’ve certainly had enough to drink but one more vodka couldn’t hurt. You glance over at the cans of Red Bull and make a note to take one with you as you pick a glass off the table.

“Do you come with the bottles?”

Well, that’s a choice of opening line, talking to a girl like she’s a phone charm.

You turn to see what, not whom, actually felt comfortable saying that out loud and there he was. The epitome of a guy who would say that. He’s older than you, maybe mid to late 20s, all tan and tight jeans, dark hair cut in a fade, gold watch that could be seen from space and those Louboutin loafers. His cologne smells like Dubai.

You look him up and down very slowly and deliberately. “Not if you’re buying them,” you say, turning back to the ice bucket.

“Aw, come on, don’t be like that,” his voice is closer now, almost in your ear. You turn only slightly and find his face already next to yours. ”Come have a drink over here,” he nods over to a seating area where a few guys sit with girls that look too young to be there.

You know the type - down on a girls trip for the weekend with only party outfits in their bags, they’d likely hung around the marina until the pack of jackals had brought them here to ply them with alcohol they didn’t have to pay for. You’re half offended that this guy thought you’d be anywhere near that easy.

“I’ve got enough, thanks.” You say, firmer this time, as you give up on the vodka and just grab one of the many bottles of champagne in the ice bucket. When you turn to leave, you practically collide with the hunk of meat now towering over you.

“Who do I have to speak to to get you to come have a drink with me?” He asks, as if that’s meant to be sexy.

You roll your eyes. “Your hairdresser.”

“Come on, just one drink. I’ll make it worth your while,” he says, his eyes glancing down. You follow his gaze, already steeling yourself for some vulgar gesture, but he pulls out the edge of his wallet from his jeans.

You roll your eyes again. “I’m not pay for play. Now leave me alone.”

You step around him this time, starting to make your way back towards the stairs when this experiment in protein shake consumption blocks your way. You almost trip trying not to crash into him, not that he would have minded if the way he leans into you Is any indication.

“Look, I’m not some nobody, baby, I’ve got real fucking money. I’m what all you pretty girls come out here in your skimpy dresses for,” he says, the noxious smell of chemicals and tequila almost making your eyes water. What makes you feel sick is the way he uses his height advantage to look down your dress. “So have a drink with me. It’ll be fun, I promise,”

Only now does he employ an actual smile, the kind that you’d never want to be in a room alone with. Suddenly, you don’t feel like making any more jokes, you just want to get as far away from this guy as possible. Turning on your heels, you figure you’ll double back around the deck, but a hand tight on your wrist stops you in your tracks.

“Don’t walk away from me,” the words are growled, and you feel your pulse spike. Now you’re scared, but showing it will get you nowhere.

“Get off me,” you snap, trying to shake the giant cretin off you without causing a scene. He doesn’t let go and you’re just about to bottle him over the head when you hear Max’s voice.

“What the fuck are you doing?”

Max strides towards you, looking as angry as you’ve ever seen him. He must have been watching from up by the railings of the top deck.

“Oh, here we go,” the guy grumbles, rolling his eyes as he looks at Max. You take the opportunity to wrench your arm free of him. “Don’t worry, bro. You can have her back when I’m finished with her,”

“You arrogant piece of shit,” you snarl at the guy, almost taking a step towards him before thinking better of it.

“Watch your mouth,” he snaps back, pointing a finger at you. “Your ass isn’t that nice,”

“The fuck did you just say?” Max yells over the music. He guides you behind him effortlessly and you don’t argue, though you do keep hold of his arm.

“You heard me, you prick,” the douchebag says, flashing Max a cocky grin. That won’t go down well.

You pull on Max’s arm. You can tell from the set of his shoulders that this is getting out of hand.

“Max, leave it,” you tell him, pulling him again, and this time he listens, sighing and shaking his head. He knows he has to let it go.

“Jesus,” the arrogant pig sneers, and you cringe. “Has this bitch got a magic pussy or something?”

You don’t even have a chance against Max’s reaction speed. He’s moving before your eyes can even follow, shoving the guy backwards so quickly that the drunkard stumbles slightly, but not as much as you thought he would.

“Shut the fuck up,” Max growls at him.

Dickhead doesn’t take this well, shoving Max back. You’re too scared to get in the middle now. People are starting to stare, a couple of them even have their phones out.

“Max,” it’s more of a plea than anything. “Stop it,”

You know Max isn’t going to just drop it. He doesn’t know how to walk away from a fight, it’s just that normally his fighting involves being protected by a ton of carbon fibre, not that he thinks he needs it.

“You don’t want to mess with me, man,” the guy shouts, looking over Max’s shoulder to glare at you. “Certainly not over some dirty yacht slut,”

Once again, you’re no match for Max’s reaction speed. You don’t see his arm move. You’re barely able to process his fist connecting with the guy’s face. You just see Dickhead fly backwards clutching his jaw as he tumbles to the ground.

“Max!” You scream, but this time he totally ignores you.

“Fucking pussy,” he yells, at the same volume but now that the music has been turned down so that everyone can pay attention to the spectacle, it feels like the whole marina can hear him.

He steps towards the disoriented drunkard on the floor and this time you manage to catch up with him, grabbing him by the arm and pulling him backwards.

“Max, come on,”

He’s fighting it a little, and you press your nails into his skin as you fight harder, dragging him away from where Douchebag’s friends have swarmed around him trying to help. You know they’re looking in your direction but you ignore them and you’re hoping Max does, too.

He turns to look at you and it’s like barely recognises you, his face is flushed and his pupils are dilated and you don’t entirely recognise him either. It knocks the wind out of you, and for just a second you swear everything stops, even your heartbeat.

“You’re okay?” Max asks you, through frenzied breathing.

Your mouth is dry but you speak anyway. “I’m fine.” You don’t know if you’re lying. “Let’s just go,”

You don’t give him time to argue, and it seems he’s calmed down enough to realise now is a good time to cut your losses, because he follows you without complaint.

You don’t let go of him until you’re on the concrete pathway up towards the stairs that have street access. More accurately, that’s when you become aware that you’re still holding onto him. When two toasted revellers try to walk between you but can’t, and shout something at you in Spanish for walking too slow. You let go of Max but he still doesn’t say anything. You keep stealing glances at him as you walk. His shoulders are still tight, his jaw is clenched. His hands are clenched into fists at his side. He still looks livid. That’s why you’re nervous, that’s why you can’t catch your breath, that’s why it’s hard to look away from him. You’re worried about him.

“Well, that was stupid,” you say with a sigh, once you’re sure your words won’t come out as some kind of breathy invocation of a worse kind of chaos than anything you’ve already been involved in tonight.

“That guy was stupid,” Max shoots back, grinding his teeth.

“You could have got hurt, Max,” you tell him, shoving him in the arm. He rolls his eyes. Of course. When taking your own life in your hands is what you get paid for there’s not much you can afford to be scared of. “What would have happened if you’d broke your hand? Your dad would actually kill me,”

“My dad would have done the same thing I did,” Max counters, and you can tell by the several expressions that cross his face in quick succession that he doesn’t quite know how to feel about that.

“Your dad is an idiot,” you remind him. He doesn’t argue. “And so are you,”

He scoffs. “So I was just supposed to let him talk to you like that? Touch you like that?” It’s not really a question, more a general statement of unadulterated disgust and you can’t really blame him. “Fuck that. I’m not going to just-“

He cuts himself off, his jaw ticking again. Neither of you have ever spoken about it, but you know men behaving like sentient sewage is a sore subject for both of you. Maybe, you think, you shouldn’t make him feel bad for standing up for you. You’d never needed anyone to stand up for you, and you still didn’t, but the fact that Max always did means more to you than you know how to articulate.

