#fic drafts??? or something

[lesbenson]

set out to write something about dime sized pupils and ended up with a scene fic ? of the um.. diner scene.

tw for brief mentions of lewis and bx9 (non graphic) and semi graphic descriptions of violence (quite literally. just what we saw in the last three clips of the promo)

(pretty sure fin and ayanna are not with them in that diner scene in the promo. but ask me if i gaf)

Olivia is wholly convinced of two things, at the very least. God won’t let her just have things, and he won’t let her die until she stops wanting to. Two sides of the same dirty coin in her opinion. In dreams of a rusting beach house, she can still feel the moment her stomach fell out with the aching sincerity of a prayer for her old partner. At the time, she had wanted him to come kill for her more than she had ever remembered wanting to live to see such a thing. Simultaneously she had felt a lot less justified in killing someone out of self-defense than, say, employed partnership. She hadn’t felt whatever instinct to protect herself that Elliot had felt towards her. At least not physically. At least not then. 

Noah changed things. She knows this and she’s sure Elliot can see it. Rolling on cold gravel and clutching her belly she could really only see his big eyes in the doorway. Letting the nurse stroke the tender spot on her lower back, biting back another wave of tears, Liv had again wondered if protecting Noah over herself was only her short term goal. It’s not really protecting him if you die on the job. She still can’t really extend herself the sympathy she does everyone around her. She had been working on it with Lindstrom, before everything went down. Duarte had warned her that it was a weakness, before- right before he was killed. Which again makes her wonder how the fuck she can be expected to take everyone’s two cents into account, if they’re gonna keep getting struck down for telling her to chain her big heart to the nearest tree. Look where it got him.

Look where it’s gotten her. Thigh pressed against Elliot’s in a cushy little diner booth, smiling indulgently through Fin’s jokes to Ayanna, who literally cannot stop raising her eyebrows at Elliot. Liv finds it annoying on Elliot’s end — she can only imagine what Ayanna has sat through him bitching about and it makes her want to pinch him. When he laughs too hard at Fin, she does. To his credit he doesn’t startle much, but he does lightly knock her knee with his, glancing at her out of the corner of his eyes with a smirk that only makes her want to grab him harder. She knows she looks at him too long, then. She knows everyone in the entire restaurant can probably hear the breath she takes. 

She feels, just a little bit, like it’s fine. They still aren’t anything more than what they’ve always been, which is everything without a name. But lately, the air isn’t as thick. It’s been staying sunny longer. He’s wearing his ring again, and once she gets herself past the initial gut punch of it she thinks it might be a better development than it was when he said he loved her. They have also always operated in a very roundabout way. It is, of course, in the same instant that she feels a warm floating affection for him that she hears the hissing, the screams. Her eyes water- they burn, and then all hell breaks loose. A table on the opposite side of the room clatters with silverware and plates as he passes, a lanky guy with a big coat, big gas-mask, big gun.

Oh fucking Christ she thinks, launching up with her gun in the same second Elliot ducks down beneath the table and around the booths. Always so in sync. It all gets faster the longer it goes on, and by the time she can register the crack of the guy’s shotgun she’s already screamed on impact. 

She collapses out of the booth, barely breaking her fall with her arm before rolling breathlessly onto her back. Liv reaches for her gun when it clatters, small smears of blood on the checker tiles where her wrist rubs. 

Elliot falls somewhere next to her and he doesn’t look behind him once before he army crawls to Liv and scoops her recoiling body up close to him. 

Somewhere miles away she hears Ayanna yell “He’s down!” and Fin’s thudding footsteps catching up to her. She breathes out once, sinking into Elliot’s hands under her back, her neck. 

“Liv. Liv. Liv-“ His eyes are so big and again, all she can see is blue. 

“I’m hit.” she can feel tears on her face, rolling into her hair, breaths coming out short and harsh. It’s all she tries to say, a shaking hand reaching for the spreading blood, but Elliot shushes her loudly. The sound won’t stop, his big hand stroking the hair up off her forehead, out of her face, his breath matching hers. He moves her hand away to pull up the hem of her shirt, the soft stretchy fabric warm and red, his fingers working fast. She gags out a pitiful sound and he doesn’t even try to hide the sob he lets out behind it. 

“Shh- shh, stay with me baby, I’ve got you, I’ve gotcha, not going anywhere, it’s okay, it’s okay.” He’s pressing a pile of napkins into her stomach with all of his strength, fumbling for his radio with his other hand, soft reassurances falling from his lips as sweat rolls down his head, his neck. “It’s okay Liv, you’re okay- 1013 1013 we got an officer down,” he practically throws his radio on the floor when he finishes calling for help, his hand flying back to cup her cheek, his thumb stroking, his whispers frantic. “Please stay with me, please hang on for me, Liv. Just this, for me. You’re gonna be okay, it’s gonna be okay.”

“El…” She thinks she should tell him she loves him. It’s the last thing she remembers doing. 

——————————————————————————————

Ayanna is there when she wakes up, smiling warmly as Liv snorts herself back into consciousness. God, her fucking head hurts. Everything hurts, come to think of it. She groans, because she’s curled up in a big metal hospital bed and she thinks she is allowed the slightest bit of exasperation.

She wants him there, like she always does, always has. If Bell can’t already see it in her eyes, she knows who Liv’s head is whipping around for. 

“I made him go get some air, and when he finds out what he missed in those five minutes he’ll probably try to get my shield taken away.” 

Liv laughs, then winces. “Take his first, they’ll probably make you a police chief.” Ayanna sniffs out a laugh. “He’s okay, though?” She can’t even pretend to be indifferent right now. Ayanna nods quickly, tells her the team is fine, two civilian casualties. The guy is in custody. Liv tries to react before she hears the door creak open.

“Hey-“ He’s muttering to Ayanna when he gets close enough to see the way her soft eyes are open, trained on him. “Liv,” he rasps out, practically launching himself across the room, grabbing at a chair to the side of her bed and oh, he’s been by her side this whole time, hasn’t he. 

“Hey.” She says softly, weakly lifting a hand for him to- to what? She doesn’t really know, she wasn’t thinking about it, and she certainly wasn’t prepared for him to raise it up to his lips and press a firm kiss to the back of it, holding it close to his mouth for so so long. Before she can try to tell him not to cry she feels all of it caught in her throat, spilling out of her eyes, fizzing in her blood. She pulls her hand enough to grab at his, tugging him down to her and God they can’t do that right now. She just wants to melt into him. He hovers, bent at his waist with his face a foot away from hers and he looks like it is taking all of his strength to innocently tuck a piece of her hair behind her ears, letting his thumb rub over her earlobe, his fingertips dragging over her neck.

