#and i mean that!

[stanpinesdykewife]

Are you still working on that angsty fic where the reader tells Stan he doesn't have a say in who they talk to or fuck? That little sneak peek alone had so much delicious drama, I'm so curious to know if you intend on finishing it.

YES yes i do! wow i can't believe you remember that!! yes, i plan on finishing it but my writer's block has been pretty heavy... but it means a lot that you asked!! i know i've been pretty bad at keeping my promises lately HAHA but since you asked and since i still can't tell you when i'll finish it, i'm happy to share a little more of that scene under the cut!!! hopefully this will help hold you over until i start churning out content again:

lady plumber WIP stan/reader (fem) pre/during/post-canon/unspecified angst and smut, 997 words (picking up from this snippet!)

“I'm not yours. I don't belong to you.” You catch the rest of your words in your throat. You don't want me. You don't want me.

For a few moments, Stan is speechless. He stares at you, his eyes searching your expression, his mouth opening and closing and opening again. You stand there, staring at each other, and the rest of the bar laughs and drinks and shifts around you.

Stan’s brown eyes shine in the dim lights, and he purses his lips. Darts his tongue out to wet them before opening them again, taking a breath in like he wants to say something. But you—fuck, you fucking hate that you’re doing this—your eyes flicker down to watch his tongue, and they stay there to watch the thin sheen of spit glistening beneath a pink spotlight. Your gaze lingers for a beat too long. When you look back up at Stan’s eyes, his brows are raised. Then he relaxes. His lips curl back into a crooked grin. You already know you’re fucked.

“Doin’ what?” Stan asks lowly, still looking at you. You finally look away, lowering your head to look at the back of your own hand, willing it to move. Stan’s hand comes up between your bodies, and he presses it against yours, and his touch is so gentle. His hand covers yours entirely. He flattens your palm against his chest. The hair there tickles the sensitive skin of your wrist. “Look at me, will ya?”

“I know you don’t,” Stan says cooly, like he’s approaching a spooked horse. The simile is apt, because when he takes a small step forward with his hands raised, you have half the mind to kick him in the head with all your strength before running away. But you’re frozen in place, like you’ve sunken six inches in mud and silt and your nice shoes are all fucked up but you’d do more damage trying to take them off. You don’t move as Stan comes closer, and closer, and your head is forced to tilt up to see his face.

“Stop,” you say, your voice sounding much too soft in the bustle of the bar. Your hand comes up, meant to dissuade him from coming any closer, but it doesn’t work. All it does is press your hand against Stan’s bare skin when he stands right in front of you, and your knees go weak at the warmth from his chest, the heat melting against your fingertips, all the way up your arm, warming you up from the inside out. You say, softer this time, “Stop doing that.”

You look up. Stan smiles down at you.

“Let’s talk this out,” he suggests, “somewhere more private.”

You fucking hate yourself.

You nod.

Twenty minutes later, Stan is pressing you facedown on your bed as he pounds into you from behind. He’s fucking you so well you can almost forget the shame boiling beneath your surface.

“Fuck, I missed you,” you whine, gripping the edge of the pillow. You're drooling into it, spit and moans and unholy little gasps falling out of your mouth and soaking the soft cotton. You don't care. Stan’s dick is so big in you, so deep, and the stretch feels so good. It's like your body's been waiting for him to come back, to make room for himself again. You repeat yourself, moaning into the pillow, “Missed you so fucking much.”

“Fuckin’—shit,” Stan curses, breathing heavily from behind you. He has a bruising grip on your waist, drawing you back every time he drives into your cunt. You don't expect an actual response from him, not really. So it's not your fault your heart skips when he says, “Missed you, too, babe. Missed this perfect cunt.”

“Yeah?” you ask, your breath catching in anticipation. Then Stan squeezes your waist, adjusts his grip slightly so his calloused fingertips are in that crook between your thigh and hip, and a low moan draws out of you. “You missed me?”

“Fuck—Yeah,” Stan grunts, fucking into you with fervor, and the swell of feeling in your chest makes you shudder, makes your face flush. “Missed the way you feel around me. So fuckin’ tight. And the way you sound when I…”

He trails off to thrust hard into you, forcing your body forward a few inches. Then he grinds, making you cry out, and one of his hands slips down underneath your hips to find your clit. He's so rough about it that you instinctively startle forward, but Stan just grabs you with his other hands and pulls your hips back to be flush against his. His fingers let up a little and you melt, moaning loud into the pillow, your hips rocking back, and forth, into his hand, back onto his dick, in your own perfect rhythm.

