#oreo fic

[anxiousgaypanicking]

Oreo

Synopsis:  As a joke, Roman's forced to ask Virgil out after losing an oreo. Flustered, and somewhat embarrassed and humiliated by the connotation that dating him would be such a bad thing, he says yes out of impulse, and must now deal with what being Roman's "boyfriend" entails. Taglist: @renys @falsemood

Part Five: Oversleeping Masterlist

Does he even have a reason to despise Roman? A real reason? 

He knows he hates Remus, but he can’t drag Roman into his brother’s bullying. Well, technically he could, but it’d be immature. 

Huffing, Virgil tries to think of a reason - perhaps an annoying interaction they’ve had or teasing that was taken too far - but he ultimately comes up short. He just seemingly decided one day after seeing him around Remus that he didn’t like the man. Overlooking the fact they’re brothers in order to justify his bitterness. 

Virgil squeezes his eyes shut. 

Okay, he’ll admit that was a bit unfair of him. Deciding that he didn’t like Roman just because of who he’s related to was silly. 

But, at the same time, Remus harassed him and his friends constantly. How could someone as wonderful and caring as Roman be related to someone who’s so pathetic that he picks on other people to feel some semblance of self worth? 

Virgil’s fists roughly hit against his pillows, letting out a frustrated groan as he struggles to sift through the thoughts flooding within his mind like unruly waves crashing against a beach. He can’t focus on anything for more than a few seconds; a thought would come, he’d feel guilt or justification, and then a new thought would take its place. 

He sits back up, adjusting his position on the couch, before he turns and presses his face into a new cushion. Closing his eyes once again, the “date” he’d just gone on plays in his mind like a movie. 

Roman’s smile… The ease by which he talked... 

And his laughter. 

Virgil pulls his knees up to his chest, sighing as he urges himself to relax. The sweet taste of a milkshake on his tongue seems to linger. A wave of exhaustion overtakes him as the exertion of today finally catches up. He’s not an extrovert by any means, and spending the entire day out with Roman was taking a toll. 

He leans back on the couch, yawning dramatically, before pushing his face hard into one of the cushions. He lets his eyes close. The date seems to play in his mind like a movie, and he lets the memory of Roman’s soft chuckle lull him to sleep. 

***

He wakes up the next morning with a headache. 

His phone is beeping repeatedly, and when Virgil looks at him, he’s quick to push himself onto his feet. 

Groaning as a wave of vertigo overtakes him, he watches a call from Janus suddenly end, adding to a culmination of missed calls currently capped at “16,” but still threatening to increase. He doesn’t bother answering, instead quickly unlocking his phone as he stumbles towards his room, being met with a barrage of texts including ‘where are you?’ and ‘class started fifteen minutes ago!’

Fifteen minutes. And to make matters worse, Virgil can tell he’d overslept, meaning he feels exhausted as ever. Next time he gets home early from a date, he’ll try to keep himself up until ten. 

Quickly, Virgil sends an ‘i overslept’ text to the group chat, met with the singular reaction of a thumbs-down emoji from Logan. Truly helpful. 

He quickly gets ready, shrugging off his dirty clothes in favor of a different hoodie and another pair of black jeans, before patting his pocket to make sure he has his house key. He throws his backpack over his shoulders, and nearly trips down the stairs. 

Under his breath he curses himself for putting off getting his driver’s license. It’s not a long walk by any means, but with him already being late, having a quicker mode of transportation would definitely help. 

Essentially sprinting, he can feel himself getting sweaty, and he shakes his head and groans as he realizes he forgot deodorant or toothpaste. Gross. 

When he finally hauls his ass into school, he desperately explains his situation to the main office, and is given a late pass which he shamefully carries as he makes his way to his first class. He looks a mess, and he knows it, and so tries to keep his head down as he walks inside. 

Every head raises to stare at him, including Janus’s, and the teachers. He shifts uncomfortably where he stands. 

"Mr. Addams," she addresses him, sounding rather annoyed. "Glad to see you're finally joining us. Do you have a pass?” 

Virgil raises her arm to hand her the slip, and she reads over it before nodding and setting it on her desk. 

“The office will adjust your attendance,” she says, dismissively, and Virgil walks to his desk in the back of the room. His chest aches as he feels everyone’s eyes following him. How stupid does he look? Did he remember to lock the front door?

He collapses into his seat, feeling his legs throb as he keeps a hand on his chest, trying to steady his breathing. Running here took so much effort, and keeping his eyes open wasn’t proving to be any easier. He feels as though he’s going to fall to the ground unconscious at any moment. 

He resists the urge to lay his head down on his desk, and tries his best to pay attention, not wanting to upset his teacher any further. She already wasn’t pleased with him; he’d hate to do something that would result in a stern talking-to, or even worse, a referral. 

In the corner of his eye, Virgil watches Janus type on his phone under the desk, though his head stays straight. His eyes look between Virgil and the teacher. Though he’s curious, Virgil doesn’t bother to check the vibrating phone in his pocket, not wanting to risk fumbling and dropping it. He’d already drawn enough attention toward himself today. 

Thankfully, the bell rings after just a short while for Virgil, and he trudges out of the room, Janus at his side.

“Geez, you look like shit,” he comments, making Virgil roll his eyes. He rubs at his face, focusing around his eyes, as he tries to wake himself up more. “How are you feeling?” 

“Like I might pass out,” Virgil groggily responds, before forcing himself to stretch. As he reaches his arms over his head, he lets out a slight groan, and then relaxes again. It didn’t help much, but his body feels less strained. 

Janus sets a hand on his back. It’s a light touch, but it’s clear he’s helping guide Virgil, if only a bit. 