Ayanna’s phone goes off, and the start it gives all of them shakes Liv out of it, just for a second. “It’s Jet, I’m gonna get out of here. Glad you’re okay Liv. Stabler.” She nods at both of them, a knowing but gentle smile on her face, and they thank her in unison.

The door clicks closed and really she should be embarrassed by how suddenly she hears herself say it. “Hold me?” Her mouth in a sad little smile, her eyes darting over his face.

Elliot looks like he says yes before it even hits him, what she’s asking for. And then he’s scrambling to sit on the edge of the bed, lifting her up under her back like he had done before. This time, he scoots next to her enough to lower her back onto his sturdy chest, wrapping protective arms around her chest, trying to avoid where he knows her bandages are. She sucks in a breath, easing into him as she touches his arm where it holds her. He manages to get a hand to the side of her head, stroking her hair and planting kisses behind her ear, and she just can’t help herself, she wants to say it again. 

[dilfmobius]

Kneel.

[woahjo]

katsuki rarely drinks. it's not something he enjoys. but one one night, he shows up at your once-shared apartment, smelling like liquor. something sweet and fruity, liked he'd tried to wash a bitter taste from his mouth. to someone who doesn't know him the way you do, a tired sobriety may be assumed. he's that sort when he drinks.

he smiles when he sees you, a bashful kind of smile, despite not having spoken with you for months and you realize that maybe he's forgotten. maybe he's forgotten the last few months when he moved his stuff out of your place, the period of time after the break up where no one would bring up your names in front of the other.

"katsuki? it's the middle of the night," you say to him through the half open door. "what are you doing here?"

katsuki looks at you, clearly tired, and he swallows thick before opening his mouth and closing it again. you wait for him to find his words.

"i wanted to see you," he says.

"you don't live here anymore," you remind him gently, though you're not sure why you assume that he believes he does.

katsuki glances at the ground and then uses the doorframe to steady himself. you can tell that he's trying not to scare you, trying not to use the sheer size of his body. there's something cautious and equally careless about his motions and you tilt your head.

"katsuki?"

"why don't we talk anymore?" he asks you, swallowing again. you wonder where his friends have gotten off to and at what point int he evening they'd noticed that he wandered off.

the question tugs at your heartstrings as you stare at the man in the doorway. it's a pathetic sort of feeling, a weak longing in your chest. you're not sure how to answer. after the break up, things just sort of... fell off. there was nothing to say anymore.

"I want to talk to you," he admits.

this is a side of katsuki that only you are privy to. a quieter, gentler side of him. one where he can openly admit his wants and faults. an exposed bleeding wound that katsuki has never really been able to sew shut.

you shake your head a little.

"talking's hard," you tell him. you're being honest. talking to him is hard. there is so much history there.

"we used to be friends," he reasons, almost as if he's reminding himself.

"yeah," you nod, "we did."

"and now we're not," he adds. "and that fucking sucks."

you nod again.

"it's late, katsuki," you say to him. "you should get home and sleep this off."

katsuki nods, but he lingers. his eyes wander past you into the inside of your apartment, almost as if he can picture himself wandering in. you keep the door half shut.

"we'll talk soon?" he asks, something hopeful in his voice. this vulnerability makes you ache.

"yeah," you respond. "we'll talk soon. fix things."

katsuki nods and then, as if something sobering has come over him, he straightens his back. you furrow your brows as he looks at you, a pink tinge over his cheeks, and wait for what he has to say next.

"sorry to- sorry to bother you so late," he says, a little less gently. he's let a mask slip carefully over his features.

"it's fine," you shake your head. "get home safe, okay? do you need me to call someone for you?"

katsuki shakes his head insistently. "no, no," he says firmly— soberly. "i'm good. i'll see you around."

"okay."

he turns from your step and you watch his back for a moment before quietly shutting the door to your apartment. it feels too quiet now, and you briefly miss the light from the street as you turn back to the empty, darkened rooms.

you wonder if he'll remember coming to your door tomorrow and kick himself for it. you wonder if he'll wake up in the morning, his head pounding, with the mortifying memory of having shown up on your doorstep, telling you that he misses you in a set of different words. or, you wonder if he'll forget. will he wake tomorrow with no memory at all of the first conversation you've shared in months?

it's probably best if he doesn't remember it. then, there'll be nothing to follow up on and nothing to apologize for in the sobering light of day. you won't have to talk to him and be reminded of just how painful every aspect of this is. you have no intention of keeping your promise to talk soon, as much as you might like to fix things. it's best, for the both of you, if you let him fade into the background. then, you can meet him again as strangers—friends of friends—and pretend that the history between you both never happened in the first place.

[anna-scribbles]

chapter cards for thirteen: november - april

read on ao3

[coyote-nebula]

To everyone who has lush fields ripe with story ideas but is struggling to go out and actually harvest them with your writer’s scythe: that’s alright. There’s a reason.

I see writers despairing or making self-deprecating jokes about how many wips they have, as if the ability to come up with the idea is equal to the ability to finish it out into an end product.

It isn’t.

A lot of our ideas come about, not because we were determined to be productive writers, but because daydreaming is an internal escape from life’s demands.

Writing is a demand, too.

Resting and relaxing are basic needs, unlike the high level, abstract satisfaction of being creatively productive. That’s why you might daydream (which is a mild and normal form of dissociation) ideas that you feel good about, and then struggle to research, write the words, fill plotholes, check grammar, revise— all the critical thinking and executive function things involved in creation. Your basic needs must be satisfied before your higher needs can be met effectively.

So, if you’re daydreaming about your stories extensively to mitigate stress, it’s expecting a lot of your stressed self to return from fantasy land, sit down in the cold hard real world and do the hard work to write masterpieces of literature. Those operations are at opposite ends of the spectrum.

Writing is hard. Making yourself feel guilty is only going to make it harder. You don’t have to atone for entertaining or distracting your mind by making that available to other people. Daydreaming is a valid end in itself.

Don’t feel bad about having ideas but not being able to write them. Scribble some notes if you can, if you want, but above all enjoy the escapism and take care of yourself first. The words will come after.

[stevebabey]

this is pure stupid hell crack that took more time than it should’ve to finish BUT i’m ready 2 release it from my drafts <3 this is actually technically written partially w @corrodedcoughin in mind bcos i think u will mighty enjoy it! for cockney eddie!

It comes with the territory, the accents.

Drama kid or dungeon-master, either one could be credited with contributing heavily to his affinity for all of Eddie’s little voices.

There was the deep, low raspy one reserved for trolls in campaigns — and a nasally high one he used for goblins to pair. Wise wizards giving out crucial advice sometimes had a strong Scottish drawl to their words. And Dwarfs? Always English.

