"grace. grace! grace give attention. rocky perform human ritual of escape closet now. statement."
"come again?"
"i learn more from thinking machine. human gender preference. attraction to same gender, means word 'gay.' all eridian same gender." rocky stands straight up. "rocky come out to grace now. all rocky plural gay, statement."
"...wow, that's... rock, i'm not sure it makes much sense to apply human ideas of sexual orientation to a monogendered species."
KEEP STARTING NEW WIPS‼️ you never know if THIS will be the one that you still get stuck on, but this time your frustration with getting stuck on it will lead you to finally get work done on the older wips. 99% OF ARTISTS QUIT BEFORE THEY HIT BIG 💥
Tim, alone in his hideout, has some time to consider Alan and what could be between them.
Read on AO3 here
It was lonely down here in this dark, miserable place. Tim was so alone. He had gotten used to chatting with the townsfolk every day since he had become sheriff; now it felt like an eternity between each time he saw anyone at all.
The choice of companionship was unenviably slim as well; the angry detective, Wake — who rarely ever remembered meeting him at all, or the writer's incredibly strange, flirty, double.
It could have been days or months or years, it was impossible to tell down here.
God, he'd come to Bright Falls for Mr. Door, had been spirited away by him too, and even he didn't show himself.
Tim thought about Alan.
Not for the first time, and it would no doubt not be the last time he thought about the handsome brunette either. Tim had never... done anything with the other man. He wasn't sure that trying to sleep with a man whose every thought was centred around his missing wife, was particularly ethical. Even if he was very pretty when he cried.
Tim tried not to think about that, instead focusing on the last time Wake had struggled his way to Tim’s latest hideout. He had stripped his sopping wet jacket off, letting it slap against the ground with a wet thud. The writer's shirt had clung to his chest like a second skin.
Tim was embarrassed by how much the sight had lodged itself in his mind and in his fantasies. He thought about peeling the fabric from Alan, running his hands over the writer's pecs and back. He imagined slipping Wake’s trousers down his long legs, of kissing the other's thighs and stomach.
Fuck it.
No one was around to look other than the Taken outside, and they tended to keep away from his hidey-holes.
Despite the pervasive isolation, Tim still slid his trousers down nervously, like he was afraid of being caught. He took himself into his hand with a well-practised motion.
He pictured Alan below him, flushed and panting, overwhelmed and desperate. Tim would treat him so well, touch him so gently until the writer used his pretty words to beg for more.
He pictured Alan above him, fucking him hard into the cold concrete floor. Praising him and telling him how good he was being. Fucking him until he came and then keeping going, using him until he was finished.
Tim tried to stay silent, not wanting to attract unwanted attention by being too loud, but he couldn't help the grunt that escaped him as he sped up, spitting into his hand to smooth the glide of his palms.
There were rumours about Wake, from his party days, and Tim couldn't help the thoughts, the mental image of what Alan would look like on his knees, those teary blue eyes looking up at him.
Tim could never decide in his fantasies if Alan would be eager to please, if he ever managed to get the writer into his bed, or if Alan would take control — use him as stress relief, as a poor replacement for his missing wife.
Wake would never do that — not to him at least — he was always so kind, so happy to see him, even if he was known for having the personality of a feral alley cat. But those thoughts got Tim worked up like nothing else. It was easier to imagine than Wake letting him take charge. Even if the thought of Alan letting Tim fuck his battered throat, tears dripping down his cheeks as he gagged and choked, bruised lips glazed with cum, was enough for Tim to come, bucking into his grip.
Tim had to bite the sleeve of his jacket to muffle the loud groan as he came, limbs trembling as he struggled to stay upright. In the aftermath, he just stood there, unworried, until the familiar sound of footsteps grew louder, and Tim scrambled to make himself presentable before the object of his affections walked in through the door.
no way ppl are using ai to write ao3. what happened to being a tortured writer. what happened to blood on the page. what happened to the ao3 curse. people used to get run over, have their houses burned down, break their entire spines and they still put in the work to finish a chapter. fuck you, using ai. y’all are weak
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