He realizes quickly that she doesn’t just bake for her kids’ sakes, she bakes when she’s angry, she bakes when she’s sad, she bakes when she’s stressed, she bakes for every possible holiday – even the made up, fuckin’ stupid ones, she bakes as an apology, she bakes to suck up, she bakes as a weapon.
She even bakes for fun.
So he learns just as quickly that if he wants to be around her, a lot of that time will be spent in her kitchen, pressed up against her back as she mixes, nipping down her neck as she spoons portions out before baking, watching – chin in hand – as she rolls and cuts and spices. She’s good at what she does, has expertly streamlined her processes, and it’s – it’s weird, it’s so fucking weird, but it turns him on. She goes into full boss bitch mode without even realizing it.
It helps that everything she makes is fucking amazing.
She tolerates him draping himself over her (she enjoys it, he knows she does, even if she denies it) because he is a willing test subject, eagerly devouring whatever new creation she concocts. He even helps her sometimes, if she bats her eyelashes just this way, or rolls her hips back against his groin just that way, or pushes up onto her toes and kisses him breathless that way she has a habit of doing.
And she even pays him back for his help, for his patience, by letting him put on whatever movie or tv show he wants and listening to him tear each one apart with icy criticisms and sharp condemnations, shutting him up as necessary with more of those kisses.
7. What’s the first thing that changes when they realize they have feelings for the other?
If he thought it was impossible to not touch her before, now it’s like two magnets resisting their natural polarity. He starts to find any possible excuse to drift into her space, to let his palm find her hip, to breathe in her scent, to brush his nose against her hair or his finger against her cheek.
He just wants to be near her, wants to watch her smile stretch her lips, wants to hear that tinkling laugh, wants to see that blush explode across her skin.
Jesus, he needs to get a fucking grip.
When the urge to touch her all the damn time starts to get too intense, he pulls away, distancing himself, acting cold, ignoring her texts until she calls him out of pure frustration. He’s like a moon orbiting her, swinging closer into her atmosphere before gravity sends him away again. And yet, every time, he spends more and more time near her. He shows up at her house just to say hi (though he, of course, frames it as a drop in on her operation), orchestrates their paths “coincidentally” crossing, gives her more and more drops and more and more fake cash to wash.
She simply watches him warily, confusion etched onto her face.
-
It hits her like a lightning bolt, cascading like sparklers across her skin from the top of her head down to her toes, and when it does, she runs.
They’re chatting in her backyard, sitting on her picnic bench, thighs and shoulders pressed together, laughing and joking and talking about anything but work. She gets a full belly laugh out of him (on purpose, this time) and turns to grin at him – and she’s struck, frozen, caught by the gleam of his teeth and the dark fan of his eyelashes and the rosy brightness of his cheeks. It all leaves her completely breathless, his laughter tingling at the back of her neck. When he calms a little and meets her eye, his grin fades to something softer, something affectionate and… and… yearning.
Rio reaches a hand up to her face, dragging his pinky against her forehead and down to her chin, a path that it knows all too well. This time, though, his thumb comes up to brush against her low lip and she’s – she’s –
She’s happy. She feels wanted, and cherished, and warm.
And it scares the shit out of her.
So she runs.
She can see the disappointment in his eyes when she pulls away, can see the confusion and the hurt – and she doesn’t want to hurt him, god no, but these feelings are so intense and so powerful and they feel so right.
And there’s no other option but to avoid him, after that. She’s embarrassed by her instincts to flee, she’s terrified that he doesn’t feel the same, she’s not worthy of this kind of connection. She keeps their meetings as brief and formal as possible, refusing to meet his eye, escaping as soon as she can. She refuses to meet with him alone, too scared of what she’ll do if she’s left to her own devices.
In the end, fate intervenes, somehow locking them in an elevator together – and she wants to die, right then and there, trying not to absorb the anger and distance and hurt in his eyes as he watches her from the opposite corner.
She doesn’t know who’s to blame except herself when she eventually launches herself at him, her frenzied kisses turning into muttered apologies and explanations and confessions, and then he’s kissing her slowly, agonizingly slowly, torturing her with it, and she knows she probably deserves it, but it’s okay, it’s okay, she’ll take it.
28. What do they do when they’re away from each other?
He’s never really considered himself a sentimental man, which is why he’s surprised that when Elizabeth leaves him her pearls, he tucks them safely away in a box shoved to the back of one of his dresser drawers, somewhere he knows Marcus won’t touch, somewhere he knows no unsuspecting woman will stumble on them and shower him with questions he can’t answer.
They remain undisturbed for months, almost forgotten – but every once in a while, his thoughts stray to the off white, almost pink tinted string of pebbles. He doesn’t take them from their refuge until the day he finds himself in her van, her panic over the FBI nipping at the edges of his patience, her wide eyed faux outrage at his suggestion that she tell Turner they were fucking striking him somewhere deep and twanging in his belly. He’d seen her blush spread from the curve of her cheekbones and spill down her neck to her collarbone, and his mind had immediately pictured those pearls there, clutching at her throat, kissing her skin the way he had increasingly felt the urge to.
He had gone home and carefully plucked the necklace out and let each pearl slip between his fingers, imagining her fingers between his instead, her strawberry blonde hair, the curls between her thighs….
If asked, he’d deny it vehemently, but whenever she does something that pisses him off, or makes him proud, or throws him completely off, he takes her pearls and winds them around his knuckles. When she wears a dress that frames her breasts like works of art, when she smiles at him like he’s the sun, when she teases him with her lips on his jaw and a bruise left in offering instead of her body – he moves the pearls from his closet to his bedside table, too often wandering into the small room now for it not to be suspicious to his son.
He doesn’t bring other women over anymore, so that fear is gone as well.
His boss bitch is the only one with him wrapped around her finger, like her pearls are wrapped around his.
-
He’s only gone for a day when she just can’t resist anymore. She dials his number as she wriggles into a comfortable position in bed, sighing deeply as sleep tugs at her mind. She’s sure this’ll seem desperate, that he’ll be annoyed, but she doesn’t care, she just wants to hear his voice, even if he’s upset –
“Miss me already, huh?”
Ahh, there it is, that honey thick warmth sliding through every one of her limbs as his low timbre croons in her ear. Her toes tingle, even.
Still, she can’t resist – “No. Not at all.”
“Nah?”
He doesn’t believe her; then again, he’s always been able to tell when she’s lying. She just didn’t realize that ability had extended to just hearing her voice and not watching her for her tells.
“Nope.”
Rio just hums, and he has to know what that sound does to her – she whimpers a little, tries to stifle it in her palm before it reaches her cell phone, but he definitely heard it if his throaty chuckle is anything to go by.
“I was just making sure you weren’t getting into any trouble.”
“That right? Gotta keep me in line, huh?”
“Mmhmm. God only knows what you get up to when I’m not around.”
“Probably get a lot more work done…” he mutters.
Beth sits up, affronted. “Excuse me?!”
“C’mon, mama. You know how distracting you are.”
She smiles, remembering the day before yesterday in his office when they’d been working side by side on separate business plans and she’d been unable to resist sliding her foot up his calf. It had turned into a game of him half-pretending to be annoyed and huffing and ended with her bent over the desk.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Oh sure.”
They fall silent, listening to each other breathe, and it takes Beth a moment to realize she’s grinning brightly. She rolls onto her side, eyes falling on the pillow that his head occupies more often than not, these days.
“I just wanted to hear your voice,” she admits quietly.
He doesn’t say anything at first, and she’s on the verge of apologizing and backtracking when he says, softly, “Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
“Hang up.”
“What?”
“I said, hang up. Then don’t answer.”
“What are you–”
There’s a click, and the line goes dead. She holds the phone away from her face, looking at the screen just to be certain, and yep – he hung up on her. She’s about to dial him again and rip him a new one when her phone starts ringing. It’s him, calling back. Her finger hovers over the answer button, but she pauses, considering. Let’s it go to voicemail.
She waits a few minutes, surprised that it takes at least that long for her phone to ping with the notification of a new message. There isn’t time to listen to it before he’s calling again, and this time she answers.
“What was that?”
She can basically hear him shrug. “Just somethin’ to help you out, when you’re dyin’ from missing me so much.”
Beth rolls her eyes.
She listens to it later, smiling and curling into the pillow that smells a little bit like him. The voicemail is perfect, even if it is just Rio slowly explaining in minute detail every way he intends to touch her when he gets back, drawling over every word in that way he knows drives her crazy.
johnisntevendead replied to your post “johnisntevendead replied to your post: There’s...”
"c'mon men, we need more steam, put your backs into it!"
I have to admit, I’ve spent time on and off the last couple of days considering what kind of universe I’d need to build to write this scene.
Because either it’s a tongue-in-cheek ludicrous steampunk universe or some sort of weird sex magic or smth universe where a giant boiler for multiple dildos would be necessary.
do you mind giffing the scene where Rosita asks Wynonna if she's gonna do a natural birth (and/or the resulting drug talk?) (also you do great work and I wanna say I appreciate what you do)
Of course. Added to the list of requests! And thank you very much!
“Yeah.” She freezes, realizes what she’s said and stares at him, the gears in her head grinding. And then something clicks. “Yeah, I do know you.”
He snorts, shakes his head and turns away. Beth grabs his sleeve and spins him back, her fingers clenching forcefully against his arm, and then she’s in his space, chest to chest, her mouth a thin sharp line when she leans up into his face. She watches as fury is smothered into blankness, and her frustration only mounts. He looks down his nose at her through thick lashes, and she does know him, she does, because when his nostrils flare she knows he’s fighting not to rise to her bait. She knows that he is carefully keeping himself in check by the way his arm tenses beneath her grip, held taut like a bow, the way he looms very slightly over her despite her heels giving her some leverage.
She doesn’t back down, doesn’t flinch, holds his gaze while he glares down at her.
And she thinks that maybe she sees his eyes dart down to her mouth, and it’s too fast, she must have imagined it – but then he’s kissing her, hard, a brutal crash of his mouth against hers and she’s so startled that her mouth opens on a gasp and then his tongue is in her mouth, deepening it. She is knocked off balance by it, stumbling back, but his hands are there to catch her, rough on her hips and then her ass, yanking her against him as he walks her backwards until she’s pressed against the nearest wall. She manages to get the nails of one hand scraping against his scalp, is rewarded with a groan – her other hand scrabbles against his shoulder in a futile attempt at regaining some control.
He shoves a thigh between hers at the same moment that she bites down on his lower lip. They break apart, panting, and Rio presses his forehead against hers while they catch their breath. Her eyes flutter closed even as her hand strokes gently through the hair at the nape of his neck, urging him closer, closer still, and a bizarre image unfurls in her mind of crawling into him and just letting go – of this tension, of this fight, of this exhaustion. His hand at her lower back presses her more firmly to him, and maybe he’s having the same thought because the rigidity in his body seems to melt away.
“We can’t keep doing this.” Her voice is hoarse and small, just for him in this small space they share.
Rio shrugs, so slightly, and then leans back to look at her. He waits until she opens her eyes to say, “Then let’s stop.”
Panic surges through her and her mouth falls open to argue – and then his fingers are at her temple, stroking down her face in that familiar gesture that haunts her dreams. But he doesn’t let his hand fall away, like usual. Instead he gently cups her jaw, fingers spread against her throat, thumb tracing her kiss bruised lower lip. He watches the movement, watches as she licks at the skin there, then his gaze flicks up to hers and she understands.
39.
His phone pings, that familiar tone he set to her number only startling him awake from a light doze. He doesn’t move for a moment, breathing sharply through his nose, and then he rakes his palm roughly over his face and scratches at his beard. When he rolls on to his side and lifts his phone, his eyebrow arches at the message staring back at him.
Can you meet me?
1:47AM hovers in the top corner of his phone’s screen. It’s not like her to be up this late let alone messaging him, and he pauses before he responds, flicking over the possible reasons she could have for wanting to meet. Their partnership is tentatively back on, though decidedly secret, which adds that much more mystery to her request.
He briefly mulls over the idea that it might be a booty call, then quickly discards the thought.
He’s not quite back in that good of graces.
Yet.
His curiosity gets the better of him, and – if he’s being honest – his concern. Though she remains tight lipped and infuriatingly vague about her home life, he gets the feeling that it’s not all sunshine and roses (and how could it be, if car man was up and swiping their kids out of her reach?). This thought spurs him up and onto his feet, tugging on a pair of jeans and shooting her a clipped response.
15.
She doesn’t reply, but he knows she’ll be there. When he rolls up to the park in his black Cadillac, her mama van is already parked at the curb. He tugs up on the zipper of his hoodie while his eyes canvas the playground, tracing over familiar twisted metal shapes, searching – there, nestled into a swing, swaying softly in the darkness. He watches her a moment, drinking her in; her copper curls are smothered by a thick black beanie much like his own, her shoulders curled inwards against the Autumn chill. She kicks idly with one boot, but otherwise seems still.
Her head doesn’t lift until he’s ten feet away, and when it does it strikes him somewhere deep, somewhere he struggles every day to smother. Tear tracks glide down her cheeks, the skin rosy with cold and shimmering in the street light that barely reaches them. She sniffles, but otherwise just watches him warily. When the silence stretches on, he shoves his hands into his pockets and leans against the swing set support bar, eyes fluttering closed, sleep hanging like a hazy weight on the edge of his vision.
They sit like that, in silence, and somehow it’s comfortable and calm. Even standing this far from her he feels that undeniable tug, that thread that binds them together, dragging him towards her, always. It’s becoming harder and harder to stay away from her, to not gravitate into her space and let their energies collide and meld into one. He had thought it was difficult not to touch her constantly after their encounter in that bar bathroom, but now? After tasting her in every sense of the word, after drinking directly from the source, swallowing her moans and her whimpers, and knowing what every delicious curve felt like, heavy in his palms…
The urge to have his hands on her, always, buzzes like lightning beneath his skin, making him jittery and tense and agitated. She often takes it the wrong way, believes its something she did – and it is, it is, but not in the way she thinks.
Even now, he wants to crowd into her space and nudge her chin up with his thumb, meet those blue, blue eyes and draw out every thought and every desire, wants to catch each one and bottle it up and hide it in that place he keeps shoving way down.
She sniffles again, and he opens his eyes to find her staring. The openness of her expression, the vulnerability, knocks him in the chest like a horse kick. He’s frozen, afraid to move and scare her off, his face a calm mask of neutrality.
“He found some of my notes.”
The corners of his mouth curl downwards, and his brows furrow just so, but he doesn’t speak. He knows her well enough to know that her words will come in time.
“He got suspicious, and we fought – it woke the kids, they were crying. They didn’t… they didn’t want me to…” She huffs, finally breaking their eye contact. She lifts a hand to rub at her nose and tilts her head back until her face welcomes the stars. When she meets his gaze again, her expression is carefully blank, though even from his position he can see the tears sparkling at the corners of her eyes.
“I need a place to stay.”
He doesn’t ask why she doesn’t call her friend or her sister, doesn’t really want to. It’s a rare gift for her to let him see this far inside her, and despite the fact that it sometimes feels like there’s a gulf they’ll never be able to cross between them, he can’t deny how warm it makes him feel.
He can do this for her.
He jerks his head in the direction of his car and starts off. He doesn’t have to look over his shoulder to know she’s following – he feels that thread taught and thrumming between them and keeps walking.
76.
Everything happened so fast. They had been on the couch, talking then touching then kissing, because when have they ever been able to keep their hands off one another? And then Dean was there, yelling, red faced and spitting, waving a gun. Rio hadn’t jumped up or shown any emotion, rising calmly and standing between Dean and Beth. And then she had been on her feet, too, and everything was tense and loaded and she didn’t think he would do it, didn’t think he had it in him – she had seen the hard line of Rio’s shoulders, ready to strike, voice laced with the threat of danger and she isn’t sure who said what that made Dean raise the gun and pull the trigger, but she is sure that her instincts took over and she shoved Rio sideways, slotting her body into the bullet’s path.
Everything thereafter was a blur – screaming, crying, hands everywhere on her body then nowhere and she was alone and then not, eyes snapping open to meet Rio’s as he gingerly shifted her and then pain, unbearable and agonizing, and it felt like her side had split open and her guts had spilled out, and maybe they had, maybe they had.
Her last snapshot of consciousness is the look on Rio’s face – guarded, cool, murmuring softly to her, but the pain at the corners of his eyes stands out the most, the tiny pull of a frown at the edge of his mouth.
She wakes to sunlight streaming through the gauzy curtains of her bedroom, bathing her bed in warmth. She’s on her back, laid carefully out and straight as board. When she tries to sit up, pain ricochets from her right side across her belly and her chest and her hip, and she yells, the sound hollow and tinny.
“Beth!” Annie surges out of the bathroom, her hands insistent on Beth’s shoulders, pushing her back down. “Jesus, I turn away for like 10 seconds and you’re trying to escape.” Her little sister tries to inject some levity in her tone, but they both know it’s a thin facade.
Beth trembles with the pain throbbing in her side, nausea washing through her. Annie keeps a hand pressed to Beth’s shoulder, the other gently brushing Beth’s sweat soaked hair from her face. She sits on the edge of the bed, and when Beth can finally manage to open her eyes, she is struck by the worry and panic hanging heavy on Annie’s face.
“Don’t move, okay? It could rip open the sutures.”
Beth nods, and they sit quietly. Then, “What happened?”
Annie’s brows pucker together. “You don’t remember?” At Beth’s small head shake, Annie sighs, glancing distractedly down to Beth’s lap. “Dean shot you.”
Beth doesn’t mean to, but the words startle her into another attempt to sit up and another shove back down to the bed and an annoyed growl from Annie. “He what?” she pants, swallowing thickly against another wave of pain and nausea.
“Well, I think he meant to shoot Rio, but…”
Beth’s eyes pop open and she moves again, panicked. “Rio! Where is he? Is he okay?”
Annie is prepared this time, holding her down with a palm on her shoulder, and watches her curiously, almost surprised. Her mouth falls open to answer–
“I’m fine.”
Both women turn to see Rio leaning against the door frame, hands buried in his pockets. His expression is closed, guarded, but rough. He and Beth lock eyes and she feels her breath leave her in a whoosh at the intensity in those black depths.
Annie looks between them, put out at being so obviously forgotten. “Yeah, he’s just fine,” she retorts. She watches them for a long moment, and when no one says anything else, she helpfully provides, “he actually refused to leave your side. Dug the bullet out himself and sewed you up. Held your hand all night. It was, like, kind of sickeningly sweet.”
Two pairs of eyes flick to her, and she knows a dismissal when it’s staring right at her. She throws her hands up and scoffs. “I’m going.” If she notices that they immediately go back to gazing at one another, she doesn’t mention it.
With Annie gone, Beth takes her time in absorbing the man before her. His face is cracked and red, dried blood crusting over a wound or two – eerily reminiscent of the last time the two of them and her husband had found themselves in a room with a gun. Blood stains his dark blue t shirt – his blood? Her blood? Dean’s? Maybe all three? There’s marks on his tanned arms, marring the smoothness there. Dark circles cushion his eyes, his skin is pallid – but god, she still finds him so devastatingly beautiful.
“You look awful,” she says, and smiles when he smirks.
“Yeah, I was about to say the same thing about you.”
He’s lying, and not even hiding it. His smirk briefly swells into a grin – a warm, affectionate, dare-she-say loving grin – and then it deflates and ebbs away, dragging her own smile with it. Suddenly he is oh so very serious, and her heart drops. They stay like that, the tension so thick that she’s afraid it may smother her and something painful and thick is rising like a tidal wave up from her toes through her belly through her chest and then there are tears in her eyes and she’s not entirely sure why.
That’s what breaks the moment, her tears. He swallows audibly, and she would swear that his breathing hitched, and then he’s ambling over and sitting next to her, hands still shoved in his pockets like he’s afraid if he has them free he’ll shake her.
He sighs, looking up at the ceiling. “You know, you done some real dumb shit during the time I’ve known you, but this is a new record.”
She shrugs. “I think that depends on who you ask.”
The memories are jagged and blurred, swirling together in a colorful mess in her mind, but she knows, without a doubt, that she saved Rio’s life. And even though barely moving any part of her body feels like someone is stabbing her in the gut with a dull knife, she doesn’t regret it. She’ll never regret it.
And she says as much.
Rio just shakes his head, but when his eyes meet hers, his expression is open and vulnerable. It takes her breath away all over again.
“Elizabeth.”
How can he fit so much into just her name? It comes out as a sigh, a plea, a prayer. She can hear the annoyance, the pride, the fear in it, the judgement and the forgiveness. He speaks her name like a caress, and she feels it as a ghost of his fingers trailing down her face, pushing her hair back.
She wants to ask about what happened after she jumped in front of him, about Dean, about where they go from here, but she knows it’s not the time. This gentleness, this softness, is too fragile and for once she allows herself the selfishness of indulging in it without guilt. She just wants to be close to him, to soak up his realness, his vitality. She wants to revel in this thing between them, and the fact that they somehow managed to cheat their way out of another bad situation.
“Rio.” It’s a murmur, and it’s laced with just as much emotion as her name on his lips.
He gets it, though, he always gets it, get her, reads her like an open book, and she’s glad for it now. He stands and sheds his sneakers, then climbs onto the bed next to her, stretching languidly along her side on his back, careful not to jostle her too much. Her eyes flutter closed, suddenly exhausted. When his fingers intertwine with hers, she smiles, warm and content. She is halfway submerged in sleep when she feels the brush of his lips against her forehead, and she knows better than to hope it’s real and not her imagination – but she lets herself believe it anyway.