So, yeah, Eddie has a couple different accents in his different repertoire. Pulls them out as he needs — a regal tone when referring to Hawkin’s very own royalty or a buried Southern twang used when he’s in trouble with Wayne. The most common is a shoddy Cockney accent for when any conversation dips too far towards awkward or boring.

It's why it's not so surprising anymore when they just... slip out sometimes.

He's learned more now, when specifically not to do it (Mrs. Donnell had not found his plea for a re-sit, in a heavy Irish accent, endearing in the slightest). But with friends who know Eddie, they know the accents come along too.

Steve fucking loves them.

The first time one had taken over his voice, some New Yorker twang to carry a joke, Steve had laughed so hard he’d snorted. And god, had Eddie lit up at the noise— loved knowing that, deep down Steve Harrington had a delicious wonderful ugly laugh that he only showed to people he trusted.

Basically, it’s hardly news to Steve then, all of Eddie’s little voices.

But well, even Eddie didn’t expect… okay, the truth is he never expected to be in this situation at all.

It’s a Wednesday evening when it happens. Steve is over round the trailer like he is every Wednesday, keeping Eddie company while Wayne is out on the double night shift.

It originally had started out as ensuring wounds were checked and dressed properly — considering half of them had scaled up his back, where Eddie couldn’t reach — for the both of them. Then, when technically Eddie could manage the worst of his words, Steve was still coming around. Dustin’s insistence, he’d said.

Then it was… because Eddie asked Steve to come around, to stay a little longer.

So, Steve Harrington is in his kitchen and it’s a Wednesday ritual that they have together and that’s not even the weird part of the evening.

(And somehow, neither is the fact that Steve is, as of a few months ago, his boyfriend.)

Steve’s cooking. Something simmers low on the scarlet glowing hob, bubbling quietly and releasing aromas of spices that percolate into the Autumn evening air.

Eddie feels his stomach growl in its own twist of hunger as he follows his nose. With one hand still scrubbing a towel against his wet hair, he ambles down the hall, fresh out the shower, ready for love — be it the form of food or, he thinks giddily, kisses.

Steve’s not watching the food as Eddie enters, his eyes fixed somewhere across the room. There’s a crease between his eyebrows, an indication of his deep thought.

Eddie grins, approaching without any attempt of being sneaky, (Steve’s as good as comatose when he’s distracted as he’d found) and jabs his boyfriend’s calf with his toe.

“Thinking mighty hard there, Stevie. That’s dangerous.”

Steve jolts, snapping out of his thoughts. He straightens up automatically, then seems to recall the company he’s keeping, and relaxes back down.

He scowls affectionately at Eddie’s barefoot, still jabbing into his leg, and reaches out to flick it with his finger.

“Dickhead.”

Eddie’s faster. He dances away and laughs at the instinctual pout that forms on Steve’s lips.

“What ponders thy mind, hm?” Eddie drawls, a lilt of a Regency style accent in his voice. He sinks into one of the kitchen chairs and drops his task. The towel hangs over his neck, his damp curls resting against it.

Steve seems to jolt again at that, his shoulders rising for a moment. He spins, picking up the wooden spoon beside the stove to swirl the contents of their dinner around. Eddie admires him, broad shoulders and long back, ripe for his taking. Silently, he sighs dreamily on the inside.

“Just… what movie we’re gonna watch tonight.” Steve says unconvincingly. “I’m not doing another re-watch of the Fly.” He adds lamely, an attempt at his usual bitch.

Eddie lets him have it. With one final squeeze of the towel, trying to wring out all the droplets in his hair, Eddie abandons it on the chair as he stands. He waltzes forward, into Steve’s space, and hooks his chin over the other's shoulder.

“You know, that’s what you said last time.”

Steve side-eyes him, his eyes narrowing into a minuscule glare; bitch personified. Eddie grins. Then bats his eyelashes.

It makes Steve laugh, shrugging Eddie’s weight off politely as he gives their dinner another stir. There’s still this tenseness to his frame. Though, maybe it's one Eddie can only notice because he’s paying such close attention.

“Alrightttttt,” He pretends to relent dramatically, his hands coming up to give Steve’s shoulders a quick squeeze. “I’ll let you pick the movie tonight.”

He drops his hands back to his sides, smarmy grin already plastered on as Steve turns to face him, the wooden spoon placed down on the bench.

“Oh, you’ll let me, will you?” He gives this incredulous look, even if there is this playfulness toying at the corners at his lips.

“Uh huh,” Eddie affirms with a severe nod, then begins counting on his fingers as he lists off. “No badgering, wailing, complaining, of any sorts I—“

Suddenly, Steve’s reaching out, his deft hands reaching out to snag the waistband of Eddie’s pyjama pants. It supposed to be a smooth move he’s used countless times before; fingers looped through belt loops to pull a girl in for a kiss. It usually works like a charm.

Except, there’s no belt loops— and when Steve tucks his fingers beneath the waistband and tugs him forward, Eddie shrieks.

“Fucking christ, Steve!” He bats Steve’s hands back without thinking. Steve holds them up defensively.

“Sorry! I was just—”

“What are you doing sticking your hands in my pants?!”

“It was a move!” Steve insists, voice a little whiney. “God, you’re dramatic- I was trying to pull you closer, numb-nuts.”

“Oooh,” Eddie switches up in an instant, hands shooting out to grab Steve’s own. He pulls them forward and settles them on his own waist, shuffling in closer like he hadn’t just shrieked a minute earlier. “Continue.”

Steve chuckles, delight peeking through on his face. His hands, large and slender, curl around the skin of Eddie’s waist and Christ, he’s still not used to that. Eddie’s too focused on repressing his shiver to see the shadow of nervousness cross Steve’s face.

“I was actually thinkin’ about,” Steve starts lowly, eyes skirting off Eddie’s face, over his shoulder. His fingers tighten their grip. “How—”

He sucks in a breath, like drawing in courage, and meets Eddie’s gaze. “About how much I love you.”

There’s the smallest tremble to his voice, giving away the immense emotion behind the words.

And here’s the situation that Eddie never expected to be in, ever. His breath catches, his eyes widen — his heartstrings tangle and knot themselves as he soaks in Steve’s admittance. Love, love, love — he loves me.

His lips part, a raspy noise escaping as he tries to compute, tries to think of anything to say because the longer he stays silent, the more crushed Steve’s expression becomes. And then—

“Well, I luv ya too.”

The words fall out, thick in that godawful Cockney accent.

Steve's face doesn't change but Eddie's does, contorting in an amalgamation of pure cringe and panic as embarrassment crawls beneath his skin. He slaps his hand over his own mouth as if it can take back his awful reply to being told he's loved by Steve.

