#so i gotta work through all the ideas i've ever had to get something cohesive :')

[putrid-tongue]

‘  can  i  interest  you  in  this  original  19nth  century  chaise  from  france?  the  backroom?  why,  certainly.  if  you  would  please  follow  me.’

born  in  1978  in  brașov  as  mínluben  duțescu  to  a  roma  mother,  the  first  11  years  of  his  life  would  be  spent  alone  with  her—  broken  up  by  visits  to  the  broader  family,  but  without  a  father.  in  '89  they  would  come  to  bucharest,  as  sabina  would  pick  up  work  as  a  nurse  in  a  hospital  there  with  the  chance  of  additional,  further  qualifications.

there  she  would  meet  costică,  with  whom  she  falls  in  love.  they  would  marry  months  after  meeting,  joining  their  families  and  moving  into  costică's�� household.  something  mínluben  struggled  with  as  a  child,  growing  rebellious  and  distant  under  the  care  of  an  authoritarian  father  he  could  now  acknowledge.  with  16,  mínluben  would  find  out  the  truth  of  the  man's  nebulous  and  elusive  business—  with  costică  being  the  head  of  the  gúrșyulu,  a  sister  clan  under  clan  chira  of  the  romanian  mafia.

in  that  very  same  year,  he  would  also  be  introduced  to  the  (un)official  family  business.  leading  to  an  early  introduction  to  a  life  of  extreme  violence,  as  he  is  not  one  of  costică's  trueborn  sons,  who  have  been  spared  involvement  for  much  longer.  a  decision  in  which  mínluben's  open  animosity  and  difficult  behavior  had  no  small  part.  though  he  would  remain  to  find  comfort  in  his  mother  in  those  last  years  of  his  youth.  she  is  also  the  one  who  encouraged  him  to  pursue  his  education  regardless  whenever  possible,  for  as  long  as  he  can.  something  that  mínluben  did  with  relative  ease,  despite  the  trials  and  tribulations  of  his  life  as  it  were,  bringing  it  so  far  as  a  master's  degree  in  history  and  theology  in  his  30ies,  eventually.

although  his  mother  passes  when  mínluben  turns  22,  due  to  misdiagnosed  cancer.  alone,  he  has  to  fend  for  himself—  though  he  does  so  admirably.  even  in  his  earliest  years  of  running  with  the  gúrșyulu,  mínluben  -  who  takes  up  the  name  of  mordú -  earns  himself  a  reputation  of  being  unflinching,  professional  &&  capable  of  anything  even  in  situations  of  great  pressure.  clan  gúrșyulu  is  known  for  handling  drug  trafficking  primarily,  though  they  also  do  specialize  in  matters  of  occult  consultation  for  fellow  countrymen—  such  as  exorcisms,  or  the  pacification  of  strigoi,  moroi  and  other  creatures  coming  back  to  haunt  families.  an  art  the  mordú  proved  rather  taken  with  and  proficient  in.

the  circumstances  of  mordú's  departure  from  romania  &&  his  family  are  unknown—  though  he  did  manage  to  cut  ties  with  the  gúrșyulu  and  the  broader  romanian  mafia  successfully,  coming  to  the  us  instead  where  he  makes  use  of  his  degrees  by  procuring  and  selling  select  victorian  furniture, primarily.  though  the  business  is  a  front  for  his  freelance  work  in  which  he  continues  his  studies  of  the  occult  and  offers  his  expertise  on  such  matters  readily,  for  those  who  know  the  right  questions  to  ask.  if  you  have  the  money  to  spend,  he  is  also  available  as  an  assassin/hitman  for  hire.

PLOT  HOOKS:  you  want  to  buy  extravagant  and  expensive  furniture  /  there  is  a  new  history  college  lecturer  in  town  /  did  you  hear  about  the  new  assistant  reverend?  /  you  have  been  plagued  by  nightmares  and  nothing  is  as  it  should  be;  someone  has  recommended  a  man  named  mordú…  what  can  go  wrong?  /  people  have  been  acting  strange  since  this  new  guy  arrived.  just  what  is  that  about?  (  cult  leader  sub-verse)

 his  modern  verse  works  for  purely  modern  settings,  though  also  for  those  leaning  more  into  mystery,  fantasy,  horror  and  other  such  settings!  i  did  keep  some  information  purposefully  vague  and  to  the  point,  because  i  would  rather  let  him  elaborate  in  threads  should  it  ever  come  to  it.  in  all  verses  mordú  is  not  keen  on  sharing  personal  details  about  himself  and  does  like  to  blend  in  wherever  he  lives  (in  modern  verses specifically for the last part).