That doesn’t keep Janus from grinning, though. “Don’t worry. All you have to do is stay alive until lunch, and then you can fall asleep on that hunk of a boyfriend you have.” Janus wiggles his eyebrows, attempting to entice some bitter or embarrassed refute from Virgil, but all he gets is a slight hum in response. 

Janus whistles. “You must really be tired, hm? Not a glare? No shoulder punch?” He stops their walking to set the back of his hand against Virgil’s forehead. “Are you sure you’re just feeling tired? You’re not running a fever or anything, are you?” 

Virgil finally scoffs, and pushes Janus’s hand away. Janus was right in a sense though. He just had to make it to lunch. Then, he could take a quick nap! Hopefully, he’d feel better after that.

Thank god tomorrow was Friday.

Virgil sleepwalks through his next few classes, but it doesn’t seem like any of his teachers notice. Janus and Logan accompany him through a few of them, but he hardly notices. With his head down, he struggles to keep awake, and resorts to kicking his leg in order to stay awake.

Finally, after what seems like centuries to Virgil, lunch comes around. 

His eyes burn, and he feels like he’s shaking with every step he takes. He just needs to make it to the cafeteria. Then, he’ll be okay. 

As he’s walking - rather slowly - towards the loud chatter and open double-doors, an arm wraps around his shoulders. Virgil jumps, and stiffens as he cranes his neck upwards, only to see Roman. 

“Lacking the pep in your step, I see,” Roman jokes, and Virgil can’t help the small smile that graces his lips. 

“I’m tired,” Virgil clarifies, as he lets Roman guide him forward.

Roman chuckles. "You shouldn't be; you told the teacher you overslept.”

Virgil rolls his eyes, but Roman suggests “you can nap at lunch. I don’t think all the screaming would make the greatest white noise, but to each their own.” 

Virgil laughs softly. “Janus told me a similar thing.” He leaves out the bit where Janus joked about Virgil falling asleep against Roman. Being reminded of that, he’s quick to pull himself away from Roman, who eases his grip and allows Virgil to do so. 

People whisper as they pass. It was still big news that Roman decided to date some social outcast! Virgil still needed to ask how people found out about that, though, with Roman’s love for affection and his brother’s big mouth, he definitely had a few guesses. 

Once they sit down at their table, Virgil immediately slumps over it, and tucks his head into his arms. Roman, who’s apparently decided this was his new table as well, pats Virgil’s back comfortingly. 

“I take it you’re no longer completely against dating Roman?” Janus teases, alluding to the fact they walked in together. 

Virgil just shrugs, too lethargic to care at the moment. 

Janus laughs. “Better watch out, Roman! Virgil might actually be falling in love with you.” He winks, and Roman smiles, but Virgil lets out a string of muffled words at Janus’s teasing. 

They’re mostly incoherent, but Janus can just assume the obvious; Virgil was obviously saying something along the lines of “I could never fall in love with someone like him.” 

Roman has no qualms laughing at Janus’s words, though, cheeks a nice pink at the idea. Virgil actually falling in love with him? Never. And Roman becoming equally smitten? He doesn’t see it happening. 

There were no real romantic feelings between them, and Roman knew that. But he’s not a quitter, and if Virgil insists on being in this “relationship,” then Roman will make sure it’s the best relationship Virgil’s ever partaken in. 

Sneaking a glance downwards, Roman’s met with Virgil’s (supposedly) sleeping figure. He was breathing rhythmically, so Roman assumes he’s finally managed to drift off. 

Out of courtesy, Roman lowers his voice, and when Logan finally comes over to join them, he does the same. Logan has a book out as he eats, but he has no problem talking while reading, as if that wasn’t an impressive task. And as lunch carries on, Logan and Janus become more invested in each other, leaving Roman to eat his lunch quietly, side-by-side with Virgil. 

When the bell rings, Janus and Logan get up and walk off together, leaving Roman with a sleeping Virgil. 

With a sigh, Roman gently shakes Virgil awake. Virgil groans, before weakly swatting at Roman’s hands. His accuracy is horrid, but Roman’s arms retreat anyway, giving Virgil space to stretch. 

“Don’t touch me… you heathen….” Virgil yawns, blinking his eyes open. 

Roman grins. “Heathen? That’s an awfully mean thing to call somebody who’s looking out for you. Here I am, selflessly making sure you get to your next class on time, and you insult me.” Roman sets a hand on his chest, feigning being struck, as if Virgil’s insult had punched him square in the torso. 

Virgil stands, yawning again, before cracking his back. Then, he begins walking. Roman walks with him. They don’t share the same class this period, but it’s in the same general direction.

“Believe me, Roman, I could call you worse,” Virgil threatens, voice gravelly. He still sounds exhausted, but he looks a bit better. Hopefully, with a quick cat-nap, he’d be better suited to finish the rest of the day. 

Roman laughs, but doesn’t respond. Silently, they head to Virgil’s class, before Roman waves and turns away to walk to his own, leaving Virgil to settle himself at his desk. 

Their afternoon classes are uneventful, and the two are both fairly happy when the dismissal bell rings. Roman runs to his locker, which is already swarmed with fellow football players, other boys trying to associate with the “cool” jocks, and girls desperate to talk to them. 

He manages to worm his way to his locker, but in attempting to grab his stuff and leave, he’s stopped by Remus. 

“Hey, loser,” Remus greets him, with a wide smile. He’s leaning against the locker next to Roman’s. “Have you convinced that outcast to break up with you yet?” Remus picks at his teeth with his pinky as he waits for an answer, seemingly intrigued. 

“No,” Roman replies, as he shuts his locker a bit louder than necessary. “I haven’t been trying.” 

Remus looks a little surprised. “Why not? Don’t tell me you actually caught feelings for that accident?” 

Roman narrows his eyes, turning to Remus with comically red cheeks. He was frustrated, but such a look could easily be mistaken for fluster. A strange compulsion to defend Virgil wells up in his chest. Maybe it was because Virgil wasn’t here to stick up for himself. 