"I—" He starts, speaking through his fingers, except it still comes out in a funny accent. Eddie squeaks, his grip over his mouth tightening, brown eyes wide in his panic. Oh God, never in stupid silly life has his accents come back to bite him in the ass so magnificently.

"I'm so sorry," Eddie whispers-yells in his regular voice, finally dragging his hands off his face sluggishly. "Jesus H Christ, I didn't— that wasn't making fun of you, I— oh god, you know that happens when I'm nervous sometimes. Shit. Shit, I'm so sorry, Steve."

Steve hasn't moved, his hands still resting on the small of Eddie's waist. His expression is guarded, nothing betrayed. His dark eyes scan across Eddie's face and just before he speaks, the smallest glimmer of amusement glitters across his face.

"Well," Steve begins, heaving a faux large sigh. His hands squeeze comfortingly at Eddie's waist again. Eddie who is still frozen, still cursing himself internally, still echoing around the apparently true fact that Steve loves him— well, maybe not anymore with how awfully Eddie responded.

And then Steve opens his mouth and the most appalling attempt at some accent comes out. It makes his words all garbled and Steve's pink in the face, obviously embarrassed but trying to commit to some shoddy Scottish when he says, "Aye, that's al'right."

Eddie stares at him. Steve stares back.

The moment of silence is broken as laughter seizes him, a guffaw bursting from his lips and holy fuck, Eddie loves him so much. Steve laughs too, the two of them relaxing and sinking into one another. Eddie's hands, previously fluttering and unsure, find their natural place curled in underneath Steve's jaw and when he leans in, he's fighting off his laughter. His grin is unbearably wide, cheeks aching.

Steve's got this shine in his eye, his hands sliding further around to pull Eddie in closer, his pink lips quirked in delight. Eddie practically purrs, so close to kissing him but not quite closing the gap.

"Yep," He says, eyes bright as they bounce over Steve's face to drink in his boyfriend's love-soaked expression. He loves him. Steve loves him. Eddie sounds as lovesick as he feels when he whispers, "It's decided. I think you're it for me, Stevie-baby."

He presses forward, lets his mouth find their home in the curve of Steve's lips. It's warm like nothing he's ever felt before, softened by their gooey-grins of love. It's an in love kiss.

"Even if you're terrible at accents." He murmurs against Steve's mouth.

"Shut up."

Steve hisses, but he’s still grinning. The dinner bubbles behind them, still cooking away behind them. "Like I'm ever going to let you live that down."

Eddie finds he doesn't really mind all that much — God forbid his boyfriend ever remind him they're in love.

"Shut up," He still says, then sticks out his tongue, like he's ten years old. "You love me."

"I do." Steve admits easily, his fingertips dancing along the small of Eddie's back. Eddie has to tuck his bottom lip behind his teeth to restrain his wild grin.

"And I love you." He says, properly this time, jabbing his finger into Steve's chest — so there's no absolutely mistaking it.

[crybaby-bkg]

Gojo has always been a bit of a glutton. it’s his worst trait, you think, despite the many others that he inflicts upon you in your daily life. but, it’s just not enough for you. he does that with everyone, this kind, funny, flirtatious kind of banter. getou tells you he’s different with you, shoko makes note of how he’s really not like that with so many people.

but it’s not enough. so you start cooking up different things, these desserts intertwined with a certain potion that’ll make his attention be on solely you. you crush your flowers and sprinkle them into the boiling pot, sprinkle in a little bit of this and a dash of that, before you cut off a tiny piece of your hair and let it flutter into the concoction. it doesn’t let out a tuft of pink smoke in the shape of a heart, but you have faith that it’s gonna work.

“I’ll give you a piggyback ride if you let me have that,” Gojo tries to barter with you the next day he sees you, sitting under a tree and unwrapping the piece of cake that you had oh so conveniently whipped up. you pretend to think it over, unable to help your smile as you think about how easy this is going to be, before agreeing.

it happens over time, the effects of the love potion. first, Gojo becomes a bit more clingy. he hurries across campus to make sure that he’s able to walk you back to your apartment, carries all of your bags for you. then he starts buying you all sorts of things that you don’t necessarily need (do you want breakfast?, do you need a new laptop?, can I buy you a new bed?, can we break it in?).

and everything is great at first. you adore the attention, the grandeur way he asks you to be his partner, how he moves you in quick, loves you even quicker. but, after a while, it just becomes a bit…much.

his love is never ending, which shouldn’t be a bad thing, but his love is also—everything. it’s in every crevice of your body, every nook and cranny between the walls, every exhale you take. he’s there—always just there—always just close and lingering and clingy (where are you going? can I come with you? why are you looking at me like that? don’t you love me? I love you, I love you so much, so where are you going?)

it’s not until you’re suffocating that you realize your mistake, all too late. Gojo is all encompassing, takes up all the space in your head and your line of vision and your breaths and the blood that flows in your veins. he loves you—this was what you wanted, right?—but you never wanted this, this obsession that bleeds from his very being every second that he’s near you, which is every second of every single fucking day. you never wanted any of this.

“Baby?” Gojo calls from the other side of the locked door, clawing at it like some forlorn house cat even though you know he could take it down if he so pleased. “Are you almost finished? I miss you,” his voice is a plead, as if his heart is shriveling up in his chest with every second he’s not pressed against you.

with a sigh, do you finally lift yourself from the corner of the bathroom floor, unfolding your limbs with a groan. you don’t dare look at yourself in the mirror, fearing the image of the hollowed person that is bound to stare back at you. with hesitation, do you finally unlock the door. you don’t even have to pull it open before Gojo is barging his way in, engulfing you in long arms that seem to wrap around you like some never ending boa constrictor.

“You’d never try to leave me, right? Because you love me so much.” Gojo says into your hair, his voice one that tries to convince you of its truth. and there is some there, along with the guilt of ruining him in this grotesque way that you have no other choice but to accept and live with until it suffocates you.

“Yeah.” your murmur, sinking into his body, let him hold you so close, you think you can feel his veins pulling at his skin to intertwine with your own. “Yeah, I love you, Satoru.”

(he doesn’t dare tell you that he knew all about that little potion you whipped up, how it never had any actual affect on him for more than just a couple hours. but this was what you wanted, right? for him to love you? so why not continue to just love you in his own way that’s somehow, convincingly, all your fault? why not let you take the blame for his greediness? you wanted this, right? right?)