[statusquoergo]

Hi! I was wondering if I might ask for some advice? A few days ago, this idea for a Marvey fic came to me randomly and it's been running circles in my mind ever since. It's gotten to the point where I even started to rewatch the show after three years. I've got certain scenes in my head too! The problem is that I'm quite terrible at seeing projects through. I don't really have the time lately to put a lot of my effort into this story unfortunately, but I also have a track record of giving up on stories I'm super passionate about halfway through. I was wondering if you had any tips or advice? You're one of my favorite writers and I hoped you might be able to help. Thank you!

Hi! Wow, am I really? Wow. I never think of myself as being one of anyone's favorite anything, that's really sweet of you to say, thank you so much! And of course you're more than welcome to ask, I'll do my best to be helpful!

Oh boy, I've been there... Having scenes already playing out in your head sounds like a good start, though! Better than having a vague premise with no concrete ideas, anyway. But seeing projects through can be tough, for sure, and the inherently fickle nature of fanfiction's feedback loop doesn't make it easier. So! Tips and advice!

A lot of people, especially those with little free time, benefit from a schedule, blocking out time in the day to dedicate to writing without distractions. If that works for you, great! But if it doesn't, that's cool too. It doesn't for me. Forcing myself to sit down and write at any given moment is one thing, but making it an appointment is something else entirely, and it messes really badly with my productivity. I guess the point of this is, don't feel bad if you don't stick to a strict schedule, but also don't let yourself totally off the hook; if you want your story to get written, you'll probably occasionally have to make yourself write it, even if you don't think you want to. Moments of vivid inspiration are amazing, yeah, but they aren't all that common; sometimes you've just gotta sit down and crank out a few paragraphs. A shitty first draft is better than no draft at all, and you can always go back and edit it into something you love!

When I'm not actively writing, I do my best conceptualizing while I'm doing other fairly low-energy things, like going for a walk or watching television or something, and then writing down parts of scenes, or even just thematic ideas I want to include somewhere in the piece, as they come to me. (I have also been known to force myself out of bed as I'm trying to fall asleep to write down snatches of dialogue that have just occurred to me... I recommend keeping a notepad and pen close by, it's much less hassle.) Whenever I can find the time, I'll turn them into a chapter, or part of one, but this method allows me to keep engaged with the story even when I'm not actually drafting it.

Lack of inspiration strikes us all, though, and in that case, it's totally fine to leave a story alone for a little while. The key there being "a little while"; give it a good night's sleep or a day off, but then, even if you don't get right back into writing, at least start thinking about it again until you're ready. Or maybe do get back to writing first thing! Sitting at your computer and making progress, even if it's progress you ultimately delete, at least puts you back in the writing mindset and gets you back into the world you're creating.

This is partially specific to the world of fanfiction, but don't be afraid to vary your chapter length. If you like to get your chapters up to 5000 words before you post, great, that's a fine baseline, but if you've managed to put together a few scenes that only get to 1500 words and still tell a cohesive story, or part of one, it's perfectly okay to post that, too. Getting feedback on new material can be a great motivator, but it can also be really motivating just to have that sense of accomplishment of putting more of your writing out into the world and seeing that word counter go up. Not to mention, updating the Last Updated date can make a fic seem more current, and maybe help get it back to the front of your mind!

I think the main theme here is, do what you can to keep yourself immersed in the story you're working on, even when you're not working on it. And I know this sucks to hear and nobody wants to think about it, but sometimes you do have to force yourself to write. If you haven't worked on your story at all for the past two weeks, ask yourself what's holding you back. Did you lose your passion for the material, or are you just frustrated? Did you even realize it had been that long? What made you want to write the story in the first place? What's the ending you want to get to, and what's keeping you from getting there? Remember that even writing a little bit is better than writing nothing! It's fine to take a break, but don't give up!