“So what if I have?” is his immediate jest, threatening Remus to raise any sort of objection. “Is that such a problem?” There’s a glare not normally present in his soft green eyes, and it makes Remus jut his chin out in a mixture of curiosity, and amusement. 

Roman doesn’t actually have feelings for Virgil, but he has respect and basic decency. Unlike Remus, apparently.

“You barely know him,” Roman continues, as the increasing volume of his voice draws the attention of the people around them, “and from what I’ve seen, he’s a better person than you are.” 

“That’s not a hard bar to surpass.” 

Roman groans, before stomping his foot dramatically. “Whatever, Remus! Get out of my way; I’m going to see my boyfriend.” 

He pushes past Remus, purposely bumping his shoulder against his brother’s, before stomping off, leaving Remus there, intrigued. 

Roman takes deep breaths as he makes his way to Virgil’s locker, where he hopes the latter is. And he’s pleased when he sees Virgil there, though Virgil looks exhausted. 

His forehead is pressed against his locker, eyes closed. He was holding his bag by his strap, though it hangs down, being drawn to the floor. 

Roman sets a hand on Virgil’s shoulder, and apologizes immediately when Virgil jumps. His eyes are wide as he stares at Roman, before sighing out a short “what do you want?” Ever so polite, Virgil wastes no time getting straight to the point.

Roman smiles. “I came to ask if you wanted to come over!” 

“Why?” Virgil responds, voice sounding tired. It’s enough to make Roman shift his weight from one leg to the other, debating whether or not he should just drop the topic. 

“You mentioned earlier that you didn’t like being alone,” Roman replies, smile faltering slightly. “I came to provide you an alternate option!”

“Who said I’d want to spend time with you instead?” 

Roman lets out a sigh, adjusting the bag on his back. “I guess you have a point. I’ll take that as a no, then.” He turns to leave. “Well, I’ll see you tomorrow-” 

His hand is immediately grabbed, and Roman turns to see Virgil looking a little anxious. He quickly masks it when they make eye contact, and releases Roman’s hand just as quickly.

“I never said no,” Virgil replies, wiping his hand on his pants as though Roman had infected it with germs. “I’ll come over. Are your parents okay with this?” 

Roman just shrugs in response, but he smiles wide. “I’m sure they won’t mind.” 

He takes hold of Virgil’s hand, pulling him through the school and out the front door. He pulls a pair of car keys out of his pocket, and leads Virgil to a slick, white car. Not a single splatter of mud or pile of bird shit over it. Roman unlocks it, and even opens the passenger side door for him.

The seats are comfy, and Virgil settles into his with a pleased groan, as Roman gets into the driver’s side and starts the car. 

“I could fall asleep right now,” Virgil comments, making Roman laugh. 

“It’s a short drive,” he assures Virgil. “I have a comfy bed you can fall asleep on at home instead.” 

Virgil lets his head fall to the side, staring at the window as Roman drives them out of the school parking lot, and down the street. They go straight for a while, before Roman turns down a certain street. The houses lining the sidewalk were giant, and looked incredibly old. 

Virgil’s eyes go wide. 

“The historical district?” Virgil exclaims, pressing his forehead against the window. “But… but the houses here are super expensive! Do you really live here?” 

Roman nods, and slows his car as he turns and drives up a nice paved driveway, leaving Virgil to stare at the large house they’re pulling up to. It’s white with many, many windows, and a faded blue roof. Large pillars act as support, and a giant yard is freshly trimmed, with marble decorations. Flowers grow along the driveway and the path to the front door. 

Roman parks the car on the driveway, behind two black cars parked side by side. He pulls a key out of his pocket and walks Virgil to the front door, before unlocking it. He shuts the door behind them, and then interlocks his arm with Virgil’s. 

“Dad, Papa, I’m home!” Roman then calls, giving Virgil’s arm an assuring squeeze. “And I brought somebody you might want to meet!”

[zelekhia]

Tuxedo Cat :3

I bet when Damian was thinking of names for Danny his new nemesis one of his ideas was Kaito Cat...

[fishfingersandscarves]

little cover for Beautiful, Strange, and New by @moorishflower bc it just ended and was wonderful

[moorishflower]

Dirty Talk (Dreamling, Explicit)

This is because of @landwriter making me realize I don't have much practice writing dirty talk. This is still pretty tame in that regard.

"I don't think you're even capable of talking dirty," is what Hob says, one fine winter evening, comfortable and a bit comfortably tipsy, sat at his regular table in the New Inn with Dream of the Endless sat across from him, and he knows by the way Dream rears back like a cat whose nose has been flicked that he's made a mistake in saying it. It's only been a few months since Dream has come back into his life, since he's gifted Hob with information and explanations and finally, in the trenches of autumn as the leaves had crumpled from the trees in red and gold splendor, the rare sight of his smile and a trembling lower lip, and a soft, My friend, but in those few months Hob's come to the realization that he would do anything, literally anything and everything, to hold Dream's friendship. To make him feel safe. To keep him here.

And maybe mocking his friend's mode of speaking isn't the right way to go about it but, again, he's just pissed enough for it to not seem like a big deal, and Dream doesn't seem upset so much as he seems offended. Mates give each other shit all the time, Hob reassures himself, and it's not like they were talking about something life-changing. Dream had only been complaining about his sibling interfering with his realm, which has apparently caused some sort of imbalance in the Dreaming, and from there had followed a great lot of metaphysical and esoteric explanations that boiled down to 'wet dreams are on the rise' (pun intended). It explains why he's had so many in the past week. It doesn't explain why so many of them have featured dark hair and skin like cloaked starlight and eyes bluer than the Aegean Sea, but that's his albatross to bear, not Dream's.