You lean over and kiss him on the cheek, catching more of the corner of his mouth than you intended, but he doesn’t say anything. He just stops walking and looks at you, the left side of his lips twitching.

“You kiss idiots?” Max asks, tongue darting out to lick at his bottom lip.

“Exclusively,” you shrug, “judging by my dating history,”

That makes him laugh, a proper one, with that bark he does when he’s surprised how funny he finds something. All traces of the menace from the boat filter out of his body, and something in the back of your head tells you it was just in time.

“Hey,” a loud, obnoxious, and lovable voice rings out behind you. You turn around and see Laurent walking towards you with a well satisfied Clara on his back, holding a large bottle of pilfered champagne. “Where the fuck have you two been?”

[lurkingshan]

Dead Friend Forever is a Marvel of Mystery Writing

I haven’t been watching Dead Friend Forever live, because I am not always that into the slasher genre and I figured I would wait to hear whether it holds up before jumping in. I admit, I was a bit dubious about a drama sustaining a slasher narrative for 12 entire weeks and didn’t want to spend time on something that might be too shallow to sustain and would end up falling apart. I basically told bestie @wen-kexing-apologist to vet it for me and holler if I needed to start paying attention. And a few weeks ago, they started poking me with increasing intensity, along with a few other friends, because the writing was holding up better than they could believe. I started asking questions, and once @ginnymoonbeam mentioned that Sammon was the writer, it all started to click and I dove into a binge to catch up.

And they were right! This show is excellent, and its strength is sourced in an incredibly strong script from a writer who knows how to construct a longform mystery. Because it turns out, that’s what this show actually is. How do you sustain a slasher for 12 weeks? By embedding a deeper mystery within the slasher framework and pacing your story so that the entire middle delivers a backstory narrative that is even more compelling than the current events. This show is expertly structured to grab your attention and then get you deeply emotionally invested in the coming bloodbath, which is crucial for a slasher to feel like it has any stakes. Let me also note that the excellent writing here is supported by extremely smart direction and editing and some standout performances from young actors. I am going to focus on the writing here because that’s what I do, but it should be said that this whole production is all around excellent. 

So let’s talk about why the writing in Dead Friend Forever works so well! Great drama mysteries should support two kinds of engagement from the viewer: 

no thoughts head empty engagement from the people who just want to be pulled along for the ride and be constantly surprised

red string board theory engagement for the people who enjoy finding clues and trying to solve the mystery in advance. 

It’s actually really fucking hard to thread this needle as a writer, because it requires seeding strong enough clues that attentive viewers could reasonably guess some of the big reveals, but not giving away so much that you are unable to surprise them. A reveal in a good mystery should have you saying “oh my god WHAT” and “of course, that makes perfect sense” at the same time. And the best mysteries support the viewer being able to go back and rewatch, find new meaning they missed the first time, and realize every single thing that happened adds up. A tight mystery has no loose ends and no false steps; it never lies to the viewer, it only works to draw your attention where it wants it at any given point in the story.

Dead Friend Forever does this masterfully with several of its reveals, but I will highlight the biggest example: the reveal of Phee and Non’s relationship in episode 7. In the first four episodes of the show, the story lets us in on a few crucial facts: Phee is newer to this friend group (along with Tan and White), he was not present for whatever went down with Non three years ago, he has some kind of fucked up not!friends with benefits relationship with Jin that involves lots of sexual tension and dick biting, and he seems interested in figuring out what the hell happened once all these dudes start acting crazy about the videos. The string board theorists had enough to go on there to reasonably guess that he was intentionally trying to uncover the truth—but not why—and the no thoughts head empty crowd could just vibe, enjoying his scenes with Jin and wondering how exactly he ended up hooking up with him and getting involved with this group of people he doesn’t even seem to like.

Once we get to the backstory and see Non’s narrative, additional clues emerge, like the existence of both an older brother and a mysterious sweetheart that is only saved as [heart emoji] in Non’s phone. No thoughts head empty is over here going huh I wonder who they’re gonna be and hey when are the rest of the characters going to show up; string board theorists now have two clear options for how Phee could tie in to Non’s story and why he might care enough to investigate, but no one knows for sure. So when the show ended episode 6 with Phee running into Non’s room and began episode 7 with The Most Effective Five Minute BL Of All Time, everything clicked into place. No thoughts head empty got to experience a very pleasant shock moment, the string board theorists got to feel satisfied that they figured out at least part of the reveal, everyone got to enjoy an unexpected shot of romance in the middle of this stressful narrative, and there were still parts of Phee’s motives and involvement with this group that we didn’t understand and would require additional reveals. That is great mystery writing in a nutshell.

And it’s not only the mystery construction that makes the writing here so smart. It’s also the way Sammon is weaving in tons of social commentary, embedding Thai cultural and religious values, incorporating complicated crimes with lots of players in the mix that somehow don’t get confusing, and drawing complex and nuanced characters whose choices and behavior you understand even if you find them abhorrent. It’s not easy to make a viewer both despise a character and still care what happens to them; when you write a story about despicable people you run the risk of inspiring apathy in the audience, which is a death knell for a mystery. We have to be invested for this story to work. We have to feel deep empathy for Non to the point that we fully support axe murdering his bullies, but we also have to be interested enough in the bullies and why they behave the way they do to watch 12 weeks of them running around being awful to each other and harming everyone in their paths. And Non, too, gets to have real complexity. He is not a perfect little Mary Sue who never does anything wrong. He makes big impulsive mistakes, and seeks attention and affection from the wrong people, and lies to the ones he loves, and doesn’t always ask for help when he needs it. He is a flawed human being and that’s so important, because he is the center of this story and we need him to feel real.

In conclusion: holy shit. I tip my hat to you, Dr. Sammon, and I am very excited to be on this ride for the final four episodes. 

[sisislair]

hiii hello i was just looking in the notes of this post and saw your tags and hi that kind of au sounds like REALLY to my tastes so i wanted to ask if you'd like to maybe share any more about it? it sounds so interestinggg would you please drop deets i'm so curious !!

Hi!!!

So basically the idea here was that I wanted to make a crossover for TGCF and MDZS that would be as close to canon compliant as I could get.

Plot points include:

Xie Lian being a patron God of the homeless due to his 800 years of exile so young Wei Ying takes refuge in one of his shrines and the blessings he receives from that are what let him survive long enough on the streets for Jiang Fengmian to find him.

Due to this plus also his morals and tales really lining up with Wei Ying's own, he becomes a somewhat casual worshipper of Xie Lian and introduces Lan Zhan to one of the joint Hua Cheng/Xie Lian temples at some point during the Cloud Recesses period. Cue Lan Zhan also visiting the temples and starting to pray there because he desperately needs somewhere to get his homosexual thoughts out.

Several snippets throughout the story of various gods and ghosts plus their interactions with mortals. Among them being Lotus Pier worships Black Water due to him having usurped Shi Wudu some time ago, and the multiple ways the gods end up helping their followers during the sunshot campaign.

Why does Xie Lian not help Wei Ying's life from being fucked over? Well A he's not omnipresent, but B, Wei Ying stops praying at a certain point as he begins to grow more bitter, the PTSD gets his ass, and the demonic cultivation starts affecting him more.

Now after he dies things get interesting with Lan Zhan making his post punishment rush to the burial mounds and grabbing Wen Yuan, but he's fucked up and on his way back he's flagging. So he gravitates towards a safe space,this being the nearest HuaLian temple he can find from the air. Xie Lian fixes him up as a blessing to both him and Wei Ying, although Lan Zhan doesn't really remember it, and this is what allows him to make it back to Cloud Recesses without dieing.

Lan Zhan remains a believer, and as his desperation grows over the years he fails to find any trace of Wei Ying, he finally decides to personally try his luck in ghost city with Hua Cheng.