[meiozis]

[2:41AM + jaehyun]

meeting jaehyun only happens by chance. by running into him during late night corner store snack runs, and slowly developing... something.

it goes from eyeing each other in the foggy glass off the ice cream freezer, keeping a safe distance while you take turns picking a treat. then, most times, he disappears into the night by the time you're done paying.

he figures out your favourite snacks over time, waiting for you in the glow of the 24/7 neon sign blinking tirelessly above the entrance.

he's not much of a talker at first, only silently offering a different crinkly bag each night. it's not in friendship territory, maybe something adjacent. it's a silent deal, one where you don't learn his name for the first month of sitting on the curbside and sharing a bag of candy. he holds it out for you, the back of his hand briefly grazing your thigh before he carefully retreats.

tonight, it's a family size bag of peach rings.

you bump your knee against his, and he repeats the gesture with a smile on his lips. the dimples on his cheeks deepen, and his eyes mirror the moon's crescent shape in the sky, twinkling even in the orange light of a street lamp above.

you wonder if he's even prettier in daylight.

it's silent for another beat, before he presses his knee back against yours. you don't miss the way something flashes in his eyes, and his cheeks along with the tips of his ears, turn pink.

the bag falls from his hand, landing in front of your feet, and the peach rings spill on the concrete. his hand, now empty, is warm against your cheek, cradling your face as he leans closer. his lips are soft against yours, gentle but impatient as he kisses you again and again.

tonight, he tastes like peaches.

♡ ♡ ♡

masterlist

[hazbinshusk]

blitzø x f!reader.

part two to this fic.

after inviting blitzø to stay the night in your bed, the two of you (and the rest of i.m.p.) deal with the sudden change in the dynamic between the two of you.

features blitzø typical language, pure fluff, and sexual innuendo. the man really has a thing for your boobs, okay? 1.4k

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You wake up before your alarm, eyes opening reluctantly against the red light of a hellish morning. It takes you a moment to remember the events of the night before, but the shifting of the sheets over you as another body in the bed moves brings it all flooding back.

Both you and Blitzø had moved in the night and his hand is no longer wrapped around yours. You vaguely remember falling asleep after him, your hand still enclosed in his as his breathing had slowly evened out into a soothing, steady rhythm. His back is to you now, his body curled in on itself almost protectively. You take a moment to study him, the curve of his horns and the slim line of his back as it peeks out from under the blankets. Eventually you make a move to leave the bed, switching off your alarm and intent on a steaming shower.

You stop as something tightens reflexively around your leg as soon as you try to move, and you lift the sheets with a brow raised in curiosity. Blitzø’s tail is wrapped firmly around your calf, and as you watch, the spade of his tail twitches slowly back in forth against the underside of your knee. It’s oddly soothing, and you press your lips together against the smile that threatens to bloom on your lips. With a soft exhale you let yourself fall back against the mattress, turning your head to look at him again.

“Blitzø?” you say his name softly, almost unwilling to wake him up. You weren’t sure of the last time he’d seemed so… peaceful. You reach out to touch a gentle hand to his shoulder. “B? We’ve gotta go to work.”

The imp groans, rolling onto his back. He squints up at the unfamiliar ceiling, apparently confused. “The fuck…?”

His eyes snap fully open as the night before suddenly comes back to him, and he grimaces, slowly turning his head to meet your eye.

“Christ on a stick, I really spent the fuckin’ night here, didn’t I?”

You nod, amused by the almost bashful glint in his eyes. “You did.”

“Please tell me I at least got to bury my face in those sweet—”

“No, you didn’t.” you say bluntly, rolling your eyes before he can finish. Still, you feel a tingle of warmth through you at the suggestion. “How’d you sleep?”

He shrugs a shoulder, rubbing a hand over his face and groaning. “Fuck, my head hurts.”

“That’s what happens when you drink your weight in booze two nights in a row.”

“Bitch.”

You smirk at the lack of venom in his voice. “You wanna shower first? I don’t know if I’ve got anything you could wear, but I guess you could borrow a shirt or something if you need it…”

Blitzø groans again, more dramatically than before, rolling into your side and burying his face in your neck. You freeze as you feel the warmth of him press up against you, his face almost nuzzling into the curve of your collarbone. The sensation makes that warmth reappear inside you. The softest of cat-like purrs sounds from him for a moment before he stiffens, suddenly aware of the position he’s in.

He jerks away from you, falling off the side of the bed with a loud thump and a string of curses. The move tugs your leg across the bed, and his swearing continues as he realizes he’s effectively tied himself to you in his sleep. “Fuckin’ – ASS!”

His tail detangles itself from your leg as you sit up, and you swear you can see a pinkish hue to the scarred side of his face.

“…You good?”

“Shut up.”

“Nope,” you reply childishly, smirking when he flips you off. “Now, did you want to shower?”

Blitzø tries for seductive, raising an eyebrow at you from where he still sits on the floor. “You joining me? ‘Cause I gotta say the idea of you all soaped up and gag—”

“Blitzø.” you deadpan, climbing out of bed. His eyes drop over your figure as he realizes what you had been wearing in bed with him – just an oversized tee shirt and your underwear – and you swear his pupils dilate. “Are you sober yet?”

He blinks up at you, swallowing heavily before clearing his throat. “Judgin’ by the titty-fuckin’ brass band shovin’ its collective dick up my brain’s unlubed ass right now, I’d say yeah.”

You wrinkle your nose at the metaphor but squat down in front of him, studying his face for a moment. You nod as you make a decision, reaching out to wipe a spot of dried drool away from the corner of his mouth with your thumb. “Okay.”

Ignoring the part of you that reminded you that this was a bad idea, you leaned forward and pressed your lips against his in a chaste kiss, his cheek still cupped in your hand. Blitzø freezes for a moment before kissing you back, his hand finding your knee and sliding up to curl around the bare flesh of your thigh as he leans up into it. You feel his breath catch against your mouth, his tongue touching your bottom lip for a second. The kiss is soft and it’s brief and when you pull away Blitzø still looks surprised.

Giving him a small smile you stand, fingers curling in the hem of your shirt. “I’ve gotta shower. The coffee machine should start brewing in a few minutes if you want some.”

“I… what?!”

***

Loona doesn’t say anything when she climbs up into the van beside you, trapping you between the hellhound and the imp driving, but her raised eyebrow speaks volumes.

“Nothing happened.” you tell her defensively.

“Uh-huh.” Loona replies dryly, already focused on her phone, and you can basically feel Blitzø’s smirk on the other side of you. By the time you were showered and dressed he’d managed to summon up much of his usual bravado, and the fact that he was currently wearing your favorite 666 Wrath Radio tee shirt was serving as basically a spotlight broadcasting the idea that the two of you had fucked.

You suspect that that was the whole reason he picked it.

You jump as you feel Blitzø’s hand slide over your thigh as he reaches between your knees to shift gears. He touches you again as he withdraws, claws grazing along the sensitive skin of your inner thigh. Goosebumps follow after them. You shiver and he snickers, and suddenly you’re regretting the fact that you’d chosen to wear shorts.

Loona eyes you as she notices the touch, and you roll your eyes. “Nothing happened.”