These tips aren't universal, of course, no advice works for everybody, but I hope at least one thing I've said can be helpful to you! Best of luck!

[xmxisxforxmaybe]

Not sure I've you've seen E3 of S4 of MR yet... But... Aggressive Elliot+smut... Meaning maybe some Dom-ish Elliot??? Cuz that shit was HOT....

Alright, my love. This is my shot at a dom-ish Elliot. I hope you like it 💕

Warning: Pretty much PWP, so no under 18s

Gideon thought it would be good idea to celebrate securing ECorp, the company that was going to keep us all employed for years to come.   

At first, the party started out as a catered meal in the office, but then someone suggested adding some alcohol into the mix and heading out to one of the bars downtown.   

You never thought Elliot Alderson would go; in fact, you were shocked he’d stayed through dinner, even though he spent it hanging around Angela’s elbow like he was Linus and she was his security blanket.   

It wasn’t like there was anything going on between you and Elliot, but you couldn’t stop the slithering feeling of jealousy that crept through your chest when he clung to Angela. If someone had asked you to define your relationship with him, you would only really be able to qualify him as an acquaintance.

It’s just that there were these moments, these infuriating, fleeting moments when the two of you looked at each other and everything became background noise, a hushed din of greyed edges.

And you knew he felt it, too. 

“Just go up to him!”

You almost jumped as your friend hissed into your ear.

“What’s the worst that could happen? Some awkward small talk? He runs back to Angela and hides for the rest of the night?”

“Do you think there’s something there? Something between them?” you ask, unable to stop from voicing what’s really been holding you back.

“Maybe once. But she’s clearly only into Ollie—I mean, they live together.”

“What should I say to him?”

“How the fuck should I know—it’s Elliot Alderson?”

“I might not be his type.”

“No one might be his type—but ya gotta shoot your shot to find out.”

As people started leaving to head to the bar, you caught the motion of Elliot sliding into his hoodie and darted toward him, determined to at least talk to him.

“Hey,” you said, startling him. “Are you going to the bar?”

“Uh, no. Not really my scene.”

“Oh. I was hoping you were.”

“Why?”

Excellent question, you thought.

You were silent for so long, you thought Elliot would just walk away, but he waited, as if he knew what it was like to will your brain into a cohesive series of statements that could actually be said out loud.

Alright, you thought. Shoot your shot.

“There’s just something about you,” you said, your eyes flicking over Elliot’s face before settling on his still-startled grey eyes.

“Really?” Elliot asked, sounding as puzzled as he looked.

“Why do you seem so surprised by that?” you asked through a quiet laugh.

Elliot took a few seconds to formulate his answer, his face fixed in a serious expression, but his eyes, always so expressive, seemed to come alive.

“You just don’t seem like the type to waste time. Everything you do is always … efficient. I figured you wouldn’t ever give someone like me a second thought.”

“Someone like you?”

“Someone so … inefficient at just about everything other than tech.”

“Come on, Elliot,” you said laughing quietly again. “I’m sure you’re efficient at more than just fucking with computers.”

The word “fucking” hung in the air. You hadn’t intended it that way, but it just stuck, as if your subconscious was trying to help you by connecting you to what Elliot’s subconscious clearly wanted, too.

The way Elliot looked at you sent a wave of heat through your body, your cheeks turning a bit red, your lips suddenly too dry, your eyes open and unblinking and locked onto Elliot’s for a little too long.

“Are you—I mean do you—Shit. I’m so bad at this,” Elliot mumbled, his hands trying to pull up his hood, forgetting that it was already situated over his hair.  

“Ask me,” you said, your voice strong and sure, hopefully giving Elliot just the kind of encouragement he needed.

“Do you want to go somewhere else?”

“My apartment is only about two blocks from here,” you replied in a rush.  

You and Elliot looked knowingly at each other before you gathered up your stuff, leaving the office without saying anything to anyone.

The walk to your apartment was silent, but you could feel the heat of Elliot next you, walking just a little closer than necessary, even on a still-busy New York City street.

