#hmwthi

[feyd-meowtha]

ahhh, COMING FOR YOU, MATE ⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐

HMWTHI lives in my pocket and I take it out and look at it whenever I want to feel clinically insane ❤️

[luckydeuce]

shoutout to @cruuella / @bunnybunnybunnyb who kept me sane through all the research and overthinking that went into writing HMWTHI so far and continues...

i really need everyone to realise you can write about, joke about, even sexualise serious issues in fics as long as u do research and approach these issues with some level of knowledge and respect lmao

[luckydeuce]

several sentences sunday wednesday

Tagged by @swifty-fox and I just wanted to say thank you for not giving up on me even though I've been SO FUCKING ABSENT.

Also, to everyone else who's tagged me in stuff lately - thank you, and I love you, and I will catch up soon. I just have a caseload of 30+ trauma patients and, frankly, can't breathe.

John wakes up slow, weighted, still drunk on alcohol and too much sleep. He rubs a hand over his chest—prickly with folliculitis, not the most poetic affliction, but inevitable in the heat and grit of the desert.

A fan creaks overhead, moving the air but not cooling it. Paul is already half-dressed, tying his boots.

“Good morning,” John mumbles.

“Morning?” Paul repeats, glancing over with a crooked smile, faint amusement pulling at the corner of his lip. “It’s past noon.”

Christ, John thinks. Fuck.

He runs a hand over his face, scrubbing leftover dreams from his eyes.

“We shouldn’t make more of this than what it was,” Paul says, and John knows he’s right. But he can’t help teasing anyway.

“Oh, it was pretty damn good,” he drawls. “How much more can we make it?”

Paul gives him a look—somewhere between indulgence and exasperation.

“You know it can’t really continue, Bucky,” he says. Lightly. “Not here.”

Tagging @weimarweekly , @blixabargelds , @wayrad , @onyxsboxes and my loveliest @amiserableseriesofevents

Hit meeee babes (where the heart is)!!!

[luckydeuce]

find the word

some time ago, I was tagged in the find the word game, which is my favourite thing ever. and i promise chapter 8 is coming together (very, very slowly - but it is). so.

from @swifty-fox loose, blink, peak, sweet

loose John notices Paul at the edge of the makeshift ball game but only speaks to him later, when they’re both loose-limbed and pleasantly tipsy, full from a dinner of shawarma and whatever passed for side dishes.

blink

“So,” John says, voice smooth, all innocent curiosity if you don’t want to hear the undertone. “You don’t play?”

Paul huffs a small laugh, blinks, then extends the cigarette between two fingers. “Not with them,” he says. They look at each other, and John can bet they’re both thinking of the same thing: the loud, raucous rabble of men inside. “Not my team.”

peak (oh, this is cheating...)

“How’d the game go yesterday?” John asks.

A pause. Too long. Red is weighing something. He sniffs into the receiver before speaking.

“Not as good as we thought,” he says.

A slow coil tightens in John’s gut. Not an alarm yet, but a warning.

from @amiserableseriesofevents hot, finger, gaze, fire

hot

Curt’s fingers find Gale’s wrist, hot and rough, insistent; his grip is firm, his laughter sharp, if a little rusty. They run through the yard, dew catching on the hems of their slacks, dress shoes slipping on the neatly trimmed carpet of green. They’ve done it so many times, and Gale was always the careful one. Even now—

finger

Gale bites. Licks the salt from his thumb. And then—because why not?—he licks his fingers, too.

gaze

Gale’s fingers tremble, ice-cold, as he tries to press the coil of the belt into John’s hand. He can’t meet his gaze.

 “What are you trying to do, Buck?” John croons. “Do you want me to punish you?”

I am tagging @wayrad @weimarweekly @irregularcollapse and @happy-days19 - no pressure, but your words are: only, salt, hurt and word

[luckydeuce]

y'all not to praise the day etc etc but i am writing again...

[luckydeuce]

let me just say: hmwthi, chapter 6.

[luckydeuce]

Last Lines Tag

Tagged ages ago by lovely @amiserableseriesofevents , thank you so much, Ginia!!!

The days that follow become both a study in self-obliteration and a final act of letting go.

John throws himself into sex, into the chase after moments of numbness, quick encounters, bodies pressed against his in dark corners, or under the harsh, sterile lights of club toilets. He doesn’t do it in Fools—he knows better than to shit in his own nest. Instead, he scrolls through old messages. Reaches out to people he knows, meets them in places they know.

He doesn’t want intimacy. He just wants them to be loud enough to drown out the sound of Gale’s voice in his head. He just wants them to erase the image of Gale’s hand on the sweet curve of the blonde’s waistline, his lips brushing her ear.

So, it’s never gentle and slow, never warm. It’s teeth and hands and sweat. It’s a stranger kneeling in a bathroom stall, gagging as John shoves his cock down their throat. It’s rough fingers yanking his jeans down, his ass pressed against a cold, sticky wall. It’s the sharp slap of skin against skin and the grind of nails down his back. Tagging, no pressure whatsoever, @stereobone , @survivedthenight , @wayrad and @blixabargelds if you fancy sharing what you've got!!!

[luckydeuce]

Forget it. I just used my writing to make myself weep and literally sick to my stomach.

I just made myself blush with my own writing. It really doesn't get much better than this does it

[luckydeuce]

Update: This time I made myself CRY. Ugly sob. Things are going well.

I just made myself blush with my own writing. It really doesn't get much better than this does it