“Sure.”

***

“Is Blitzø wearing your shirt?” Moxxie asked as you entered the I.M.P. office, drawing Millie’s attention too. “Why is he wearing your shirt?”

A smile forms on Millie’s lips, her eyes shining with possibility. “Did you two…?”

“No!” you reply, dropping onto the couch with a sigh. “For Satan’s sake, no!”

Moxxie seems to be still stuck on the obvious. “But he’s wearing your shirt.”

“Aw, come on, Moxx.” Blitzø says, wrapping an arm obnoxiously around the other imp and pulling him unwillingly into his side. He ruffles Moxxie’s hair with his fist, grinning as he tries to shove him away. “You know if we’d fucked Y/N here would need the day off just to get those sexy little legs of hers workin’ again after all the shakin’ they’d been doin’!”

“Shut the fuck up, B,” you tell him as Moxxie finally manages to wrest himself Blitzø’s grasp, and the taller imp grins at you. “Or I’ll tell ‘em what actually happened last night. Okay, boss?”

“Ooh, ‘boss’? Tits, you’re gonna go and make me all tingly.”

You roll your eyes, but his smile widens from teasing to more pleased as he notices you trying not to smile yourself. “Can we just… go kill someone? Please?”

Blitzø claps his hand together, turning on his heel to face Loona. “Now you’re talking! Looney, what have we got on the books for today?”

Millie takes a seat beside you, leaning into your side to speak quietly enough that only you would hear. “What did happen last night?”

You shake your head, avoiding her eye. Blitzø catches your eye again as Loona goes through the day’s agenda in a detached tone of voice. He winks and you feel yourself flush. Millie’s eyebrows shoot up as she notices.

You clear your throat. “I… honestly, I've got no fucking idea.”

[babygirlgiles]

Why does no one else see my vision for post-war Effie Trinket. Like that woman does NOT become a civil servant, she does not join the ranks of government service. She is 100% New Panem’s first influencer. She was already having her It Girl moment as the escort of District Twelve’s victors beforehand and now there’s public perception that she was this Hunger Games insider playing the long con to dismantle the system from within and paid this great sacrifice for it by being tortured by Snow’s cadre for her efforts. Which is not true at all because she had No Clue what was going on but Plutarch needs new programming to fill all the hours that used to be taken up by Hunger Games related media so he decides to capitalize on Effie having Her Moment. And with people being allowed to travel between districts for the first time in over a generation and newfound freedom of information, there would a nationwide fascination how other people live. Effie ends up with her own lifestyle/travel series where she visits different regions of Panem and even exotic far away places such as “England”. She’s posting beach selfies on Panemstigram to promote her upcoming episode on lobster fishing off District Thirteen’s revitalized coastline.

She even gets her own daytime talk show at one point. She tries (and fails) for years to get Peeta on the show as a guest. Katniss has never watched a single episode.

[sysig]

You're still standing off to the side. Somehow, center stage has shifted from under your feet without you realizing, and you're standing in the wings, performing to no one.

Starring Role (Patreon)

[lesbenson]

uh here’s the kathy stabler rafael barba good place style purgatory thing that i’ve been plagued by for months. formatted terribly because notes app. pls enjoy or don’t.

the real spiritual plane was the enemies we made along the way ❤️

the last thing rafael remembers is the familiar burn of whiskey and something that resembled falling asleep - emphasis on the falling. endless, endless falling.

he knows forlini’s had been dark and a little gloomy with its remaining patrons, and now he has several questions about this warmly lit but empty room. he looks across the bar to the mirror and realizes he can’t see himself in it, his head spinning. he stares at the glass until he can’t register anything in it, his mind racing but his body oddly calm.

“they kind of cosmically sedate you, at first.” a pleasant voice calls out, and barba realizes with a startle that he’s not alone, not having seen an approaching figure in this mirror-that-doesn’t-mirror.

he turns in his seat, taking her in. straight hair somewhere between blonde and brown, long limbs, a warm smile, a plain blue dress that looks soft. she’s pretty. she seems kind, familiar. she watches it hit him.

“oh no.”

“oh yes.” kathy stabler grins at him, one eyebrow raised in amusement at the sheer horror in his voice. “boo.” she laughs to herself, gracefully hopping onto the barstool next to him. he realizes it’s the only other stool here.

“but you’re- oh hell.” his hands are flattened out against the top of the bar, his body about to launch up and out. dead is the word, but it doesn’t reach his lips.

“yeah yeah, but you don’t have anything to worry about, i don’t think.” she waves barba off easily.

“other than the fact that i’m dead? where the hell even are we?”

she honest to god shushes him.

“we’re here.” she says it like it should answer all of his questions, shrugging easily.

“here? are we- i mean i must be in hell. i have to be.” barba looks around as if there’ll be a sign somewhere, reading they told you not to become a lawyer.

kathy rolls her eyes, reaching up over the bar to pinch two glasses between her fingers and grab the neck of a dark, heavy whiskey bottle. she drops back down onto her stool, clattering the glassware onto the bartop.

“we’re just here. no up or down, gates and flames, from what i can tell, and we can probably debate the fairness of that at another time, but i’ve honestly let it go. don’t ask me about rules or souls or damnation. we’re just out here in the middle of nowhere, looking in. cursed with knowledge and sight. good?” she pulls her lips into a tight line, eyebrows raised in an expression that screams indifference, to barba and to their surroundings.

he silently tilts his head to the side, lips pursed, and breaks his silence to grab one of the tumblers and mutter “yeah, great.”

kathy laughs dryly, “that’s the spirit!”

he glares at her over his arm and she laughs again, twists the lid off the bottle, and uses both her hands to pick it up and pour barba a drink that would probably kill him in literally any other context. he raises an eyebrow and nods in silent thanks, waiting for her to pour her own drink.

kathy raises her glass, “to elliot and olivia,” tapping rafael’s glass before he can respond. he scoffs, taking a long swig of the suspiciously smooth liquor, gulping hard.

“about that… about them, i need to tell you i’m sorry for defending the man that-“ kathy cuts him off with a warning look.

“don’t. i get it. i know you thought you were protecting olivia from elliot’s mess. it’s … i’m used to that sort of thing.” her eyes are dark, her smile sad.

“it was wheatley’s fault you died, i should’ve steered clear of the whole thing but i just couldn’t, i hated to think of liv having stabler thrown in her face like that, after everything she’s done for him and everything he’s- i’m sorry, sorry.”

kathy looks like she pities him. and it would actually be offensive if he wasn’t the one who got her car bomber out of jail. he doesn’t really deserve her respect.

“i’m used to men making the least rational choice in defense of olivia benson. which is funny because, codependent or not, she actually is quite capable of handling herself. it’s everyone else who needs her. but elliot could never help himself. this insane need to protect her, support her, at everyone’s expense, including theirs.”

barba stares at her for a long time, reading the resignation and the understanding in her features. she turns to him.

“i see how much he loves her, now that i’m not there.”

he smiles, “you don’t have to die to see that.”

she laughs. “no, but you see things differently out here. clearer. i see what he does but i also see how he feels. and really, what he feels is love. deep, pure love. for her.” she looks down at the wooden grain of the bartop “and guilt. lots of it.”

barba nods “once a catholic boy…”

kathy raises her eyebrows in silent agreement. “i’m willing to be flattered that he bothered to feel guilty about loving her at all. i always sort of figured he’d run into her arms the first chance he got - sans actual adultery. isn’t that awful?” she laughs but it’s humorless. “we loved each other, but i was waiting for him to cheat on me while he was waiting for me to leave him, i mean really cut him loose.” she shakes herself out of the train of thought. “to his credit, he only realized how complicated his feelings for olivia were after he lost me. not sure how he made it as far as he did, but it was a little nice to know he wasn’t consciously in love with another woman for over twenty years of our marriage.”

she shrugs. he thinks she’s strangely pragmatic about the ongoing emotional affair between her husband and his partner. and then he wants to laugh. now who’s too invested?

“he was never the sharpest tack.” it’s out before he can think better of it, but he figures there’s nothing counting for or against him out here. kathy glares at him, a playful smile on her face.

“he is in every other department. but women, love … not his strongest conversational subjects.”

“they’re olivia’s.” his smile holds so much pain. “she draws it out of everyone, that raw emotion-“ he bites his tongue, tilting his head apologetically, “maybe you don’t want me to talk about her like that, right now.”

she grins “oh, no, let’s make a nice list of all the ways olivia benson is my husband’s perfect cosmic match-“

“she’s not!” barba exclaims, surprising them both with his burst of frustration. “i don’t- i just don’t think she is. but she clearly wants to be.”

“no, she doesn’t. and that’s how i know she really does love him unconditionally - just like you said - because it’s completely beyond reason. she can’t talk herself out of loving him. he was married, she didn’t want to love him. he was divorced and she didn’t want to pursue him. he stomped on her heart and she still could not stop loving him. and when he came back i know he turned her whole life upside down but she took it all in stride.”

she sighs, throwing back more whiskey and he finds himself leaning in, almost conspiratorial.

“so you can see… how she feels, here?” he tries to keep the desperation out of his voice. he fails. it doesn’t matter. if there’s one person who won’t begrudge him his nosiness and insecurity here, it’s stabler’s wife.

but she hesitates. “it’s not- a button i can press, or a list i can- i just know, now, she was so constantly torn between her love for him and her guilt for being so close to a married man that she did everything to keep our marriage intact. and it helped, and it mattered, but it didn’t change the fact that they were madly in love with each other, and it didn’t help the problems elliot and i already had. there would be years at a time where we couldn’t communicate at all. and now she’s- they’re both- they think acknowledging that they love each other now means acknowledging that they always did. and they won’t be able to forgive themselves for that.”

“but they have always loved each other.” he wants it to be a question. a leading question, but a question. but there’s no denying what they both know.

she casts a sideways glance at him, then nods, facing the non-reflective mirror. “they just need to admit it to themselves. save everyone else a lot of headaches.” kathy pulls a little half smile.

barba thinks he sees how stabler ended up with this woman. she’s funny, emotionally intelligent, and tough in the way liv is- in the way someone whose had to protect their heart becomes. but he can see she’s given up in the places liv would double down. he thinks that’s what it takes to spend your entire life with elliot stabler. a level of release that olivia can’t achieve. he also finds her hard to actively dislike and it makes liv’s guilt that much more understandable. this woman whose death could have, in a twisted way, been prevented if her proximity to elliot had just been severed, is also willing to rationalize what anyone else would think of as total betrayal.

he starts to understand what kathy means about seeing things more clearly, with a little distance.

barba clears his throat “well i’ve gathered that they’re both too headstrong for that.”

she nods, finishes her drink, and loudly places the empty glass back on the bar. “yeah. but anyway, you should get back. while you still can, and all.”

kathy claps him on the back like a fucking baseball coach and his vision starts to blur.

“olivia will come around, eventually. she just likes to give up on people so they can’t give up on her. just keep telling her you’re sorry and don’t bring her dad into it next time.” her nails are digging into his shoulder when she smiles warmly and whispers “good luck, mr. barba.”

-

he comes to with a hard jolt like the snap of a thick rubber band. his pounding forehead is resting on the cool metal of the bar. the bartender cuts him off.

[sinfullyrosey]

Y/N: *gently holding P’s face in their hands* A good boy, a precious boy! The sweetest boy in all of Krat!~

P: *springs whirring in happiness* 

Carlo: *totally not jealous over the lack of attention* Hey, what about me? 

Y/N: *looks over at Carlo with an unimpressed look* And you… You are a naughty boy, a mischievous scoundrel. The most troublesome boy in all of Krat. *goes back to cooing over P*

Carlo: They seriously prefer that puppet over me?!

Romeo: Looks like it.

[onthewaytosomewhere]

firstprince art that's hawt AF!!!

ok so a while back discussion with @duchessdepolignaca03 & @sparklepocalypse lead to talk of early 2000's lowrise jeans with the whaletail (exposed thong) fashion and how if that comes back we needed tzp to jump on it (or something like that it was a while a go lolz) so i commissioned a couple pieces (doing my fandom duty and all lolz) they both ended up firstprince but hello nurse are they good!!!

we got this one done by Nie @gayhoediaz at the end of May and now we have another lovely one by Ash @seanchaidh7

look how pretty it is!

(the details on both of these are so amazing!!!)

but this one - since i've not publicly gone on about it - here we go - henry all decked out in this is just perfect! and he knows exactly what he's got and isn't letting go - just like all of us he's marveling at how hot his bf is

when it comes to alex make sure ya notice the piercings and other body jewelry - the sheer shirt showing off everything - including one of those piercings - those jeans just barely staying on those hips and holy frak i have stared at this entirely too long and it gets better every time i look at it 💚💚💚💚

make sure you tell Ash and Nie both how much you luv them!!

[viperwhispered]

Rest

Guess what? I've got more Jamil x reader for y'all. You can also find this on ao3. No warnings, just 866 words of kinda fluffy(?) caretaking stuff with gender-neutral reader.

At this point, you know Jamil’s schedule almost as well as he does. So, when you have the chance, you head to Scarabia’s kitchen, hoping to spend some time with Jamil while he and the other students prepare dinner. 