As soon as you shut the door behind you, both of you dropped your bags to the floor. It was clear Elliot wasn’t going to make the first move even though his hands were restless, pulling down his hood, sliding through his hair, resting near his pockets.

“Whatever you want, Elliot,” you breathed, standing right in front of him, your hands lightly coming to rest on his chest, his eyes slowly rising to meet yours. “I want you so much.”

“Whatever I want,” Elliot said slowly, tasting the words on his tongue. “What if—"

“Then I’ll tell you to stop. But I can take it. I want to take it—whatever you’re willing to give, I want it.”

Permission.

That was all Elliot needed.

His hands shot to your upper arms as he grabbed you and pushed you back against the door, his eyes testing you, seeing if you’d look away, if maybe you didn’t really want this as badly as he did.

But when you didn’t look away, Elliot’s mouth crashed against yours in a bruising kiss. He moved his lips against yours, nipping and sucking, and when you opened, his tongue thrust inside your mouth, twisting with yours.

He moved his hands from your arms to the sides of your face, tilting your head to the right in the direction he wanted you to move.

His body leaned into yours, pressing you against the door as you whined from the force of the kiss, your hands reaching for his hips to try to pull him closer—

“No,” Elliot said, releasing your mouth and grasping your wrists. “I’m in control.”

Elliot’s words sent a shiver of anticipation down your spine as his eyes burned a dark, dark grey in the dim light of your apartment.

You nodded your head slowly and relaxed your arms to show that you were more than willing to be a good girl.

“Bedroom?” Elliot questioned as he stepped back to let you lead the way down the hall.

You stopped just inside the door and glanced over your shoulder at him, waiting for his next command.

“Undress.”

You stripped off your shirt without pause and without turning to face him. Your cheeks and chest were flushed and it felt wonderful when the cool air of the apartment skittered across your skin.

You reached behind you and slowly unzipped your skirt before letting it fall to the floor. This was the part when the guy was supposed to whistle or at least make some acknowledgement of appreciation, but Elliot said nothing. In fact, if it weren’t for the palpable lust, you would have wondered if he had left.

That was until you heard his shirt drop to the floor, the buttons making the tiniest noise as they connected with the wood.

You kicked your shoes off and reached up to undo your bra, wriggling out of it before looking at Elliot again over your shoulder.

He was shirtless, and your eyes flicked down the trail of dark hair on his abdomen that led beneath his dress pants—his dress pants with the slightly crooked belt, and you licked your lips as wicked thoughts of what you’d look like on your knees in front of him flickered through your mind.

“Undress,” he repeated.

You turned away from him again and slid out of your underwear.

Elliot’s shoes sounded on the hardwood as he crossed the room and stopped directly behind you, the bare skin of his chest radiating warmth. He reached out and lightly slid his fingers down your arms before closing the distance and wrapping his arms around your chest, each of his hands cupping and squeezing your breasts.

He kneaded, a gentle-firm pressure that felt just right to you until he ghosted across your hard nipples with his fingers before tweaking them, pulling a moan of discomfort and of pleasure from low in your throat.

“Turn around.”

You did as you were told, and as soon as you faced him, he bent to kiss you, his hands controlling your head again, this time with his fingers buried deep in your hair, pressing into your scalp.

“Suck my cock,” he gasped out as he broke the kiss, and you didn’t even bother to contain your groan as you dropped to your knees.

But, you were a good girl, so you looked up at him, your hands poised just over his belt. You arched a brow, seeking permission, and Elliot nodded, gifting you with that sly, sweet, closed mouth smile that damn near made you come without even being properly touched.

You made quick work of his belt and unzipped his dress pants, letting them fall to the floor. You reached to help Elliot out of his shoes and socks and once able, he kicked himself free of his pants.

You sat back up on your knees and peeled away his black boxer-briefs, revealing his very aroused cock.

Wasting no time, you reached out and licked the precum from his head, sucking his tip into your mouth and pursing your lips to give him a show. You hummed with pleasure and that earned you a groan from Elliot before he grabbed a fistful of your hair.

He pushed your mouth farther onto his cock, not aggressively enough to choke you, but firmly enough to get you moving.

You took your time, savoring the taste of him and the fullness of him, and with every suck, you imagined what it would be like to have his cock inside of you, filling your aching cunt in the same way he was filling your greedy mouth.