Now Hua Cheng has had many people try bargain for Wei Ying's soul over the years, and fucked all of them over with pleasure. However both he and Xie Lian have been on and off keeping tabs on these two over the years due to their presence in their temples plus their prayers, so he knows a fellow yearner when he sees one. I imagine that it ends up being some sort of test that Lan Zhan will accept Wei Ying as he is no matter what, and when he passes it he decides to help him out.

Now not even Hua Cheng or Xie Lian can help out someone who's soul has been scattered to the four winds, buuuut his information network has picked up on Nie Huisang's scheming. So he lets Lan Zhan know that if he's near Mo Village and a particular time he should be able to find something.

Again it's probably just various snippets of the things the gods do to help or hinder for the rest of the main plot until these two idiots get married, at which point I've planned a very nice scene where they go to one of the HuaLian temples to give their thanks for finally being able to be together, and it's toothrottingly sweet.

Most of this is still pretty vague with only one or two scenes really planned out, which is why I haven't really started writing this lol.

[tortoisebore]

let’s pretend i’m not posting this a week late 💕💗❤️💖

happy (belated) valentine’s day—here’s a very cheesy and poorly written bonus scene to tack on to hey sharpshooter featuring inappropriate use of chocolate syrup and a cameo from everyone’s least favorite business major !!!

—

In all honesty, Sirius wouldn’t have known Valentine’s Day was even happening if James hadn’t said something.

“—and I think me and Lil are just gonna do dinner here after. She’s not super into Valentine’s Day—”

“Valentine’s Day?” Sirius had muttered absently, entirely more focused on adjusting the crop and lighting on the latest of a series of semi-dirty photos he’d been sending off to Remus throughout the day. Remus’ service had been too spotty to text back much since earlier that morning, but Sirius had gotten several unintelligible key smashes and a very frustrated phone call around noon, which he was counting as a win. Really, he was just biding time here in the living room with James and Pete until Remus made it to whatever city the team was setting up shop in for the night and they could FaceTime uninterrupted on some nice, stable hotel WiFi.

“Mhm,” James continued. “I really should have learned my lesson by now—every year I try to plan something and she shoots me down, says it’s a fake holiday created by corporations and we shouldn’t participate. It’s probably for the best, since it’s on a Monday and all this time, plus I have practice at—”

“It’s what?” Sirius exclaimed, shooting up from his spot lounging on the couch and dropping his phone in the process. “Monday?”

“Well, yeah,” James shrugged through a mouthful of popcorn, juggling one of Pete’s borrowed game controllers in his free hand. “The fourteenth. Like it always is.”

Sirius confirmed the date on his lock screen as February 12th and spent the next hour losing his entire shit about it. Remus was away for a game until tomorrow night (either Illinois or Iowa, Sirius couldn’t remember) and they hadn’t even spoken about dates or gifts or plans for Monday, and oh no, oh god, four months in and Sirius was already the worst boyfriend ever, confirmed.

Through a series of vague, sneaky texts and some Googling the next day, Sirius managed to hatch a little plan just cute enough to make up for the fact that every decent restaurant in the city was booked up through Thursday and there simply wasn’t time to write Whitman-level poetry professing his undying love. This was going to have to be a wine him and dine him on a budget sort of situation, but Sirius was nothing if not an unabashed flirt and quick on his feet, so he had confidence that despite his lack of prep time Remus would be feeling quite doted upon by the end of the night.

The plans were so last minute and low-key that Sirius hadn’t been expecting anything in return himself. It was just a regular, simple night in, really—a walk to pick up a little surprise dessert and whatever cheap wine they could get their hands on, cooking dinner at Remus’ place, and what he hoped would be a repeat of the deliciously intense tipsy sex they’d had last weekend. It wasn’t really Valentine’s Day-esque at all, nothing out of the ordinary from any of their other typical date nights in, so when Sirius answered the door on Monday afternoon and found Remus wielding a bouquet of flowers, what looked to be a homemade card, and a precious, shy little smile, he’d nearly combusted on the fucking spot.

“Where did you even find these?” he cried from his spot thrown in a heap on the floor of the entry hall, having collapsed the moment Remus shuffled inside to hand over the flowers and press a sweet, smiley kiss to his cheek. “I looked everywhere for flowers, Remus—everywhere. There are none left in the whole city!”

“I got them in the airport before we flew out yesterday,” Remus admitted sheepishly from the kitchen doorway, leaning against the frame and watching on amusedly as Sirius brought the little bouquet to his face to get a good whiff. “There was a little stand right outside security.”

Sirius wailed. “You went all the way to Illinois to buy me flowers?”

“Iowa,” Remus corrected, then thought better of it and shrugged. “But yeah, I guess I did. It’s not like I played in the game—the flowers were the real accomplishment.”

“I love you,” Sirius implored desperately from the floor. He lowered the plastic-wrapped bouquet gently and met Remus’s eyes with a forlorn sigh. “You sweet, perfect, adorable man. I love you so much.”

Remus laughed softly, but Sirius caught a tinge of pink on his cheeks and dusting over the bridge of his nose and felt his stomach erupt in butterflies. “How long are you planning on hanging out down there?” he diverted.

“Until you stop being so cute my legs don’t work.”

“Well—might be here for a while then, won’t we?”

They eventually did make it out of the apartment, only after Sirius had trimmed the flowers and got them settled in a jar on his bedroom windowsill. The cold was biting and sharp outside as they began the trek to Sirius’ little surprise, hand in hand, huddled close for warmth.

“Where exactly are you taking me?”

“It’s a surprise,” Sirius urged for the third time since they’d left the apartment, nudging at Remus’ arm with his elbow pointedly.

“Okay, but what sort of surprise?” he asked. “Are we getting food, or coffee, or going sightseeing—you’ve got to give me something, Sirius.”

“No can do,” Sirius maintained. He swung their joined hands back and forth idly as they walked. “But I can promise that you’re going to like it.”

Remus rolled his eyes dramatically but smiled, squeezed Sirius’ hand and kissed his knuckles goodnaturedly. “Whatever you say.”

Sirius wasn’t fucking around, he really was going to love this last minute little surprise—through all his frantic research on Saturday night, he’d discovered a tiny French chocolate shop attached to a cafe near the river off campus that happened to be running a half-off special on assorted truffle boxes for the week. Sirius was very much planning on buying at least three boxes—one to share tonight, one for Remus to keep, and one for himself to hide at his own apartment.

The shop was busy when they arrived, so Sirius offered to grab a spot at the end of the line by the door while Remus assessed the territory up front. He watched on amusedly as his precious, darling boyfriend wormed his way through the crowded tables to the glass display cases at the counter, resting his chin in his hand and taking in the selection of truffles and fudge and miniature pastries. Sirius’ heart swelled and tugged with affection, and he bit at the inside of his lip to quell a smile.

“Oh—Sirius?”

His stomach dropped. He turned around slowly, pleading with the universe—please please please don’t be true—and tried to school his face into something less of a grimace.

“Hey, Ben,” he managed around a forced little smile.

“Hi,” Ben grinned back, all gleaming, perfect teeth and dimples, and Sirius fought very hard against the urge to roll his eyes. “Long time no see!”

“Mhm,” Sirius agreed. He turned and glanced back at the display case across the room, where Remus was now hunched over observing the bottom self intently. “Grabbing something for Valentine’s?” he asked absently.

Ben cringed a little and hesitated. “Yeah, actually,” he said apologetically, much to Sirius’ confusion. “Sorry.”

“Sorry?” he repeated. “For what?”

“I’m—well, I’m sort of here with someone,” Ben said reluctantly, nodding over his shoulder to a table in the corner and who Sirius assumed was his date—a short, dark-haired boy with clear-framed glasses.