And then Dream had said something along the lines of how sex dreams had used to have poetry to them, there'd been an intimate back and forth, not just of bodies but of words, a build-up and a climax. One thing had led to another, and Hob had said what he said, and he stands by it. Still stands by it, even as Dream's eyes turn flinty and the corner of his mouth turns up into a smirk that would shame the devil.

"I am the Prince of Stories," he murmurs. His voice is a laser that cuts through the raucous din of the New Inn. There's a van's worth of footballers a few tables down, either celebrating or commiserating, it's not clear which, and the entire pub is lousy with the noise. Hob doesn't have to lean forward to hear his friend, so tuned is he to that purring baritone, but he does so anyways. It gets him closer to Dream, who also leans in, like he's about to share a secret. "Do you truly believe me incapable of crafting words titillating enough to bring one to completion?"

"I don't think you've ever said the word 'cunt' in your life," Hob says, doubling down like the idiot he is. He's never claimed to be a wise man, and especially not when he's in his cups. Besides, it's the winter hols, he's got nothing to do tomorrow, and if he ends this night with nightmares that make him piss the bed he'll concede that Dream has won this round.

"You would be incorrect."

Hob can't imagine Dream ever speaking in a way that's less than dignified. There's such power to him, all the time, such staid and solemn surety, and there's no room in that sort of denseness for telling your partner how much you'd like to suck their brains out of their prick. More's the pity, because he thinks if he could imagine it, the shape of his stranger's lips around the word 'cock' would surely be a fine feature to add to his repertoire of fantasies.

It's at this point that Hob makes the stupidest decision he's made all night.

"Prove it," he says, and takes a sip of his drink, secure in the knowledge that six centuries of swiving has rendered him immune to embarrassment, even in such a public setting. There is a long pause during which the only sound is the ambient riot of the Inn around them, the clink of glasses and the cheering -- or bemoaning? -- of the footballers, the nearly-incomprehensible drone of the sound system piping Top 40s Modern Rock into the kitchen behind the bar, Marv the bartender swearing as he uncorks a bottle of champagne for a mixer.

Then Hob feels something brush against his foot beneath the table, and the rest of the pub goes silent.

Or rather, not silent, but…muffled. Like someone's draped a great blanket over the both of them, and now it's just him and Dream, as it's always been, as it always will be, facing each other across a worn, wooden table, as much of the original wood as Hob had been able to salvage. He's worked it into the foundations, into the bartop and the tables and the floor, trying to preserve the stories he'd told for his stranger, the history, like it was ale that had soaked into the floorboards. Dream's eyes are focused on him, impossibly blue, and he feels another soft touch, this time higher up his leg. Like a foot stroking up his calf, except no game of footsie has ever left him feeling this breathless before, this yearning.

"Would you have me prove it to you with words of prose, Hob Gadling?" Dream's voice is a thing with texture. It'd be prosaic to compare it to such human stuff as velvet or fox fur, but Hob's limited in his petty human understanding, and to his ears it's plush and warm and welcoming. It's a voice to bury your face into, a voice that drips down the skin like warm honey or candlewax, with just enough bite to be interesting. "Would you have me woo you with poetry? Shall I compare thee, not to a summer's day, but to the wild bounty of the fields? More comely than all of autumn's fruits and grains, thy hair rich as the loam and the fertile earth?"

Fertile is an unfair word for him to use, Hob thinks. His brain's scattered out his ears in an attempt to try and hear better, but he doesn't have a choice, because if he wants to not hear he's going to have to get up and leave. And not listening to this just…isn't an option. Not with how Dream is looking at him, head cocked like a bird and his mouth red as garnets shaping around words, words, words.

"Shall I opine about the shape of your body? How broad and virile your chest? I have seen you at sport, Hob, and I know what you hide beneath sweaters and cardigans. I have seen the daydreams of those who lust after you. They imagine you coming in from your war games, stripping the shirt from your back and drinking the sweat from your body. They imagine what it would be like to sink to their knees and bury their mouths into your most intimate places. Worshiping you with hand and tongue. Would you have me describe these fantasies, Hob?"

Oh, please, he thinks, and wonders if it must show on his face, how dry his mouth's become, how tight his trousers are now, because Dream's little smirk grows wider. His pupils are blown so large they nearly eclipse his irises, and there's only a thin ring of startling blue outlining a sea of infinite void.

"Or would you prefer it in cruder terms?" The light pressure that's been dragging up and down his leg inches higher; it feels like fingers kneading into the soft insides of his thighs, and Hob's legs fall open to give the phantom hands better access. The Inn looks and sounds like it's moving in slow motion, but maybe that's just because he can't look away from Dream.

"Would you like me to describe how beautiful your cock is?" Dream asks, and he says it with the disaffected expression of someone asking about the weather and the deep and growling voice of a jungle cat, and Hob is fairly certain he makes a noise of his own, something undignified and stifled by how quickly he bites his lip. "How the weight of it would fit perfectly in my hand? You are made for pleasure, Hob. Thick. Heavy. Better still, to hold the shape of you in my mouth."

"Oh, fuck," Hob says. He's barely aware that he says it, but Dream's eyes light up with fiendish inner fire. There's no blue anymore. It's just black, and stars, and Hob drifting in them like a rogue comet, burning up.

"Yes. I could describe how you would fuck me. How you would turn me inside out. I would want to ride you first, to see the shape of you inside me. I would want you to fill me with your spend until I could taste it in my throat, and then, when I had found my pleasure, I would want you to bear me down into the bed. I would want you to break me in half, Hob Gadling, because I will accept no less than the most ardent lover, and if I do not finish the night with your cum leaking down my thighs and my arsehole gaping for you, I will not be satisfied."