However, when you enter, it takes you but a moment to notice Jamil’s uncharacteristic fumbling and the tired look in his eyes. The way Jamil’s chopping the vegetables has you worried about him cutting himself with that knife he’s usually so adept with, and it seems it’s only force of habit that’s keeping him on track.

You frown, and when your eyes meet Jamil’s, you can already see him put his guard up.

So he knows what state he is in, huh? And still, here he is.

It seems Jamil is reading your thoughts, all of him telling you drop it before any words are even said.

At least he still lets you lean in and give a quick kiss to his cheek in greeting.

“Hello love. Do you still have a lot on your agenda for today?” you ask, keeping your tone low for at least some semblance of privacy in the busy kitchen.

“Nothing I can’t handle,” is the response you get.

Of course.

It takes a little more pestering before Jamil actually answers your question. Your lips purse. That list is far too long to your liking.

You take a moment to think, juggling your own plans and to-do list against the urgency of the things Jamil mentioned.

“Will Kalim be eating from that?” you ask, pointing at the food Jamil is preparing.

“Yes.”

“Alright, I won’t be touching that one, then. I’ve gotta do a few things but I’ll be back when you’re done here.”

“Don’t,” Jamil says with a glare, clearly aware of what you’re thinking.

Yet even his disapproving look doesn’t have the usual weight behind it.

“Yes. I will,” you say firmly, even as your heart curls inwards with another bout of concern.

Really, when did he get so tired?

And how did you not notice it earlier?

You leave the kitchen before Jamil can protest further, hurrying through the dorm corridors to find Kalim.

Soon you have an enthusiastic – and concerned – supporter for your plans. You have Kalim point out a few reliable Scarabia students to help with a few of the most urgent matters Jamil mentioned – cleaning up the common areas, delivering some paperwork to Crowley, preparing some dorm-wide notices – while you see to Kalim getting his school supplies in order for the following day. You even recruit a couple of third years to help Kalim with his homework.

You’ll see to the rest tomorrow – after all, you do also have a boyfriend to look after.

Your conversation over dinner can hardly be called anything else than an argument – despite Kalim’s best attempts at acting as a moderating force between you two. It is very tempting to ask Kalim to tell Jamil to take the rest of the day off – it’s not like Jamil would be willing to openly disobey a direct order. Still, you really don’t need to remind Jamil of his position on top of everything else that you’re already doing more or less against his wishes.

Eventually, however, Jamil’s had a square meal, the most urgent things on his to-do list are being taken care of, and you’ve managed to drag him to his bed.

“I really wish you wouldn’t push yourself so hard,” you murmur, your arms wrapped tightly around Jamil. You’re telling yourself you really do just want to cuddle, to offer some respite to Jamil. Still, there might also be a part of you worried that if you were to let go, he’d just jump up and get back to working himself to the bone.

Yet, for all his protestations, just the fact that you’ve gotten Jamil to lay down with you speaks volumes of his current exhaustion.

“I can’t just leave my duties, albi. You know this.”

“Making yourself too indispensable, is what you’re doing,” you protest.

Oh, you know it’s not so simple. Not with his background, not with all the expectations and assumptions.

But sometimes you really wish it would be.

Jamil merely scoffs in response to your words.

Still, it is undeniable that he is slowly beginning to relax in your arms, slowly bringing his head closer to yours. His eyes are starting to flutter, too.

“I will still need to help Kalim with his homework, at the very least.”

You wonder who he is trying to convince more, you or himself.

“Amin and Khalil are helping him. They’re basically top of their classes, aren’t they? I’m sure they’ve got it.”

Still, Jamil frowns.

You sigh. He really is not letting go, is he?

“Do you want me to go supervise?” you ask.

And leave you, unsaid yet hanging there right after your words.

“Don’t,” Jamil eventually says, the word barely more than a breath.

It seems he has accepted his fate.

You softly caress Jamil’s hair, listening to his softening breathing.

And when you wake up, wholly unaware of having been lulled to sleep in the first place, it’s to the lightest of touches from Jamil’s fingers.

Tagging @diodellet @twstgo @crystallizsch @jamilvapologist @jamilsimpno69 as per request If you'd like to be tagged for any future works, let me know!

[urdreamgirls-dreamgirl]

ok I’ve been sucked into The Ultimatum: Queer Love on Netflix and just…

Steve is in a relationship where he clearly wants more than the other person. He and his partner have been together for three years and it’s reached the point where Steve has told him, “marry me or I have to go.” The dude is some kind of wannabe Instagram model, so he jumps at the chance to do reality tv.

Eddie’s on the opposite end of the negotiations. He loves his partner, but he’s not sure he really believes in the institution of marriage.

Both couples decide to try this new reality show.

Steve and Eddie clearly catch each other’s eyes on the first night, the camera catching both of them staring at each other between all the couples introducing themselves. They don’t get much time to speak that first night, but that’s okay. They’ve got plenty of time to say hi during the speed dating round.

Except that once they meet, they don’t want to talk to anyone else. Eddie is practically dragged away by producers so that he’s forced to talk to the others. The camera doesn’t miss the longing looks they send each other, though.

After that second episode, they’re immediately fan favorites. The chemistry between them is palpable even through the screen. Everyone’s just waiting for them to choose each other at the selection dinner.

And of course they do, as both their partners sit next to them rolling their eyes. They go to bed the first night of their trial marriage wrapped around each other, whispering and giggling. The mics can’t exactly pick up what they’re saying, but the cameras catch their smiles and the way their fingers intertwine between them above the comforter.

The audience loves watching the two of them fall in love over the next three weeks of their trial marriage. They’re sweet to each other, clearly thinking about each other’s needs and checking in when things seem hard. They meet each other’s friends. When Eddie meets Steve’s best friend, Robin, it’s like the three of them have known each other for years. When Eddie sneaks off to the bathroom, leaving Steve and Robin alone at the restaurant table, Robin takes the moment alone to give Steve her stamp of approval on Eddie.

After the three weeks are up, they’re supposed to go into a trial marriage with their original partners. The audience doesn’t see this, but Eddie and Steve try to refuse. They know what they want and it’s each other. They’ve made their decisions. But the producers remind them that they’ve signed contracts and they have to see the process through to the end.

They’re both uninterested in their partners. It’s clear that neither original relationship was the right fit now. It’s clear even to their original partners. They’re not even really doing a trial marriage; they’re all just roommates trying to make it through to the end.

When Steve and Eddie are finally reunited at the final selection, to no one’s surprise, they choose each other. There’s no hesitation on either side. They want each other. They’re both sure.

They’re married within the year and their wedding is filmed by Netflix. For the next season of the show, Steve and Eddie host. Ten seasons in, they’re still as in love as ever and, unfortunately for Netflix, the show’s one and only success story.