“Oh,” Sirius said, still a bit confused about the blatant remorse on Ben’s face. “Um—okay?”

“I’m really sorry,” Ben continued, taking a step forward into his space. “We just met a couple of weeks ago and I thought—well, I know you and I haven’t been able to connect again this semester, so I figured there was no harm branching out a bit. I had no idea you’d be here, Sirius, really—I’m sorry—”

Sirius frowned. Did Ben—oh god—did he really expect Sirius to be hurt seeing him with someone else? Did he think he’d just been waiting around, twiddling his thumbs until they ran into each other again?

“Oh, no—” Sirius cut in. “No, no—I’m not—”

“I don’t want you to think this means we can’t still talk, you know?” Ben urged. “I’m still sort of seeing people here and there—just a few guys from my course, that’s all. A lot of them have been interested for a while and keep asking to go out but I just can’t find the time, you know—things are so busy lately. But anyways, we can still grab a drink sometime on a night I’m free or I can move some things around and meet you after your trainings—”

And suddenly it was all very, very funny, but Sirius forced himself to keep a straight face.

“No, Ben—” he interrupted, biting back a laugh. “It’s fine. Don’t worry about it.”

Ben reached out to touch his arm, squeezing apologetically with a silly little grimace that may have been an attempt at sincerity. “I really didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable, Sirius—I’m so sorry you had to see this—”

Sirius swayed out of his grip. “Ben, I have a boyfriend,” he urged, raising his brows pointedly when Ben’s hand stilled and then recoiled. “So, like I said—it’s fine. Really.”

“Oh,” Ben blanched, cleared his throat and straightened up a bit. “You do?”

“Yes,” Sirius said, letting himself laugh a little. “I do. So it’s okay, really, it’s all fine. Don’t worry about it.”

“How—” Ben shook his head a little, did a hesitant little quarter-spin in place and clicked his tongue. “Um, how long have you—uh, had…that?”

“Four months or so, now,” Sirius shrugged.

“Oh. Oh, and, uh—who—” Ben started, then glanced over Sirius’ shoulder and froze, and oh, Sirius loved, loved, loved Remus’ timing more than anything on earth at that very moment.

He appeared out of nowhere, suddenly plastered to his side in a flurry of excitement. “Baby, they have chocolate covered strawberries—”

Sirius felt him freeze more than he saw it in his peripheral. Remus was still for a split second, taking in Sirius’ predicament quickly, and then his hand was slipping around Sirius’ back to fist in his jacket as he cocked his head to the side and smiled.

“Oh, hi Ben,” he said cheerfully, and oh, Sirius loved him. It was impossible not to bite back a laugh at the way he grinned all friendly and sweet (and so, so obviously fake now that Sirius had spent all this time observing his smiles so closely), the way he leaned into Sirius’ side and tapped his fingers in a quick, excited rhythm secretly behind his back.

“Hi,” Ben repeated, a pained smile pulling at his mouth as he squinted and gestured between them. “So you’re—”

“Yep,” Sirius confirmed happily, swaying a bit in an attempt to secretly jostle Remus’ shoulder with a warning that he was about two seconds and a couple of words from crying with laughter. Don’t be funny, he pleaded. Please please please don’t be funny, I beg. “We are.”

“Ah,” Ben said flatly, nodding stiffly. “So—four months, you said?”

“Mhm,” Sirius nodded, turning to shoot Remus a smile and nudging his arm. “Give or take a week or so.”

“A week and six days, actually,” Remus added with a one-shouldered shrug. “But who’s counting?”

“You are, apparently,” Sirius teased, and he very much wanted to kiss the little crease in his cheek as he smiled, but figured that might be a bit cruel.

Ben cleared his throat. “Well,” he said through a forced smile. “Uh—we were actually about to leave and go somewhere else, I don’t really love the flavor combos here today, and I know a better place not too far from here—” He did another one of those little half-turns, patting his pockets awkwardly and pulling out his phone. “Ah, yeah I’ve got to take this,” he said apologetically, gesturing to his very much silent phone. “One of the guys from my course I was telling you about—probably confirming plans tonight.”

Sirius nodded and bit back a laugh, watching wide-eyed as Ben shuffled backwards toward the door, pretended to answer his phone and cover the receiver.

“So sorry, uh—nice running into you, Sirius. See you around.”

Sirius lifted a hand to wave, didn’t trust himself to speak without actually cackling. Remus waved as well, and Sirius bit his tongue hard to avoid a laugh.

“Bye, Ben,” he called merrily. “Good to see you.”

Ben grimaced, hesitated and waved again. “Remus,” he said flatly, hesitated with his phone still at his ear, and then sped out of the shop.

“Oh my god,” Remus started, jostling his hold on Sirius’ jacket before he cut him off with a firm grip on his arm.

“Shh,” Sirius hissed, pushing back a laugh so hard he felt his eyes start to water. “He left his date,” he managed to whisper.

“What?” Remus whirled around, glanced wide-eyed around the shop and then back in the direction of the door. “No!”

“He did,” Sirius wheezed. “He did, he did, he so did—”

The door bell chimed again and Sirius schooled his face into something more vaguely amused just as Ben barreled through the door again, still holding his phone to his ear.

“Hey,” he called across the shop, glancing back at Sirius’ table with a forced smile. “Uh—what’s—Noah, hey—yeah, sorry, let’s go. I have somewhere better, let’s—yeah, let’s just go—”

The poor boy—Noah, bless him—followed Ben confusedly out of the shop. Remus waved again, the bastard, and nearly made Sirius choke on a quick inhale to stave off a laugh, and then they were gone again.

Sirius turned back around, lest Ben or his poor date try for one last fleeting glimpse through the shop windows, covered his mouth with his hand and let himself laugh, finally, at the wide-eyed amusement on Remus’ face.

“Wow,” he breathed, gaping at the door where Ben had just disappeared. “That was wild.”

“Oh god,” Sirius laughed, wiping at his eyes. “Oh god, oh god, Remus—”

“How long was he here before I came back?”

“Not—not long,” Sirius managed through a fit of giggles. “Oh Jesus, you should have heard him, he was going on and on about all these guys he’s seeing and how ‘sorry he was to have made me uncomfortable’—”

“Uncomfortable?” Remus repeated incredulously. “About what?”

“Oh, he was entirely certain that seeing him here with someone else ruined my day,” Sirius said. “Did the whole ‘we can still get a drink sometime’ spiel and everything.”

Remus groaned. “I can’t believe I missed it. Those damn chocolate covered strawberries—I got distracted.”

Sirius pressed his face to Remus’ shoulder and laughed. “Oh, I love you,” he sighed. “You’re my favorite.”

“Okay, but really though—” Remus pulled back after pressing a kiss to his temple, meeting his eyes intently. “That fucking weirdo aside—we have to gameplan here. The strawberries are a must, but there’s also walnut fudge and white chocolate macadamia truffles, plus some of those round almond butter things you like. I took a picture, here—”

They managed to make it out of the chocolate shop with only three boxes of assorted confectionery and one whole tin of chocolate covered strawberries, plus a bottle of reasonably priced chardonnay from the cafe next door. After a dinner of Remus’ famous three-ingredient pasta, the two of them managed to get through one entire box and the majority of the strawberries by the time the wine was gone. And later, once they’d migrated to the bedroom in various states of undress after nearly half an hour of making out on Remus’ couch, Sirius pulled a miniature little bottle of dark chocolate syrup from his discarded coat pocket and waved it in the air pointedly.

“Your last Valentine’s surprise, mon chou,” he said, crawling up the bed to straddle Remus’ hips. He pushed up to his elbows and watched on dazedly as Sirius trailed the nozzle of the little bottle down his bare chest, circling at the waist of his jeans teasingly. “I’ll let you decide if you want to eat or be eaten.”