The ghost-touch that's been drifting higher and higher along his thighs presses firmly against his groin, and Hob makes a strangled, gasping little noise, swallowed up by the thick syrupy slowness of the Inn, and comes in his pants. It's an orgasm so sharp and sweet and high that it feels like the prolonged note of a flute, and leaves his thighs quivering in the aftermath, and his breath coming in heady little rasps. He hadn't even been aware he was that keyed up, but then, he hadn't been aware of anything but Dream, and Dream's voice, and now how Dream is staring at him across the way, eyes glittering like a thousand diamonds set in velvet. Hob watches as he slowly lifts his hand from beneath the table, spreading his fingers. They're covered in cum, little beads and drips of it sliding down to the second knuckle, and Dream holds his gaze like a fist around Hob's heart as he raises his hand to his mouth and begins licking his fingers clean.

There's another noise, an uncomfortable whimper, that Hob doesn't want to think is him but probably is.

"Have I sufficiently proven myself?" Dream asks, popping his fingers free of his mouth with the most obscene, wet sound that Hob has ever heard. He imagines those fingers spearing into him and making that same sound from all the lube dripping out of his arse, and Dream's nostrils flare.

"Dunno," Hob manages to say, when he finally finds his voice. It's a thready, needy voice, but it is there. "Could use some more convincing. Don't suppose…you fancy coming upstairs to continue this conversation?"

There's a gentle stroke along the inside of his thigh, making his poor, spent cock twitch, and Dream smiles at him. "Yes. I believe there is more I could tell you, Hob Gadling."

And there is. A lot more. That night, and into the morning, and the next, and the next. Hob needs a lot of convincing.

He's grateful Dream seems up to the challenge.

[olteacup]

very important question that i need answered,

what fruit is Renee, or better question is what flavor of pie is she

i feel like she'd be either peach pie or apple pie but i don't even know how pie taste so im winging it

saying that what about Tamarack or Qiu? cause I feel like Baxter would be an oreo pie, no questions asked. he's definitely an oreo pie

[agentianlegend]

A Vigilante, a Different Vigilante’s Sister and a Villain Walk Into a Bar

A Danny Phantom x Batfam (DC) Crossover

AO3  |  FFn

Tags: Anger Management, BAMF Jazz Fenton, Supportive Jazz Fenton, Awkward Flirting, Flirting, First Dates, BatPham, Fluff, but not like super hardcore fluff, more like light and playful fluff preceding badassery

-------

"I enjoy the classics. Especially moody or creepy ones. Eyre, Poe, sometimes Dickens."

Jazz nodded approvingly. "I lean towards nonfiction, mostly, but I enjoy a good ghost story."

A smile teased the corner of Jason's mouth. "Poor little Casper doesn't scare you?"

"Psh, please, growing up my house was basically haunted," Jazz dismissed. "Though you might think I'm crazy if you don't give any stock to the existence of ghosts. Do you believe in life after death?"

Jason was visibly suppressing a smirk. "You'd be surprised."

-------

"Why do you have a gun?!"

"It's fuckin' Gotham. And I saw that silver piece peeking out of your purse," Jason indignantly replied. "Don't act like you're not packin'."

"That's different. It's a peeler; it's not for humans."

The local whirled around to gawk at her. "The fuck is it for, then?!"

-------

Summary: Jason and Jazz surprise each other when their date takes a turn for the dangerous. But, hey, rogues need therapy too, right?

A bit of gratuitously bad flirting that somehow still works, plus a dash of badassery on the side.

-------

Well peeps when @weshney / @weshneyreblogger tagged me in a post by @spacedace about Jazz therapizing rogues around Gotham rather than in Gotham, it combined with my recent love of the Anger Management ship to become a deliciously awful first date idea.

I saw you guys wanted to be tagged in a continuation of the initial post, so here you go! I hope you enjoy it even though I went off-script a bit lol

@thewondersoflebanon / @thedepressedrobin / @akikkobara / @overlycaffeinatedsuperwholockfan / @spectralstardustandphantomnights / @nutcase8691 / @stargirl1331 / @amercurio / @malice-of-the-sunrise / @screamingtofillthevoid / @mnemovoid / @leftmiraclechaos / @sailor-goddess / @phoenixdemonqueen / @rin1sakami​ / @itsloveleo (I’m sorry but your tag isn’t working)

[stabbyfoxandrew]

you know what's fucking insane though???

it's only been 3 days in the mafia front fic. THREE DAYS= ~34k. (so far, we're still on day three rn)

wow i'm truly insane. three days... mein gott

(potential spoilers for this fic in tags???)

[cjauswrites]

dialogue-heavy clausten fic i wrote while scientists performed genetic experiments on me (PART TWO)

warning this one came out a lot longer and angstier than the first part

Read part one here!-

The couple would settle themselves amidst their banter, which left behind a far more comfortable silence than before. It was hard to believe that those two were adults in their mid 20s-- with Claus pushing 27-- with all of the playful back-and-forth bickering they'd do.

In that regard, they might as well have been schoolchildren.

And yet, there was Ninten, now handling a roll of gauze that he'd use to attentively patch up his lover's poor, damaged wing. Holding the draconic appendage as if it were the most priceless artifact in the world, one more precious than every speck of gold in King What's-his-pork's vault.

And there was Claus, allowing a commoner to so freely hold the most fragile and sensitive part of him. The commander's trust was one that belonged to no other.

"So," Ninten cleared his throat, yearning to break the silence between them with a question that had been nagging him ever since Claus showed up; "how'd it happen?"

"Huh?"

"Were you just flying here to see me, and a rebel shot at you? You had to be closeby, right? Otherwise you would've went to that guy... the- the donut guy. Your chimera doctor." The uncertain statement was punctuated with a lopsided shrug. "Because, like, if it's someone in the neighborhood, maybe it'll make the path here safer for you if I snitch on 'em."