(thank you to @cpt-falcon for the inspiration and idea for this one – she has this amazing theory about how the final episode is gonna go down and I love it. This may become an entire fic cause I was feeling inspired.)
for the fanfic writer thing: 1, 4, 8, 17, 25, 48, 50
SEND ME ALL THE THINGS!
1) How old were you when you first starting writing fanfiction?
So funny story. The first time I wrote fanfiction it was self insert real person fic when I was like 10 in my diary about the little boy who played Young Anakin in Phantom Menace lmao I still have that diary! It’s terrible!
Otherwise, actual fic would be Luke x Lorelai fic when I was a teenager. It was also terrible and so cringey, which like... yeah. I was a starry eyed impressionable teenage girl with unhealthy ideas of romantic relationships and it really shows in those fics. Looking back, I’m glad I’ve learned and grown as a person and as a woman. I always had impeccable grammar, spelling, and style, though! It was just the themes and whatnot that were bad.
4) What is your favourite genre to write for?
Does fluff count as a genre? Because if so... I love writing fluff. I love writing the shit that makes you feel bubbly and warm and safe and taken care of. I mean, writing angst is fun (had a BLAST doing that in the Dragon Age fandom, especially with Solavellan), but the reward from bringing characters together in a satisfying, charming, sweet way? I just... yeah. That’s my shit.
If you mean like, literary genres, then Adventure/Fantasy/Sci Fi is my favorite. I don’t know how many stories I’ve started or thought up that were cemented firmly in those areas. I love magic and whimsy and journeys and thick winding plots and amazing payoffs. I want to write the things I wish could exist in this world but don’t, I want to let my imagination run wild.
8) Where do you take your inspiration from?
Hmmmm this is a hard one. Other writers, for sure. I have a few trusted people that I love collaborating with, bouncing ideas and headcanons and fantasies beck and forth with (you and @pynkhues have inspired many of my stories/fics/ideas). I also find inspiration in the source material. I take pride in my imagination, in my attention to character details, in my empathy and sensitivity to emotion. I am also a huge fan of “fuck that” in regards to canon, soooooo..... Also I find a lot of inspiration in things I want to see happen or things I wish would happen TO ME hahaha
17) Post a line from a WIP that you’re working on.
(Uhhhh I don’t know if I’m ever gonna finish this, but here ya go)
“I can’t just forget you! That’s not how this works!” It’s a splutter, indignant and pained, and he has to look away from the tears gathering in her eyes because then the urge to touch her will be too hard to fight. “You can’t just walk away from this, away from me--”
When he meets her eye again, he lets that cold, cruel mask slip into place. “Sure looks like that’s what I’m doing, huh?”
25) Have you ever cried whilst writing a story?
Yeah, the first thing you’ll learn about me is that I cry VERY easily. It’s a gift and a curse (a gift as an actor, a curse for literally everything else). I have not cried while writing Good Girls fic, but I think I may have writing Solavellan fic? I have also cried while writing scenes for plays/films.
48) What’s your favourite trope to write?
OH MAN so like... I actually haven’t written many trope-y things, which is a shame. I fucking love mutual pining, I’ve written that before. I also love I’m-a-snarky-ass-because-I-can’t-handle-my-feelings-for-you/being-snarky-is-how-I-show-my-love. I am extremely interested in writing fake dating/married or we-have-to-pretend-we-aren’t-in-a-relationship-despite-being-desperately-in-love. And how can you possibly top There’s Only One Bed? AND FOUND FAMILY. YEAH.
50) If you could write only angst, fluff or smut for the rest of your writing life, which would it be and why?
Fluffy fluff fluffer fluff I said above why I love fluff, so yeah. Plus like you can make fluff pretty smutty without it qualifying as smut so like, best of both worlds. My imagination can fill in the sex. And like angst is cool every once in a while, but life is sad enough as it is, CANON is sad enough as it is, so yeah. Fluff forever and all eternity.
johnisntevendead replied to your post: We finished watching Crimes of R0wling last night...
there’s a what now?!
SPOILER ALERT but
Okay, so, the movie hinges on this idea that Credence MAY OR MAY NOT be the Lost Lestrange Heir which, is... not great, anyway.
But apparently, bb Lestrange was given to a ‘half-elf servant’ to take the bb to America (SPOILER - SHE DIES BEFORE SHE CAN REVEAL THIS NONSENSE) and the servant, who I don’t think ever gets a name and I’m too tired to look it up, is played by a little person and...