Remus’ jaw dropped open a little and his eyes went a bit cloudy, slipping distractedly up and down Sirius’ frame before grabbing his hips and flipping them over in a heap.

“You don’t even like dark chocolate,” he said matter-of-factly, pinning Sirius’ arms above his head in a quick move and grabbing the bottle with his free hand. He met Sirius’ eyes as he tore the plastic from the tip with his teeth, popped open the cap and squeezed until it overflowed, oozing in a little drizzle onto his stomach.

Sirius sucked in a breath. “That’s cold,” he gasped, squirming just enough in Remus’ grip to get him to hold his wrists tighter.

“Good,” Remus grinned conspiratorially. He pressed a lingering, open-mouthed kiss to his lips and then sat up, squeezed Sirius’ wrists and letting them go with a firm “don’t move.”

After a mere couple of hours, they managed to very enthusiastically work their way through the entire little bottle plus the rest of the chocolate covered strawberries. Even though they’d chipped the paint on the wall behind Remus’ bed again and earned themselves a sharp rap against the ceiling from his upstairs neighbors, Sirius counted their first Valentine’s Day together as a win. And later, once they’d showered and brushed their teeth free of chocolate and crawled back into bed, Sirius ran his fingers through Remus’ hair where he lay against his chest, twirled a curl around his finger, and thanked the universe that his besotted, lovesick heart wouldn’t be forced to endure another Ben ever again.

[yellowocaballero]

absolutely adore all of the ncau and very excited for the rewrite (like legit i enjoy rereading it every couple of months and there are somany banger lines/scenes and cathartic moments and hot damn you write the clones so well and make genuinely amazing scenarios and asshole characters that are fun to love. your fox is one of my favorite characters in general.) but, what character is your favorite to write?

I AM TRYING SO HARD TO GET THE REWRITE OUT I AM TRYING SO HARD I AM TRYING SO HARD

I NEED TO TRY LESS HARD BECAUSE I STRESSED MYSELF OUT ABOUT IT SO MUCH THAT I WROTE A BOBA POV JUST IN SELF-DEFENSE AND

I love all of them. All the POVs are fun. Bly is really stand-out, because he breaks a lot of the rules of writing clones. Both he and Fox are very fun because they're so decidedly abnormal people, but Bly's maximalism and Fox's minimalism are both fun in opposite directions. Mace was really refreshing to write because he's a mature adult, but Depa was based off the AP honors student girls in high school and it was fun adapting that and showcasing a love for characters who don't get as much love. Neyo is fun because he's somehow very normal despite only doing batshit things. Boba is a lot of fun because he's so innocent and cute and yet somehow so demented. Omega is so much fun too, she's so genius and so baby.

Rex's POV wasn't fun to write because it was so unpleasant, but that was its own fun. Similarly, Obi-Wan's POV isn't fun to write because every sentence has a background depressing irony to it, but that's fun in its own way. The POV who is straight up unpleasant to write is Ben. Ben is miserable to write. This is because Ben is a fucking miserable person. He is miserable and mean. I can't even complain, I did this to him, I feel like a neglectful mother.

Thirty is obviously incredibly fun (space communist), as is Blanche (space jpoppie). Everyone's good there's a reason I wrote so much of this.

Every day is a struggle so here is some of the all-new Boba POV story under the cut. I have already written a story with a low-key running thread/joke/theme of Omega being the galaxy's first transgender cisgender person, and it was such an entertaining/interesting idea that I always wanted to do more with it. So for this story I was like Oh Boy It Would Be A Good Idea To Talk About How Queer Children Are Targeted By Fascism!!!! [metaphorical transphobic violence under the cut]

Boba could hear the sobbing from the other side of the door. It was an unfamiliar sound, and when he palmed the door open he was surprised to find a grim Kote already raising his hand to knock. His other hand was on Omega’s shoulder. Omega, who was sobbing hysterically. 

It took a ridiculous second to even recognize her. Omega’s thick and wavy hair was a ridiculously distinctive trait: not only dark blonde, but long enough to reach the nape of her neck. She had been growing it out ever since she saw a mother on a holo sitcom with long hair down to her waist, and she was very proud of it. Almost every inch of it was gone. 

Her hair had been sheared down to near regulation length, tufted and patchy. Parts of her head were almost bald, and other parts were long enough to awkwardly curl. It seemed as if a razor had attacked it from several awkward angles, uneven and careless. Boba had never seen Omega cry so hard. 

Kote gently pushed her inside, leaving Boba to take her and frantically pat her on the back. “Four Batch 1s cornered her in the fresher. Held her down and tried shaving it all off. I chased them off before they could finish. Can you report this to Prime? I have to get back to class.”

Dumbly, Boba said, “Did you beat up four Batch 1s by yourself?” The Batch 1s were almost at apex maturity, and Kote was still a teenager.

Kote just sneered. “They needed four people to attack one little kid. Of course they weren’t tough. Cowards never are.” Kote clapped a hand on Omega’s back, and Boba squeezed her in a tight hug. “Don’t let them see you cry, Omega. I have to go.”

Kote left as quickly as he came. He really must have been running late for class. Boba was left with an armful of an Omega crying so hard that she could barely breathe, and it took several minutes of rubbing her back before he could even get the story out of her. 

“They said that they were fixing my defect.” Boba had sat her on the couch and dumped all of his childhood stuffed animals on her lap. She was throttling that ancient fish plushie from Boba’s toddlerhood. It was missing a stone eye, but Omega didn’t seem to notice. “That I was embarrassing all of us with my shameful hair. And - and I said that I didn’t have to wear it regulation, but they didn’t care! They told me that I needed to learn my place, that a real clone wouldn’t brag about being defective, that - that - !”

Boba patted Omega on the arm as supportively as he could. “Did you fight back well?”

“How was I supposed to!” Omega cried. “They’re so big and I’m just a kid! It’s not fair! All I could do was bite them!”

“That’s not nothing,” Boba said encouragingly. “At least you didn’t embarrass yourself.”

Then Omega was wailing again, and Boba was left desperately messaging Dad before doing his own triage by hugging her and patting her on the back. None of it seemed to help. 

It felt like forever before Dad finally came home. He looked a little as if Boba had interrupted him in the middle of something important, but he was always doing something important so it was whatever. Boba had given him advance warning, but Dad was still visibly freaked out to see Omega crying. At least her sobbing had died down a little: she was just hiccuping and hitching wet breaths, occasionally taking a sip of water from the cup that Boba shoved at her. 

Dad walked in, looking Omega up and down. Omega visibly redoubled her efforts to stop crying. “That’s weird to see. You look like Rex now.”

“Rex is a boy!” Omega yelled, before breaking out into fresh tears. How much water could one clone have in their body?!

But Dad just sighed. He walked over and crouched in front of Omega, waiting for her to compose herself again. The full focus of Dad’s attention on her seemed to jolt her out of her renewed hysterics, and Dad waited until she calmed down again before he spoke. 

“What did you expect?” Dad said simply. Omega’s face fell tragically. “Stop crying. You accepted the risk of this happening when you chose to be different. You know full well how favorably your brothers look at clones who are different. Dented beskar gets hammered back into place, Omega.”

“I didn’t choose to be different!” Omega insisted. “I am different! Why should I pretend I’m not?”

“So you don’t get attacked in the fresher. So the other clones don’t ostracize and mock you. There’s a reason why Rex shaves his head. You get to do some of what you want, but you can’t do anything about its repercussions.”

“Galaxy’s not fair,” Boba said sympathetically. Dad said that all the time. Everyone in the room knew it. Maybe Omega knew it better than anyone. 