Claus's lips didn't move to speak. The redhead's bony fingers would fidget with the pocket corners of his wrinkled cargo pants, black-painted nail scratching at the tightly-woven seams underneath the rough fabric.

"Wait. You... you didn't walk this far from home with a broken wing and a possible assassin on your tail just to visit me, right Claus?"

The commander ignored him once again, deliberately turning his head away.

"Claus."

"Fine," Claus threw his hands up in defeat, "I wasn't- I wasn't at home, but home would've... technically been a faster walk."

Of course he did. Ninten would dip his head with a deep sigh, cradling the bridge of his nose between his index finger and thumb. "You know I love you, Claus, but you have to start getting medical treatment for things like this. I can't fix entire bulletwounds with my PSI."

"It seemed to work, kinda."

His boyfriend's casual, nonchalant attitude towards literally being shot was enough to make Ninten furrow his eyebrows. He let agitation seep into his voice, as much as he internally wished he wouldn't. "Your wing isn't a vital organ."

"Listen, I'm sorry," the soldier's voice was laced with a slight twinge of anxiety, "I don't like doctors, okay? I just.. If it happens again I'll find a home-remedy."

God. Ninten twitched at the mere thought of his boyfriend treating his next potentially-lethal bulletwound at home. His boyfriend, the man with no healing PSI. The one who-- though Ninten loved him-- could hardly even stitch up the holes in his own clothes. That boyfriend.

"And pray tell, what is a 'home-remedy' for a bulletwound to you, Claus? Gonna slap a few band-aids on it? Gonna crawl to your living quarters and drown it out, as usual?!" Ninten loudly drew in a deep, shaky breath to steady himself, giving a futile, short-lived effort to rein in his emotions. He brought his hands up to the sides of his head and rubbed away at his temples. "Y-You always do this thing-- where you put yourself in mortal danger and expect me to act like it's just another wacky tuesday. Oopsie-daisy, my genocidal boss almost caught me stealing oreos! Fucking oreos! But look sweetie, they're your favorite!-" Ninten interrupted his own tangent with an exasperated groan.

"You're lucky it's just your wing. I don't even know what I'd do if they hit your back, God forbid! Please, I'm begging you, just fucking go next time, I don't want to lose you!"

From the corner of his eye, Ninten watched his boyfriend's head sink into his quivering hands, with palms clasped over his eyes. The sight was enough to make his heart fall into the pit of his stomach like a rock in water. "Claus, I... I-I'm sorry. Fuck. It's okay."

"I just didn't want to go there again," Claus's voice muffled into his palms to somewhat veil the quaking in his words, or the way his voice would trail off like a dying flame. Unsure of what to do, Ninten would carefully extend his free hand to his boyfriend's tensed shoulder. The man flinched at the initial contact, but allowed his gentle touch to linger.

"He would've put me to sleep, Nint. For the stitches. I don't trust him not to... not to..."

Ninten swallowed despite the suffocating dryness of mouth, unsteady hand slowly looping another wad of gauze around Claus's injury. His body was plagued with an unending chill that froze him to his very core. "Not to...?" He replied in a gentle voice.

Oh, how the man wanted to tell everything. How he longed to spill the burdens of his life, along with countless tears, into Ninten's comforting shoulders, breathing his familiar scent in the sharp inhales between shaky sobs. But Claus dreaded that he'd said too much already. As secretive as he was-- as he needed to be-- he always had to halt himself from letting the words pour from him like floodwater from a broken dam.

The mere thought of Ninten being stripped of his treasured individuality, of his memories, his humanity, and ending up stranded in a near-meaningless life like his... he'd rather be despised by the man, if that was what it took, than allow that to happen.

"Not to.. Not to slip up. I'm deathly afraid of surgery." He'd expertly mask his emotions in his words, telling himself that it was all for Ninten's own good, telling himself whatever it took to kwep himself from looking back. His pale hands fell to the blankets he was sitting on and he allowed his fingers to curl tightly around the soft fabric, as if they subconsciously longed to grasp at his boyfriend's shirt.

Ninten simply gave a low hum at first.

"Claus... I'm so sorry. F-For yelling at you. I'm truly sorry." Ninten began in a gentle tone. Claus held his breath. "But still, I promise you'll be alright. He's a doctor for a good reason. From what I hear, a prestigious one at that. People praise the ground he walks on like he's the next Albert Einstein."

"Ah... wait, who?"

Ninten squeaked. A brief wave of panic flashed over his features as he was forced to recall where he was. "Aha, some guy, don't worry about it!" His hand waved dismissively. "My- my point is, he's brilliant. You're in good hands."

Good hands. It took every atom in Claus's body not to loudly refute that statement.

"You and your obscure references," Claus's sentence, against his will, trailed into a long yawn, and he'd lock his fingers together and stretch his arms above his head until he felt a satisfying pop in his shoulders. "Geek."

"Yeah, yeah." Ninten shot the other an amused smile. "Tired, sunshine?"

"Oh? Y-Yeah. I am. It's been one hell of a day." As he brought his arms down, the soldier lazily rubbed his weary eyes. As his panic had faded and awareness slowly took its place, the fact would set in that Ninten had completed wrapped his wound. "Hey, my wing feels a ton better. How's it look?"

"After a few PK lifeups and some basic first aid, not too bad! I'd say it'll be back to normal by tomorrow, but you should still take a bus to work." He reached up from where he'd been working and gave Claus a firm-yet-gentle pat on his upper back. "Speaking of work, it's late. We oughta get to bed."

"Late," Claus mumbled the word back to himself in thought. "God, I-- I hogged up your night, didn't I?"