“Yeah. There it is,” Stan huffs behind you, a smile playing at his voice. But he sounds just as hazy and sex-drunk as you do, high with the incredible rush of breaking a dry spell for some good fucking sex.

(Somewhere in the back of your mind, you wonder if that's the best way to describe it. A tolerance break. A relapse. You wonder if you’re addicted to fucking this handsome man who's so much older than you, so much meaner to you than he has any right to be. You wonder if it's dangerous. If there’s any merit to that small part of you that insists on packing all your shit and changing your name and driving, alone, until your car breaks down in the middle of the night, in the middle of nowhere, left with your inanimate belongings and a soreness in your chest and a cold, empty passenger seat.)

Then Stan says, “That's right. Moaning so pretty for me, sweetheart.” (And you decide you’re better off not thinking about it.)

[asmo-cosmetics]

not to be a hater but people who don't like solomon literally just don't get him

[twentyfoursevenghost]

i love recommending movies that are deeply relevant to my life to people who don't watch movies it doesn't drive me insane at! all!

[charles-jpg]

happy new year charles leclerc! fred i hope you grow hair. everyone else

[skibasyndrome]

random fic writing question! what's your favorite kind of scene or interaction to write and why? :)

Yay, thank you so much for the fun question! :)

Tbh (and you wouldn't know from my track record of fics so far, but I'm getting there with some future projects, I promise!) I've really started to enjoy writing dialogue! Just... situations in which characters need to talk it out (I have written more and more of those recently), interactions between friends, flirty banter, characters explaining their motives or feelings, stuff like that!

And that is an interesting development because back when I started writing fics I really hated writing dialogue and struggled a lot with it. But these days it seems like those scenes just flow very easily and I'm sometimes surprised by the fact that some characters do seem to have a mind of their own and I end up writing a dialogue I didn't even plan on writing! What I love about scenes like that is that there's always these two layers, you have the words of the characters, but you also have what the narration brings into it and it can get really interesting when the meaning is to be found somewhere between the two layers, like when a character isn't quite saying the whole truth or when you can tell from they way they are saying it that there's more.

[yasoldat-archive]

⭐️ - Put this star in the inbox of your favorite blogs. It’s time to spread positivity! 🌻

I would literally d*e and k*ll for you, I hope you know that.

[ibenology]

the average twitter vs tumblr community experience

[paintedcrows]

Did anyone tell Ford (bonus doodles: Family Movie Night, 70s Classics)

[daftpatience]

slow down for your disabled friends. thats like a bare minimum kindness that we shouldnt have to ask for. i love that youre so quirky and walking fast is a cool personality trait to you and all that but i bet you can count your physically disabled friends on less than one hand

[twinliches]

(grabs you by the shoulders) you have to make room for new experiences in your life. you have to go through the unpleasant work of leaving your comfort zone, even if just for a few minutes at a time. because if you don't, your brain will trick you into stagnation. you will start to believe that the world can barely fit you in it. but that's not true. it's the opposite way around. you can fit the whole word inside of you. your task is only this: to welcome it with open arms

[just-french-me-up]

'ao3 needs a like and dislike button'

what you need, my algorithm-rotten minded friend, is a grip

[charaznablespeteevee]

[koobiie]

shoutout to everyone who wants to infodump but cant string together coherent thoughts to form sentences and instead just look at you like this

[bookwyrminspiration]

sometimes a theme recurs in your work without your permission. and sometimes it reaches a threshold where you're like. well now i think this is saying something about me against my will. don't know what though

[anthrophobixx]

I had a dream where Brock was revealed to be a butch lesbian at the end of journeys and he thought that "ash and the others already knew" and the entire internet started losing their minds over it and after a couple hours the pokemon company tweeted "surprise faggots" with a picture of Brock holding a poorly edited lesbian flag

I tried to recreate it it looked smth like this

[noodles-07]

to be fair to Cain if nobody had ever died before and I didn't know it was possible I would probably also hit my brother over the head with a rock if he was being really annoying