Omega’s jaw clenched, and for the first time she looked angry instead of heartbroken. Dad met her gaze evenly. “They’re punishing me for being a girl. I’m not ‘flaunting a defect’. I’m being me. I’m not like them. I’m not breaking any rules, so they don’t have the right to make me like them.”

“They don’t,” Dad said. “But that didn’t stop them, did it?”

“You could stop them, Dad,” Boba said eagerly. Maybe Omega was powerless, maybe the younger kids just had to put up with the older kids bullying them just because the older kids were stronger and higher ranking - but Dad was above all of that. Dad had the power to make anything happen. “Can’t you tell the clones to back off and let Omega be a girl?”

“I could,” Dad said. Boba brightened immediately, but Omega didn’t. She already knew how he would finish the sentence. “But I won’t. Orders from on high won’t change their minds or make them accept her. They’d just find other ways to put her back into place. You’ll just have to roll with these punches, kid.”

“I wish I was dead,” Omega said. It startled Boba way too much. He’d never heard anyone say that before. “I want to be dead.”

In that moment, Boba had to agree with Dad. If acting like a girl was making Omega so miserable, why couldn’t she act like a boy? Boba knew that Omega was happiest when she was doing girly things, but surely the pain of four boys attacking her in the fresher outweighed any happiness that the girly stuff brought. It seemed like a choice between a medium amount of misery and a lot of misery. Only one option made sense. But it wasn’t the option Omega chose. 

For the first time, Dad looked a little sad. He straightened, taking Omega’s hand and gently pulling her off the couch. “Let’s tidy this up. I’ll get my razor.” Omega looked up at him, question clear, and Dad shook his head. “We’ll have to shave the rest. Plenty of you keep it at that length. You should join them.”

“I can’t,” Omega muttered. She looked away, expression screwing up. “You think I haven’t tried…?”

Boba hovered near the doorframe of the fresher, watching Dad sit Omega on the toilet and tuck a cloth around her neck. Boba offered Omega ‘her’ stuffed Tooka - it was Boba’s, but he had munificently given her technical ownership of it - and she clutched it tightly as Dad spoke to her in a low voice. 

Boba wanted to know what he was saying, but he had the strange sense that it wasn’t for him. 

[ladykailitha]

Look, considering I've only gotten involved in Stranger Things after season four and therefore haven't been around the fans during other new season filming starts, but my brothers/sisters/nb in fandom what the honest fuck is going on right now?

I have been a part of other fandoms when new seasons started filming and the worst I'd seen was BBC Sherlock. And you lot are behaving worst then they did.

And Jesus fuck, that's a fucking low ass bar.

(Again I am ship and let ship, kinktomato, and headcanon free for all)

But this is just what I've seen in my small deliberately secluded corner of the internet so forgive me if I get some things wrong.

Ronance fans have turned on Steddie fans.

Steddie fans are trying to eat each other over who tops and who bottoms between two horny, barely out of their teens, men.

Eddie is confirmed dead.

Dustin is trying to become Eddie.

People want Will dead because Noah Schnapps said some stupid shit regarding genocide.

And Argyle isn't coming back.

I'm going to give you my feelings on these so buckle up lets go:

1- Steddie and Ronance fans have turned on each other. And I know this because I doom scroll through steddie tag. That Ronance fans think Steddie fans are delusional and that they're going down after season five airs and there will be more Ronance fans because they're perfect for each other.

Where to even begin on this? First, never tell a shipper that their ship is never going to be canon because they don't care. Just ask all the Destiel, johnlock, and merarthur fans. Steddie fans are just going to ignore all but the most salient parts of season 5 if Eddie doesn't come back and write AUs for the rest of their lives. You know, like they have since the last scene on the Piggyback faded to black?

Secondly, I don't think I've seen much Ronance without Steddie. Granted I only read Steddie, but it seems that the two ships are tied pretty heavily together. The fruity four comes to mind. So maybe it's that they're getting tired of being a side ship next to a massive one like Steddie. Who knows. But apparently they're bitter.

And I say that because they keep tagging their anti-Steddie posts as Steddie to make sure we see it. Honestly, I just block them and go about my day. But seriously, I've never understood people's need to be shitty like posting hate on the tag for that thing. If you don't like it, fine. Block and move on.

Thirdly. Lastly. Maybe. I don't like Ronance. I saw the charms when I first joined the fandom and it was cute. Until the more I read and I realized that most of the time they don't bring up that Jonathan is even a person let alone Nancy's current boyfriend. That most of the time Steve is written wildly out of character about not caring that they're a couple and that he just wants them to be happy. Like, one Jonathan is severely under used in the fics I've read. Like Will doesn't have an older brother anymore. It's all Steve or Eddie. Which considering how you like your flavor of queer for Eddie or Steve (gay/pan/bisexual) Will talking to them about being gay makes sense, but Jonathan showed us in the last season that he is going to protect Will no matter what. Then blip! in fanfics, he's gone.

And then the whole Steve being okay with Robin not only dating an ex-girlfriend of his, but the ex. The one he thought he was going to marry. The one he dreamed a whole fucking future on. That was still hurt by two fucking years later. You either think very lowly of Steve or you just don't care. Because if you think Robin and Steve are the same person/share the same braincell/ride or die for life, there is no way even if Nancy threw herself at Robin would she even consider it. (I can write a whole ass post just on this by the way, don't get me started.)

2- This is the most recent bullshittery due to a current event about Sub Eddie. This is the worst discourse in any fandom and the worst offenders on either side tend say the most homophobic shit imaginable.

And it's pointless. Whether you think Steve is a top or bottom, whether you think he's dom or a sub. Same with Eddie. Everyone has their own flavor they prefer and they won't always match up with yours.

Personally I write them whatever feels natural for the story. But here's the major crux of the matter. I don't believe a little nerd in Bumfuck, Indiana has any idea what flagging is. I'm sorry. Left pocket, right pocket. Doesn't matter. The likely of him even knowing what BDSM is is pretty slim. I grew up in a small town. There will be some people that know, but that's because they know adults in the scene.

Don't like, don't read. Seriously, guys. Let people enjoy what they want to.

My personal feelings on the matter is that Steve is a bottom/sub because he deserves to be taken care of and Eddie would absolutely want to be that person for Steve, in and out of the bedroom. Again, you do you, beau.

3- The tombstone. Sigh. It was hard to see that. Not just because it confirms he's dead, but because it's been defaced. Most likely like fans have said, "BURN IN HELL" the poor bastard.

Having a tombstone doesn't necessarily preclude Eddie's return. There are several ways he can still comeback Kas! theory not withstanding. But the wank here is people jumping on Steddie shippers and Eddie fans in general pointing and screaming "see!"

Like we didn't have campaigns for Barb and Bob and (Billy). If someone's favorite character has died, don't be dicks when they want them to be resurrected a la Jim Hopper. Because that right there is the main reason people will still hold out hope until the final scene fades to black, okay?

I guess this one is just be nicer to each other, okay?

4- *sob* like holy fuck. Dustin you sweetheart. The long hair, the torn Hellfire t-shirt, the rings. The horns and sticking out his tongue. That poor boy needs several hugs STAT! And of course, people can't leave well enough alone on Facebook, I couldn't tell you how many of the comments were "steddie fans are going to make this all about them, aren't they?" Even though there wasn't a single comment by a Steddie making it about Steve/Eddie. But so many eye rolls. The other half were death threats against Noah Schnapp.

Which brings me to...

5- Noah Schnapp said some really shitty things about Zionism and the attack on Gaza. There is no escaping that. He said them. He double downed on them. And while yes it sucks he said those things, let's not forget he's still young and stupid. He's barely 18/19 years old. I remember being that age and saying stupid fucked up shit, and hoo boy does this make me grateful I was well into adulthood when the internet became a thing (24ish).