“Enough,” Elliot commanded, giving your hair a tug to still your movements.

You released his cock and looked up at him, and Elliot crooked his finger at you, silently commanding you to stand.

As soon as you were on your feet, he tossed you onto the bed, your body bouncing with the force, but it was quickly stifled by the weight of Elliot settling on top of you, kissing you once again.

This time his kiss was needy, impatient, and he made quick work of your mouth before moving down your neck and sucking sweetly on any spot he chose. He moved quickly to your chest, grasping both of your breasts with his hands and sucking on your nipples in turn.

Elliot released your breasts with a bounce and he nudged your knees further apart, reaching between your legs to see how wet you were.

He groaned, a simple, throaty noise of appreciation when his fingers slid across your folds without any resistance.

You were quite certain you had never been this wet this soon in your entire life. The weight of Elliot on top of you, the rumbling of his short commands, and the look of lust in his gorgeous eyes was something you were certain no woman, if they gave him the chance, could resist.

Elliot wiped his fingers over his cock, coating it in your wetness before he positioned himself at your entrance. His eyes flicked to yours for permission and you bit your lip, your gaze locked on his as you gave a tiny nod of assent.

Elliot pushed into your heat, sighing at the contact while you obscenely groaned, the sound reverberating through your bedroom.

“Fuck, Elliot,” you said, unable to stay silent.

And Elliot did—his hips quickly finding a steady rhythm, his cock filling you just as perfectly as you had imagined while on your knees.

Elliot’s fingers quickly found your clit and began to work you as deftly as he worked a keyboard. You smirked to yourself in a silent confirmation of your fantasy, relishing in the fact that it felt better than you had ever dared to imagine.  

Your orgasm was quick and strong; your eyes rolled back and your moans came unimpaired as your cunt tightened around Elliot’s cock.

His movements sped up as he fucked you through your finish, and naturally assuming, what was about to be his finish.

“Fuck, Elliot, god yes! Come inside me!”

Elliot’s movements slowed as he leaned forward and chuckled, his voice growling in your ear as he said, “That’s cute, Y/N. You think I’m done with you.”

Your eyes snapped open as you were quickly manhandled onto all fours. Elliot lined up once again with your entrance, but this time, he slammed into you, his hips snapping against your ass as his hand came down on one cheek with a sharp crack.

“Oh, fuuuuuck,” you groaned, which was the last coherent noise you were able to make as Elliot made brutal work of your soaking pussy.

He fucked you like you’d never been fucked before—no one had ever lasted this long, especially not after you came on their cock.

Elliot was clearly hellbent on ruining you for anyone else.

“Come on,” Elliot said as he pushed down on your back, angling you just right as he continued to fuck you.

“Come for me again,” he growled.

This orgasm built around Elliot’s thrusts, built within your walls until you could feel your thighs trembling and your pussy aching with its tiny contractions, aching with its desire to just come, to just explode onto Elliot’s cock.

When you came, you were sure the neighbors were going to call the cops and complain because you couldn’t have held back the breathy pleas and the outright cries of pleasure if someone had had a gun to your head. The force of your orgasm caused Elliot’s hips to stutter, his thrusts to slow as he basked in the milking of your walls, fresh waves of arousal flooding around his cock.

Elliot came with his own strangled cry, a mixture of your name and about ten hoarsely chanted “fucks.”

Neither one of you moved for a long time, both of you relaxing in the unbelievable experience of that kind of pleasure.

When Elliot finally did pull his softening cock from your swollen cunt, it was with a sharp intake of breath before you both collapsed, Elliot on his back and you on your stomach.

It was silent for a long time as your bodies stilled and your breathing evened.  

“I think I saw God,” you mumbled into the sheets.

“Me too,” came Elliot’s soft intonation.  

You turned your head and looked at Elliot and said, “Please tell me you’re not some kind of magical creature that crawls out from his cave to fuck like an animal for one night, then disappears never to be seen again?”

Elliot turned to look at you, that damn smile on his face again.

“Is that your way of asking me if we can do this again sometime?”

“Yes,” you grinned, already knowing that you were sure as fuck going to do this again sometime.