"You didn't, hun. I've got nothing else going on tonight, with the power being out." Ninten would hold out an index finger and, using his telekinesis, toss Claus a thin, comfortable t-shirt he had folded atop his cluttered desk. It was a slightly-worn black tee with a penguin character on its frontside, a very Ninten choice in clothing, Claus noted.

"Your alien research?" In the middle of taking off his shirt, Claus remarked with a nodding gesture towards some erratic, barely-legible sticky notes Ninten had plastered all over his bedside wall.

"Bah, that junk can wait," Ninten replied, running a hand up through his tangled black hair, which he feared had started to look kind of gross. He felt drenched in sweat, but at the very least he could blame the lack of air circulation.

The redhead pulled Ninten's much-loved penguin shirt over his slim frame, loosely covering his battle-scarred upper body. Ninten's clothes were a little bigger than his, but Claus didn't mind the oversized fit they had on his figure. He'd discover a loose thread towards the end of the left sleeve and begin to fidget by rolling it around between his thumb and index finger.

"Well, I still feel bad. If the power's on in the morning I'll fix us some breakfast before we both head out." Ninten watched attentively as Claus reached two hands up behind his head, then freed his long, pumpkin-colored hair from the confines of the shirt's collar, shaking it out and letting the sea of loose ginger curls fall against his back. It wasn't often that Ninten got to see Claus with his hair down. Was it always that much curlier towards the bottom? Fuck. Ninten was weak.

"Awh!! You don't have to, really! You spoil me, Clausy." Ninten let out a giggle, the kind of high-pitched laugh he only let loose when he couldn't contain his glee. "But-- ah-- speaking of which, I do hope all the stuff in the fridge didn't spoil.."

"Have you opened it?" Claus turned to face his fellow law-breaker and rested his chin on his knuckles, yellowed eyes fixing on Ninten as he blinked to gain his focus in the dimly-lit room

"Absolutely not, but still. It's been off for a while."

"I'll figure it out, love." He cupped his human hand over Ninten's soft cheek, delicately brushing the pad of his thumb against the spot beneath his eye.

"Hah, thank you. You're the best." Ninten gave Claus a peck on his soft lips before the stubborn one could throw the compliment back. The rosy blush on his freckled face combined with the way his eyes seemed to enlarge themselves was priceless to Ninten.

Sharing Ninten's pathetic little bed had become routine for them despite the fact that it clearly lacked the space for two. Not that they minded one bit. After all, it only gave them a beyond cheesy excuse to cuddle up close and act sickeningly sweet to each other, their favorite passtime.

The bedframe gave a barely-audible creak of protest as Ninten would shift his weight to the left, leaning over and to put the dying candleflame out of its misery with one puff of air from his lips; the two were plunged into darkness as the ember wisped away into a thin ribbon of smoke.

"Mmgh, dark-" Claus complained. He aimlessly swiped a hand around in the inky blackness around him until it found Ninten's face, his scraggly little chin stubble making contact with the soldier's palm. Ninten hated how it refused to grow correctly, but Claus adored the way it looked, always holding his chin to carress the little hairs and always remarking how it tickled him between kisses.

"Right here, darling," Ninten locked his fingers, their texture a little rough from work, with the clumsy hand that had been sprawled over the frontside of his face.

Ninten scooted into the little free space next to Claus and snuggled up as close to the taller man as he possibly could, taking the opportunity to rest his head on his partner's chest once he found it. He could hear the soft hums and whirrs of machinery from within; a soothing source of white noise in an otherwise dead silence. As Ninten's warm presence filled the empty space beside him, the commander's arm snaked its way around his shoulder.

After Ninten closed his eyes for slumber, he felt Claus shift to rest his chin atop his fluffy mess of hair. He only wished that he could've showered before this. It wasn't too bad, since they both stunk of sweat, but it always embarrassed him whenever Claus would witness him not at peak performance.

"Night, Clausy."

"G'night, Nint. Love you."

"Love you too."

"... Hey, Nint?"

"Yeah?"

"Are you really upset about the oreos? Or was that just an in-the-moment thing?"

"I love oreos, you know I do. But I love you so much more. I just wanna see you safe, is all."

His gaze lifted from Claus's face to the mess of Post-Its on his wall, and he'd give himself a mental reminder to purchase more.

"Noted... I'm sorry. I'll try to be more cafeful from here on out, okay? And I'll... I'll start going to the doctor, too."

"That makes me really happy. Thank you."

The exchange was ended with a kiss planted on the top of Ninten's gross, smelly head. His face grew hot. How dare he.

There the two lovers settled into bed, in a loose-yet loving embrace, with each one's frame nestled comfortably into the other's; they'd learned all of the best ways to sleep on this mattress without needing to shove each other off or battle for space in their sleep. Claus was already drifting off to a much-needed peaceful slumber, one that Ninten wouldn't dare take from him despite the horde of questions clawing at his mind. He pondered that little lie he'd played along with. Regarding the government's top scientist.

'Scared he'll slip up', yeah, right... Andonuts, huh? I'll do some digging on the name. I swore I've heard it floating around before. Way back in the 80s, even. Does one of his ancestors work for the government?- Unless...

Ninten's thoughts drew on.

His gaze drifted up from Claus's face to the scattered stacks of Post-Its tacked to his bedroom wall, giving himself a mental reminder to purchase more.

rereading an hour later: i noticed a fUCKING MISTAKE WHERE tHE LAST LINE FROM THE FANFIC WAS RANDOMLY MOVED TO AN EARLIER SPOT. WHAT THE FUCK. HOW DOES THAT HAPPEN. IM LIVID. anyways i fixed it

[wildlife4life]

Oreo Towers will Tumble

Buddie M 7K

Drew Heyward has been a floater at the 118 for a few shifts and ends up as man behind one afternoon. During this time he finds a surprise visitor, Eddie Diaz, one of the handful of omega first responders and the person Drew has been covering for. Turns out, Eddie is Buck's mate, very pregnant and bored after weeks of bedrest. They talk, panic attacks occur, and oreo tower bets are made, creating a new friendship.