There are a lot of reasons to be upset by his comments and I get that. But death threats and calls for his dismissal/boycotts just seems excessive to me.

One, because the story began with a kidnapped little boy and a runaway little girl. If you get rid of one of them especially this close to the end it would fuck up the story. Now if there was more than one season left, sure. But this is literally the end. And for all we know, Will's character may already be doomed by the narrative. So calling for it now isn't go to do anything. Especially since they already had all the scripts written and would have finished filming if it hadn't been for the strikes.

Two, one person on the cast said something stupid and hurtful and you want to boycott the entire show for it? Like, what did David Harbor, Joe Keery, Maya Hawke, Millie Bobby Brown and all the others do to deserve you boycotting their show? If the last season tanks it could seriously hurt their careers, but hey Noah Schnapp said something bad, so fuck them?

I'm going to stop there, because this is another one I can go on and on about, but yeah. Don't hurt other people in your rush to vilify an 18 year old.

6- Eduardo Franco recently said that he didn't get a call so he didn't think he would be back. He was sure that ship had sailed.

Fans are upset, naturally. Argyle was a sweetheart and deserves better than to be cut from the story like that.

But thanks to the incident with David Harbor and Jim Hopper supposedly being dead, a lot of fans are saying he's only saying that because it's a "secret" he's coming back. Which would make sense for Eddie or any of the other character died. Martin Brenner, for example, but not Argyle. There would be no need for subterfuge. Plus, he would already be out in Georgia if he was coming back.

It's sad that he was done dirty this way, but if they split up the filming like they've done before there is still a chance he might get to come back, but as far as the current filming is concerned, yeah Argyle isn't coming back.

***

Just... be kind to each other. Remember that the other people on the end of the URL is an actual person with feelings. That people can like what they like so if they aren't hurting you, don't hurt them, okay?

[zeroducks-2]

How old is Thawne I didn’t know he was a white hair old man

He's several lifetimes old.

He's a time traveler, and especially after Barry's death he's been moving up and down timeline, completing cycles and touching up events this or that way to see what would be the effect in the long term. The timeline we're seeing is the one he picked basically, in which he managed to pull Barry "kicking and screaming" out of the Speedforce after having altered his life deeply enough.

Speedsters don't grow old, in the sense that they look the age they want whenever they want. Eobard explains this himself to some very confused Wally, Jay and Barry in the Rebirth Mini.

When it comes to the way Eobard looks, the main thing is that it's not exactly consistent. Sometimes he has white hair, which sometimes are long and sometimes are short. Sometimes he's blond, sometimes he's a ginger. Sometimes his eyes are a pretty warm amber like in the picture above, sometimes they're red, sometimes red with a black sclera, and sometimes they're blue.

It's generally assumed that the red eyes and the (sometimes) white hair happened after he became the Negative Speed Force. But then there's Venditti's run, in which he was white haired since he was literally a small kid, so he had to have been born with them

You need to look closely but his hair is white even as a kid.

But it's important to keep in mind that unlike other speedsters, whose looks tend to stay consistent, Eobard's appearance changes all the time. In my mind's eye when I write him he looks different in every fanfiction and snippet, with some combination of the traits I described, depending on what's happening and in which point in time the fic takes place.

To make you an example, look at how much of a twink he looks in Running Scared by Joshua Williamson:

But then in The Flash Age he's a seven ft tall hunk of a man built like a four doors wardrobe

I swear it looks like the suit rips because my mans too big not because it's damaged by the fight. So, see, very inconsistent looks. He changes his appearance all the time, and I like to headcanon that it's because the NSF allows him to and he doesn't have a perfectly stable perception of his physical self.

We don't often see him with his cowl off by the way. That scene in the Rebirth Mini where he takes it off while yelling at Barry is probably the ONLY scene in which he takes the cowl off by his own initiative. He's always very covered up, to the point where Barry doesn't even know that he has numbers tattoed (branded?) on his chest, and we the audience know only through a very brief flashback.

But yeah, most certainly he isn't a white hair old man unless he wants to. In one comic he de-ages himself and looks like a small child of about 8. King can look however the fuck he wants and I love that for him lmao.

[froggy-seok]

long time no see my uni professors want me dead and i want to write fanfic so here’s the start of a thread of character analysis/headcannons about post-canon lost in translation

Jaewon:

ok first things first this guy goes through so much head trauma in canon what the fuck is up with that?? i don’t feel like verifying all the occurances right now but off the top of my brain i count four different times (ceo park literally stomping on him, jaewon hitting his head on a door knob (and yes rhat is mostly humor but also im counting it), jaewon hitting his head on the floor of the club (club situation with minseok and dae), ceo park hitting him over the head with glass bottle AND stomping on his head (two for one combo)) and as far as i recall, jaewon doesn’t specifically get treated for head trauma in any of these situations? yes he gets hospitalized twice, once with a visible bandage on his head, and while i can understand not wanting to get super medical i am also just like 🤨🤨🤨🤨 someone check him for a concussion please???

so i know this sounds insane but keep the previous stuff in mind: i honestly to god think he’s got a TBI (traumatic brain injury)/some sort of brain damage by the end of season three, and my main reasoning for this is his behavior in the episodes when he is hospitalized/leading up to the trial. YES he has dealt with a lot mentally by that point and that could also explain his behavior, BUT!!!! his behavior in those episodes (specifically when he snaps at daehyun) just feels. off. INTERESTINGLY ENOUGH THEY ALSO LINE UP WITH SOME SYMPTOMS OF A TBI!!!! specifically behavior/mood related symptoms but yeah the point still stands. He’s irritable and i’d even say a bit aggressive (behavioral symptoms) but he also seems to be swinging between being angry to anxious/lonely to just straight up apathy (specifically during the bridge scene.) which are all common mood-related symptoms. FURTHERMORE. he is back to normal (basically) at the trial, and many of the symptoms mentioned are like. shorter term symptoms? so. TBI is definitely a possibility and a very likely one in my opinion bc ceo park kinda fucked him up ngl!!!!

anyways. the headcannon that comes from this. spiel of medical stuff. ok the headcannon is that jaewon has a TBI, but more specifically there are long term symptoms of those, A LOT OF WHICH DO NOT WORK WELL WITH BEING AN IDOL. given that he does redebut with mayhem and there is no mention of him having severe medical repercussions, i have sorta cherry picked things that like. make sense but also still Theoretically let him be an idol?? anyways here we go:

i think that post-canon, jaewon would likely still have issues sleeping (partly due to like. stalker trauma, partly TBI), but I also think he would end up with some form of chronic migraine situation/sensitivities to light & sound AND I KNOW YOU’RE THINKING “HOW DOES THAT WORK WITH BEING AN IDOL” well lemme explain.

- CEO Choi (SHC’s CEO & MAYHEM’s new CEO) seems to be like. very willing to pull strings and just generally help his idols/models? just from what we’ve seen he really does seem to care about MAYHEM :’) and i really do think he would like. ensure MAYHEM have an altered promotion schedule/whatever else is needed if the options are having jaewon be able to be in the group or not having him promote when he wants to be with the group.

- as someone who has dealt with chronic migraines! yes they suck but 1) you can. sorta self manage a lot of stuff? (i.e. sunglasses/hat for light sensitivity, headphones/earplugs for noise sensitivty) and there’s a point to which you can just. deal with it? not optimal but tbh you don’t always have a quick fix. THERE ARE SOME EXPERIMENTAL THINGS OUT THERE THOUGH!!!! i got a daith piercing (not officially considered a cure but it did work for me), and a more researched option are these red/pink tinted glasses?? i haven’t had to try them but. jaewon would kinda rock some pink sunglasses. SO THE TL;DR is that there are options, i absolutely think jaewon would find a way to be active with MAYHEM, and more than likely he (and mayhem) would have more rest days/rest periods built into their promotion schedules.

THE SECOND THING: jaewon’s reputation post-canon. i do think he would end up doing some sort of exclusive tell-all interview (likely with a magazine/newspaper instead of a recorded interview?) prior to redebut. mayhem would likely also get interviewed for it, both to confirm some parts and to just reiterate the fact that they didn’t know what was going on???? at all??? so between that and the lewsuit (and HCE being bought out), I do think it would generally be received as the truth and mayhem/jaewon’s names would be cleared.

I do honestly think jaewon would end up being one of the most popular members, if not the most popular. part of this is previous fans of his coming back, part of it is just that he sort of has that it-boy factor??? (handsome + cute, dyed hair, is close to and is supporting his family, sorta tragic backstory) BUT ALSO. AND THIS IS A KEY POINT OF IT. he would absolutely say that he took on the wyld reputation For Mayhem. a side effect of that (not completely/necessarily a bad one?) is that he would sort of become a martyr-type figure to a lot of fans. very much in a “oh he took on so much hate for them to get their chance” type of way. some people would obviously take it too far, but generally he would kinda be given a break by kpop twt 😭 (also like. duh. the whole bridge situation.) very little hate towards him, i do think a lot of people would probably kind of pity him a bit??? (even more so if he did end up being open about any ongoing physical/mental health stuff) and his photocards would cost so goddamn much. HCE-era jaewon photocards or a downpayment on a car, you decide.

but yeah post-canon jaewon? adored and can do no wrong in mayhem twt’s eyes. they are right.

[sillygoofyqueer]

I have been summoned by the newest chapter of losing hope :3

Not much happened but I’m taking this as a “I will give you fluff both after and before things go to shit”

Jingyi being Jin Ling’s reluctant friend is honestly pretty hilarious and I can’t wait to see those two start to get close because I feel like that’ll be like “I hate this person with every fiber of my being but if you make him cry there will be nobody searching for your body and no body to find either.” Especially after they realize the type of environment he was in his entire life in comparison to their childhoods. They’re goofy and I love ‘em.

Wangxian being shameless is always amazing (love that it’s LWJ doing it too!) but Wwx missing his sword. Jesus, that made me sad. It’d be interesting to see how suibian communicates with Wwx because in canon we know that the swords have spirits but that’s never really expanded upon. Especially since suibian sealed itself. It’d be nice to see them communicating with their weapons (also imagine suibian mother henning Wwx? Or even Wwx thinking of suibian as a sibling/parental figure? The angst for that would be great especially combined with the scene of Wwx giving away his golden core. Both of them would know Wwx would never be able to properly use suibian again and wow that would hurt. Also I’d imagine since Jiang cheng can also use suibian, suibian does care for him much like Wwx but also it’d be funny if it didn’t particularly like him. Like, the entire time Jiang cheng uses suibian it is fluently cursing at him.)

Jingyi picking up on LWJ pining/flirting is very funny but probably not as funny as it will be when sizhui realizes that A) they’ve both been pining for each other for almost two decades B) 100% they are not in a relationship even if they’re totally shameless with each other and C) they both SOMEHOW have NO IDEA that the other likes them back. The facepalm when that realization sinks in will be funny :3

As always fuck JGY.

Also as always, your writing is amazing four and I wish I could give you more Kudos <3333

Remember to take care of yourself and take breaks!

Just...just picture me holding you close right now. That's it, that's the sentence.

Now, I don't know what you meeeaaaan, there is barely any angst in my fic whatsoever and there will never be anymore angst-...*checks timeline doc*....for nowwww....In all seriousness though, I can't actually remember/decide if there will be any angst next chapter, but oh boy if there was wouldn't that be silly. Wouldn't that be sooo goofy? Guess we'll never ever ever EVER know. I was feeling soft and silly, and this was more of a filler chapter, so I was like, "fluff be upon ye" I guess.

Jingyi and Jin Ling are going to have a very interesting friendship - Jin Ling's been raised differently because Wei Wuxian has kind of been a part of his childhood, so I wonder if that will affect how he builds/views relationships with other people - what do you MEAN I can't foreshadow in my post, who said that?! Anyway, I can't wait to think about it from Lan Sizhui's perspective; dude feels bad for Jin Ling because it is OBVIOUS that this poor guy does not know how to talk to people and if he is befriending what everyone labels as a dangerous criminal, then he is in severe need of friendship. Then there's Jingyi in the background, barking like a chihuahua every time Jin Ling does something that the Lan doesn't like until they devolve into fighting.

Ever since I learned about sword spirits, I've always wondered how Suibian would interact with Wei Wuxian and how they work together. I read one too many SVSSS fics where sword spirits hold a big value in them and it was all downhill from there. Think about it - Wei Wuxian had a lot of people who knew him in Lotus Pier, but he was never truly vulnerable with anyone (except maybe Jiang Yanli, but even then, it wasn't much) because he didn't want to sound ungrateful. So, imagine a Wei Wuxian who found solace in ranting to Suibian. Now imagine a Suibian listening and soothing in their own way. You see my vision, right? Imagine losing that when he needed it the most, during the Burial Mounds. Imagine finally being able to get it back after years of unforgettable trauma and torture, when he desperately needs someone he can rely on without second guessing everything to do with human duality. That doesn't exist with a sword spirit - Suibian just cares.

[zannolin]

For the writer ask game: 2, 18, and 47 please! 💛

hello friend! i hope you're well <3

2. Do you plan each chapter ahead or write as you go?

i try to plan ahead when writing multichapter fics. it never works out very well for me if i don't. (see: my caspter one that ended up being 43k when it was Not supposed to be 43k or a multichap) but there's always an element of writing as i go; scenes will shift around, pop into existence, get cut, etc. the end results is always something of a surprise.

18. Do you title your fics before, during, or after the writing process? How do you come up with titles?

before, almost always. i cannot start a fic that doesn't have a title. this is one of my many annoying quirks as a writer. my brain just flat out won't let me! however, sometimes i go back and forth a lot while working on them, before posting. north of desire was nearly borrowed time, and animal instinct was delayed forever (the extended one, since the original was a title-less snippet here on tumblr) because i couldn't choose what to call it. come november changed titles a couple times before going back to being come november. etc. i am a lover of two-word titles and i keep a title doc on my laptop that's just a big long list of titles i thought would fuck that i scroll through whenever i'm starting something new. often i'll come up with titles for certain aus/concepts based on songs i'm listening to that i associate with them, though (this is how the susan fic got a "welly boots" title) if nothing in the doc fits. poor jester has had a front row seat to me going back and forth over what to title my reverse dawn treader au. i haven't even outlined it. and i can't until i title it....

47. How many times do you usually revise your fic/chapter before posting?

tricky question. the official answer is something like at least once; i try to do a last sweep to check for typos and flow and stuff before i post, but i also tend to do edits as i go along. every time i open the doc i read over what i've written and revise it a little, so it can be revised as many as several dozen times (chapter four of NoD, because of how long it took to write) or barely once (all in, palms out, which was written in like. just over a sitting). it just depends. i do not do much heavy revision on my fics, though. the only ones i have done this extremely with would be good luck, babe! which got the five separate outlines treatment; the swing of things, which i wrote and then printed off and cut into sections and rearranged them all over my bedroom floor; and to an extent objects in motion, which i just really wanted to be good. i am not a fan of the revision process (which has rendered my creative writing degree Miserable lollll) but i should do it more because on god i just found a typo in pdhmti like five minutes ago and screamed.

get to know your fic writer!