“Well until I was put on stupid bed rest a few months ago, this was my place of work.” The omega answered, annoyance lacing his tone. Immediately Drew caught on who their guest is. “Holy shit your Eddie Diaz.” “Technically Buckley-Diaz, but yep that’s me. And you are?” Drew didn’t answer at first, because he was…well he was somewhat starstruck.  Eddie Diaz is one of a handful of omega first responders in the state of California and he was badass.  Pulled a live grenade from a man’s leg, climbed a tilted hotel and a submerged Ferris wheel, and survived the sniper attack back in May. His saves were legendary, and he broke through all the glass ceilings held above omegas.  “Um…” Diaz squinted a bit, eyes on the beta’s chest, “Firefighter Heyward, you good there?” “Holy shit I didn’t know I was covering for you! Oh my god! And did you say Buckley-Diaz? Buckley? As in Buck? He’s your mate?” Drew finally caught the underlying scent of ocean salt and smokey cedar of his fellow fireman mingled with Diaz’s spiced chocolate. “Holy shit!”

Its here! May not be the a/b/o fic ya'll are expecting, but this one is complete and posted! This fic was literally inspired by a pack of Oreos and the random ass image of Eddie stacking them on his pregnant belly. I hope you all enjoy!

[oreoambitions]

what if I watched Supergirl again but just to the end of S3 and pretended that nothing canon happened after that and wrote fic from there what then

[haveyoureadthisfanfic]

Now that we’re branching beyond pizza, I have three mildly unconventional culinary creations to share.

When my mom was growing up, spaghetti with applesauce was a common meal. (She has since learned better.) My dad still enjoys an open-faced hamburger sandwich (which isn’t too weird, but it’s just not something you hear often and I personally find it gross). And I will swear by any divine entity that peanut butter goes really well with mint Oreos.

OKAY speaking of Oreos, I am on a prolonged mission to try as many of the bullcrap weird Oreo flavors they keep coming out with. Just because I'm curious what the hell they were thinking

[anxiousgaypanicking]

Oreo Masterlist

Synopsis: As a joke, Roman's forced to ask Virgil out after losing an oreo. Flustered, and somewhat embarrassed and humiliated by the connotation that dating him would be such a bad thing, he says yes out of impulse, and must now deal with what being Roman's "boyfriend" entails. 

Focus Ships: Prinxiety, background Loceit/Intruality

Part One: Dickbucket (Derogatory) Part Two: Lost An Oreo Part Three: Pain And Plans Part Four: Wonderful Part Five: Oversleeping Part Six: Sleepover Part Seven: Aftermath Part Eight: Movie Theatre Mayhem

[turbulenthandholding]

Here is what I know: @anxietycroissant is the absolute best. I have not yet returned to myself after digesting everything this week (the trailer! The episode titles!). And in chapter 4, no good deed goes unpunished (especially when it's covering for a late-night ER shift on the night of a full moon). Claire has a meet-cute, a late-night Uber ride that makes her sad, and a surprising phone call (and an overactive imagination), in that order.

[fishfingersandscarves]

A playlist and some art i made for @moorishflower 's new fic Beautiful, Strange, and New is out and the first chapter is up!!! It's a beautiful beautiful longfic that I highly endorse and everyone better read it!!!!!

[moorishflower]

Hey here's a snippet from the retired Dream/Hob/Daniel fic for those interested <3 n for you @fulcrvm!

Hob moves to the bedside, carrying with him a mug and a plate, both of which he sets down upon the table. The mug smells hot and sweet, and the plate contains a single slice of toast, thickly-slathered with butter and fruit preserves.

Morpheus’ stomach makes a curious rumbling noise; he can feel the ripple of muscle there when he puts his hand flat upon it, and Hob smiles. His smile is so brilliant, and he thinks, for the first time, that perhaps a month of this, of this tenderness and this affection, will be enough to sustain him on his journey to whatever awaits him beyond the Sunless Lands.

“Finally hungry,” Hob says. He sits down on the edge of the bed, hands twisted into his lap. “Was starting to get worried. You going to try and eat?”

Eating, eventually, will bring with it a whole new host of problems. He does not want to think about this body converting food into energy, and the complicated process required, and the waste it will generate.

He also cannot deny that the smell of the food is…appealing.

“Friend at work makes homemade jams,” Hob is saying. He has picked the plate back up and is holding it out to Morpheus, encouragement writ large upon his expression. “This is…cherry, I think? Cherry and orange? Looks like there might be marmalade bits in there. She’s a bit of a mad scientist.”

Morpheus wonders at the wisdom of subjecting this new stomach to fruit-based mad science, but, in the end, the ceaseless cramping in his belly wins out. He picks up the slice of toast and must lean far over so that he may take a delicate bite of it, hovering over the plate so that he does not drip jam onto the sheets. He hears Hob sigh in relief. Then, all of his attention is focused upon his tongue, and on the texture of the toast between his teeth, and the sharp-soft crumbs that stick to his lips as he tears off his small bite and chews. The jam is tart, tingling upon his palate, but the sweetness chases after, washes over his tastebuds. Cutting through the jam is the savoury warmth of the butter, half-melted, coating his tongue in a layer of delicious oil and dripping in a fine golden line down the curve of his bottom lip. Hob watches his face, studying him, as Morpheus licks after the single drop.

The bread, he thinks, is merely a mechanism with which to convey butter and jam. Perhaps this is why the toast from before had held no appeal.

[3rdrayman]

You ever get really sad and lonely, but then you eat oreos and

Well, you're still sad and lonely, but now you have oreos

Anyway, here's a book I wrote: