#rate M

[arelliann]

For @steddiesmuttyseptember Week 3: Lingerie | M

[ao3demographicssurvey2024]

In the AO3 Demographics Survey 2024 - an unofficial demographics survey of 16,131 AO3 users - the "Mature" rating was ranked most enjoyed by consumers, while those posting works most frequently posted "Teen and Up". Only 16% of those who had posted works to AO3 said they had never posted M/M, while 69% of consumers "Strongly Enjoyed" M/M works.

To see more analysis, including transcripts of all the data shown on the graphs, please view the full results on AO3 for both ratings and relationship types.

[the-one-who-lambs]

Oh I am having an EVENING. I just got back to school, spent the last 2 days amazingly productive and prepping for finals, and an hour ago I tested positive for COVID.

So then I had to email my students over the Learning Management App (which doesn't keep the formatting of the email site) that class is going be asynchronous tomorrow. At the end of the email, I tried to copy and paste my usual signature. I pasted and hit send too quickly for me to realize it did not copy.

This is an excerpt from the next chapter of the fanfic I am writing.

[void-of-unparalled-chaos]

Slap a Bow on It

 "Contrary to popular belief, Danny wasn’t stupid. He could be a bit oblivious, but he always got there in the end. So when Danny woke up the next morning and realized that last night wasn’t a dream, he had an epiphany. He was being courted by the super hot and apparently undead crime lord who ran the haunt on the other side of the street."

@deadonmayn Day 1: Courting Rituals | Flickering | Dinner is interrupted by a rogue/gang fight | "Are they gone yet?"

TW: Danny is thirsty as hell, mentions/allusions to nsfw but nothing explicit

AO3 Link

   Danny blinked.

   He could only assume that the crime lord, illuminated purely by the light of the fridge in the otherwise dark apartment, blinked back. The helmet didn't give anything away, red plating and slanted eye whites impassive. Good for being sexy menacing. Not so good for reading emotions.

   Danny blinked again, wiping the rheum from his eyes with pinched fingers. He squinted once more at Red Hood, who for some reason was in his apartment at - Danny glanced at the clock - three in the morning. He seemed perfectly content to be digging through Danny’s fridge, if a little sheepish at being caught.

    He should probably be more angry that his apartment was broken into. He absolutely was when he first woke to the uncomfortable feeling of an uninvited guest in his lair, but after seeing the vigilante’s arms laden with food his metaphorical hackles relaxed. The apartment was shitty anyway. 

   If anything, Danny was confused as to why he was here judging his fridge’s contents and playing Tetris with tupperware. It wasn’t like they knew each other. 

   Danny blinked a third time just to really make sure he was seeing what he was seeing, "...Hi?" 

   "Hey,"  Red Hood unfroze, seemingly recovered from being caught, and resumed stuffing what looked like a container of tamales into his fridge. 

   Danny couldn’t help but feel sullen at the dismissal. He'd woken up only for the admittedly hot trespasser with thick thighs to barely glance at him. Unacceptable. 

   "Do you want anything to drink?"  Danny must have been momentarily possessed by the ghost of Midwestern manners with how urgent the offer seemed. 

   "Nah," Red Hood stuffed another container into the fridge, turning to look back at Danny, "You don't have any allergies, do you?"

   "Nah."

   Red Hood nodded, pulling out a bag of rotten lettuce. He held it away from himself like it might try to bite him. In Danny’s experience, it very well could. 

   “Do you ever clean out your fridge?”

   Danny shrugged, “It’s finals week. I’ve got to keep my GPA above 3.5 if I want to keep my scholarship. No chores. Only study.”

   Red Hood nodded solemnly as he threw the lettuce into the trash, “No chores. Only study.”

   They fell into silence. Danny watched as the crime lord sifted through his fridge, pulling out rotten food as he went. “Is this because I decked that mugger? Cause’ he deserved it.”

   Red Hood very pointedly threw the expired milk carton into the trash can.

   “Okay then…�� Danny yawned, “Well if that's all I’m going back to bed.”

   “Kay.”

   Danny shrugged, turned on his heel, and left the crime lord to rifle through his kitchen.

___👻___

   When Danny awoke the next day, he was greeted by a clean apartment. The absence of crumbs on the freshly swept floor felt odd on his feet, although it was certainly much more pleasant. The trash had been taken out and a new bag had already been installed. He passed by the sink on the way to make coffee, the dishes that had been filling it suspiciously absent. 

   Danny would deny to the ancients and back that his knees went weak when he found the coffee maker already set and filled with grounds... his sister must never know. 

   As he waited for the cup to brew, he opened his fridge for creamer only to come face to face with more home cooked food than he’d ever seen in his life. Danny pulled the food out plastic container by plastic container to stare at in disbelief. Tamales, chicken mole, Mexican rice, enchiladas, and carne asada… It was only a handful of containers, but still. It wasn’t as if his parents had done much in the way of cooking with all their time spent in the lab. Jazz could throw together something basic but nothing like this.

   The local hot crime lord slash vigilante had broken in at three in the morning to feed him and clean his apartment. Huh.

  No time to think about that. He has a final on differential equations in five hours and minimal time to cram. Danny stirs the creamer into his coffee, heats up some Mexican rice, and sits down at the untouched mess of notebooks, paper, and textbooks on his kitchen table. 

   He studies until he has to leave for the exam, only getting up to refill his coffee and get more food. The tamales are pretty fricken good, but they make it hard to focus on the numbers scribbled across his notebook. It’s like each bite is urging him to go back into the kitchen and cook, which is odd considering that Danny can’t cook and he already has enough food to last him through the next day or two (courtesy of the sexy crime lord). 

   He leaves the exam room feeling good only for his mood to immediately crumble when he remembers that he has an aerodynamics final at eight the next morning followed by gasdynamics at one. He takes a brief break to faceplant on the table, scream, refill his coffee for the umpteenth time, and eat some more food but inevitably resigns himself to pulling an all-nighter. Time becomes liquid after that. It’s all just a blur of numbers and properties and instructional videos. 

   At some point, he registers another presence in the apartment. Danny recognizes the ecto signature from the night before so he pays it no mind. Let Hood poke around, Danny has to read more about Newton’s Third Law. What was he going to do? Feed him again?

   The answer was apparently yes. 

   The background noise of shuffling in the fridge and washing empty containers stops and is replaced by soft, mechanical-sounding breaths. Hood is standing next to him, plastic container in hand as he watches Danny run through the Quizlet on his laptop. 

   Danny’s got around eighty percent of the terms memorized. Just another twenty percent to go. He types in the answer for a new blank. 

   Red Hood pokes his shoulder.

   Danny grumbles. His response came back wrong.

   His shoulder is poked again.

   Danny ignores it and moves on to the next blank.

   He continues unbothered for an uncertain amount of time. The words on the screen are blurry like he is trying to read underwater. His mouth splits into an entirely too wide, jaw-cracking yawn. His uninvited guest coos at him as Danny rubs at his eyes. The next thing he knows, his laptop is shut closed and moved away. It feels like any and all visual processing is delayed. Danny stares blankly at the spot the computer used to sit.

   Something slides in front of him to replace the laptop. His core chirps when he realizes it's food. Hood’s answering chirp as he guides a fork into his hand is deep and rumbly with the faint stutterings of a purr. Danny starts to purr in return as he sleepily munches on the casserole.

    Before long the empty plate is taken away. Danny slumps down on the newfound table space and tries to fight off sleep. 

   “I think it's time for you to go to bed.”

   “Noooooo! I’v gotta study fr' aero’namics.”

   “You’re slurring your words there, handsome.”

   Danny’s sleep-deprived brain screeched to a halt. His core chirped to attention, “Flat’ry ain’t gettin’ you nowhere.”

   “It was worth a shot.”

    Danny smushed his face further into the wood to hide his blush and distracted himself by blindly reaching for his coffee mug. Upon noticing, the vigilante moved it out of reach. Danny whined into the table.

   “You can’t overwork yourself like this, Danny,” Red Hood carried the mug to the sink and poured it down the drain. Cruel, cruel man. “I know you’ve got exams but your scores won’t be any good if you go into them like this. You've got to take care of yourself,”  He lightly squeezed Danny’s shoulder. Danny hadn’t even heard him move across the kitchen. “Can you do that, darlin’? For me?”

    Danny groaned, “F’ne. But only cause’ ur hot.”

   The vigilante snorted. It sounded odd through the helmet but not bad. “I’m happy to hear it! Now let's get you to bed.”

___👻___

   Contrary to popular belief, Danny wasn’t stupid.

   He had been helping his parents in the lab since he was four, and he was nearly a straight-A student before the accident. He was an aerospace engineering major with a hefty GPA of 3.8, and most importantly, he’s had extensive lessons on ghosts, the Infinite Realms, and their culture. 

   He could be a bit oblivious, but he always got there in the end. 

   So when Danny woke up the next morning and realized that last night wasn’t a dream, he had an epiphany. The thought kept running through his head as he stared at the food in the fridge, the clean apartment, and the prepped coffee maker. 

   He was being courted. 

   He was being courted by the super hot and apparently undead crime lord who ran the haunt on the other side of the street. 

   Danny had never been courted before! 

   Sure, occasionally there was someone who tried to shoot their shot, but it always fell flat in the end. It was an unfortunate side effect of being undead. Every human relationship he had felt… lacking. Like it was missing something. 

   Val had come pretty close. All the fighting and shooting felt like a mimicry of ghostly courtship behavior. It's what had drawn Danny to her in the first place, but Val wasn’t fighting him in a display of power and capability. She had genuinely wanted to end him. 

   There was also the incident with Kitty, but she was overshadowing Paulina and mimicking human behaviors. There was never any ghostly courtship involved, and besides, she was only dating him to make Johnny jealous. 

   This is Danny’s first time being properly courted!

   What is he going to do about it?

   He decided that the question could wait until after finals.

   The next few days pass by much the same as before: a tortuous cycle of studying, caffeine, minimal sleep, screaming, and exams. Red Hood continues to stop by and deliver food. Danny has got to figure out the dude’s actual name or a nickname or something. He refuses to keep calling his potential partner Red Hood. When you take away the scary crime lord persona it just sounds like a condom brand. He could always use a pet name, but it feels wrong given that Danny hasn’t shown much reciprocation outside of allowing Hood into his lair. Instead, Danny settles on greeting him with a trill and a series of chirps. 

   As soon as he finishes his last final he flops face down into bed. Tomorrow he’ll get to work on reciprocating Red Hood’s efforts. His kitchen is blessedly clean of any ecto contamination. Without the food fighting back, he should be able to whip up something presentable. How hard could following a recipe be?

___👻___

   Danny was wrong.  

   Staring at the stove which was somehow on fire, Danny couldn’t help but finally understand why Jazz had never allowed him in the kitchen. He quickly rushes to turn off the heat. Danny doesn’t have a fire extinguisher. He’s a broke college student with just enough money to live on the outskirts of Crime Alley. Why would he ever be able to afford a fire extinguisher? 

   Danny slams a lid over the pot to smother the flames erupting from it and wacks the stovetop with a damp towel. As the fire dies down he glares at the somehow burnt gnocchi sitting ever so innocently in boiling water. He probably could have just iced it. The ice would melt into water and put out the fire, right? 

   He takes another look at the ruined food as the bubbles die down and decides he’s probably just cursed. Not all hope is lost though, Danny reasons as he dumps the ruined gnocchi down the garbage disposal. So Italian cuisine was not his forte. That’s okay! He’ll just try a different recipe!

___👻___

   The recipe said quick and easy. 

   This was neither quick nor easy.

   He dumped the carbonized remains of food into the trash with a sigh. It was French toast! How could someone go so wrong with French toast? The kitchen looked like something had exploded in it for ancients’ sake! 

   Danny thunked his head onto the counter, uncaring of the milk and eggs coating it. An entire loaf of bread gone and not a single edible piece of toast to show for it! He groaned. Maybe he just… wasn’t cut out for this whole courting thing. 

   Dejectedly, he lifted his head and began to wipe down the counter with paper towels. He really liked Hood.

   He was funny! While he mostly left Danny alone during his study sessions, Danny had seen the viral videos. Hood knew how to crack a good death joke, and the compilations of him ragging on Batman were something to aspire to. 

   He cared for people! The sponsored soup kitchens and homeless programs were an open secret in Crime Alley, and the working girls were paid well. The street kids knew they were safe in the Alley because anyone who tried to touch them would end up with their head in a duffle bag. Red Hood protected them.

   And ancients was he hot! Thick thighs for days and strong arms that could probably lift Danny like a couple of grapes. Danny wouldn’t mind being thrown around by a guy like that. He would happily let him pin him to a wall and box him in and then Danny could sink his fangs into his shoulder and then- 

   Okay! Stop! Too far! That’s awfully ambitious for someone who can’t even cook a proper courting gift. Think, Danny, Think! 

  Okay… okay. So he can’t cook. That’s fine because Danny can build. He’s been building things since he was practically a toddler. He can make something easy peasy!

   What about a gun? Red Hood seemed to like guns. Danny’s core purred at the idea. If he had to guess, the vigilante had a protection obsession of some sort. A gun was something that could protect Red Hood but also be used to protect others in his haunt and directly feed into his obsession. Yes! The gun idea was good.

   But then again, Hood had been working with Batman more and more frequently, and with that had been using guns less and less. How often could the gun be used? No, no. This courting gift should be usable in all scenarios. 

   What about a knife? Yes! A knife could work! As far as Danny knew, Batman didn't have anything against knives. Surely a knife paled in comparison to Robin's katana. A knife was sneaky and quiet, good for stealth missions unlike a gun, and easier to carry for everyday use. 

   Danny hummed, nodding to himself. He’d do the knife first and save the gun for later. He was going to need supplies. 

   Danny wiped the dripping egg away from his forehead before it could get into his eyes. But first, he was going to need a shower.

___👻___

   So…

   It could’ve gone worse.

   Despite basically being raised reverse-engineering his parents’ inventions, Danny had never tried to make a knife. He could gut a microwave from the local back alley dumpster and Macgyver it into a functioning weapon, but building a makeshift forge on short notice and hammering steel down into a smooth curve was a whole different ballpark. Luckily the local trade school had a forge, and after some good old-fashioned bribery, they allowed Danny access. That was the first problem out of the way. Unfortunately, the second problem remained. It was fine. Danny was used to thinking on his feet. 

  After many YouTube videos and failed attempts Danny had a somewhat presentable blade. With a saw edge on the top and a sharp curve similar to a khukuri on the bottom, it certainly didn’t look like a beginner's design.

   He probably shouldn’t have skipped straight to a more advanced shape. Danny hadn’t managed to fix the slight warp of the blade, and maybe the practice beforehand would have done him some good. Regardless, it was too late to fix it after the ecto wash, and he didn’t think the warp would affect the performance too negatively. Besides, with the ectoplasm infused into it the knife should cut through ghosts with no problem. 

  Danny had spent entirely too long trying to find the perfect shade of red leather for the handle, but in the end, he accurately matched it to Red Hood’s helmet. He had wanted to incorporate some protective runes into the leather, but he had no idea how to make a lasting pattern that wouldn’t affect the user’s comfort. Eventually, he decided it was an idea to be saved for another project. 

   With his courting gift complete, all that was left to do was break into Red Hood’s lair and give it to him…

   That sounded wrong. Give the knife to him. It’s not an innuendo! Great. Now he’s thinking about those thick thighs again. Stop! Bad Danny!

   He shook himself to dispel the train of thought. Danny had a different, more pressing problem to deal with: How could he present a knife to a vigilante without it coming across as a threat? He didn’t have a box for it, and the knife didn’t have a sheath yet. He could always make himself the box and store it in his chest, but watching someone pull random items out of their body was apparently gross and disturbing, or so he’d been told. What if he just-

   Danny yanked open the kitchen junk drawer and began to root around. After a few seconds of sifting, he pulled out his prize and ever so gently stuck it to the knife. The green gift bow was squished on one end but remained comically large on the blade. He bounced up and down on his toes. It was so stupid that it just might work. 

   Feeling the cool rush of invisibility, Danny phased through the wall of his apartment to greet the early morning light beginning to peak over the buildings. Floating in the air for a minute, he absently fiddled with the bow on his courting gift. With the city starting to wake, Hood should be returning to his lair. 

   It didn’t take long for him to fly past the unseen territory lines and into Crime Alley. Danny had crossed through Hood’s haunt before. It had never felt aggressive like some in the Ghost Zone. Red Hood's haunt was more curious, probing with a warning to behave himself. The haunt felt different this time around. Now it felt welcoming rather than wary, warm. If Danny closed his eyes, he could almost imagine being held in a protective embrace. His core hummed in response, seeking out the other’s resonance. 

   Danny had never been to Hood’s lair. He hadn’t even been given directions, but he didn’t need them. He'd simply follow Hood’s ecto signature to where the haunt’s energy was most concentrated. Like the dead equivalent of a bloodhound. 

   Danny took his time meandering toward the heart of the haunt. He’d never been this far into Crime Alley before, and he didn’t want to get turned around. That was a lie. Danny was nervous and stalling. Doubts flew unbridled through his head.

   What if the knife wasn’t good enough? What if the bow didn’t work? What if Red Hood thought he was threatening him? What if Danny blew his shot? Danny had already screwed up so many other things in his life, he didn’t want to screw this up too!

   There was only so long he could stall. Jittery with nerves, Danny floated outside a decrepit apartment building. The entire structure was practically drenched in Red Hood’s ecto signature, but it radiated in waves from a unit on the top floor. Danny took a breath to steady his racing heart and struggled to quiet his core. It was now or never. 

   He cautiously phased halfway through the wall, chirping in greeting. The apartment was clean and orderly. The fireplace and full bookshelves gave it a homey feel that sharply contrasted with the worn and weathered bricks on the outer wall. The lack of weapons was a surprise. Even if he couldn't see them Danny figured they were still there, well hidden in the otherwise normal apartment. 

   A surprised sound draws his attention to the man on the couch. He’s built like a quarterback, lounging on one side as he struggles to stitch a laceration across his ribcage with a needle in one hand and a handheld mirror in the other. It's hard not to get distracted by the autopsy scar running cleanly across his collarbone and down to his pelvis. Danny wants to lick it.

   Piercing blue eyes search the apartment, arm lowering the mirror. Danny is thankful that he's still invisible. With the heat flooding to his ears, he’s sure he’s as red as a tomato. Danny’s practically drooling at tousled black and white hair and the long scar reaching up from under his jaw to his hairline like a flower stretching for the sun. His crooked nose, clearly broken and healed many times over, only adds to his beauty. Red Hood is truly a modern-day Adonis.

    Hood’s wounded side finally registers in Danny’s brain, rearranging his priorities and catapulting his obsession to the front. Immediately he lets his invisibility drop, absently shoving the knife into his chest for safekeeping. Hood makes a distressed sound as he does so which urges Danny forward. His hands hover worriedly over the man as he pushes as much help/comfort/safety/concern into his aura as possible. 

   He reaches to take the threaded needle from Red Hood’s hand only to be nudged away.

   “It’s fine. I can do it myself.”

   "Hood, let me help."

   "Jason,” he licks his lips, “My name is Jason."

   "Jason," Danny gently cups Jason’s face in his hands, "Please let me help, Jason."

   Blue eyes gaze into his own. The ever-so-faint hints of green within them are captivating, swirling in a hypnotic dance that leaves Danny in a daze. Finally, Jason looks away and nods, breaking the trance between them and passing the needle over.

   Danny allows himself to revert to the mindset of his vigilante days. He stitches the wound with a single-minded focus, practiced hands falling back into a familiar rhythm. Jason watches the entire time, staring intently at his face as he works. Danny struggles to keep his core quiet and pretends not to notice, taping a bandage over the cut. His fingers graze over Jason's body, checking it over for any other injuries. Jason allows it to happen with a distinct feeling of affection/amusement. 

   “Are you hurt anywhere else?”

   “Nah. The kevlar usually prevents stuff like this. I was just unlucky.”

   “Good.” 

   Danny runs his fingers through the white tuft in Jason’s hair, pushing the strands out of his face. His core kickstarts like an engine with a vengeance, humming and searching for Jason’s core song in anticipation. Danny squeaks, stumbling backward. He smothers the sound and quiets his core, but with the look on Jason’s face, he hadn’t been quick enough.

   “Sorry!” Danny stutters out, flushing. 

    Jason’s expression shifts to confusion, “Why are you apologizing?”

   “I’m being way too forward,” Danny drags his hands down his face in embarrassment, “We haven’t had a spar yet and fuck! I haven’t even given you your courting gift yet, but here I am! Invading your space and trying to harmonize! I’m so sorry.”

    “Lucky for you I like forward,” Jason gently grasped his hands, lowering them away from his face. His palms felt warm against Danny’s skin, “Is that what you shoved into your chest earlier? A courting gift?” Jason punctuated the sentence with a gentle kiss to Danny's slow pulse.

   Danny nodded, stunned. Tearing his gaze away from Jason’s lips, he reached into his chest and pulled out the knife. Jason chuckles, his eyes crinkling in mirth, “You put a bow on it?”

   Danny grinned, his fangs on full display, “Well I had to make it presentable, didn’t I?” 

   He gets down on one knee, head bowed and knife held upwards in offering as if he were a knight presenting a sword to a king. Jason gingerly lifts it out of his hands, cradling it like a precious gem. Danny watches as his fingers trace the edge. 

   “It feels like you,” Jason looks to Danny for answers, eyes wide with wonder and a beautiful flush on his face.

   “I wanted to make sure it was effective against ghosts, but it's hard to find enough clean ectoplasm around here. I sorta just… used my own?” Danny rubs the back of his neck with a wince, “Do you like it?”

   He waits in anxious anticipation as Jason stands from the couch. Jason sets the blade gently down on the coffee table behind Danny before tugging him into his arms, “I love it, baby,” his words vibrate over a purr that Danny can feel in his bones, “Just don’t go hurting yourself for courting gifts anymore.”

   Danny groaned, tucking his face under Jason’s chin. “You have no idea how much that narrows my options down.” 

   Jason laughs. 

   Danny pulls away to look up at him, lightly batting at Jason’s peck “I’m serious, Jason! I can’t cook for shit! You’re gonna need to wait a long ass time until I can get my hands on more ecto. I hope you’re ready to wait because it’s going to take me months to build that gun now!”

   “You wanted to make me a gun?” 

   “Yeah? I was going to have one ready in the next few weeks but-”

   Jason’s smile is dazzling as he leans down to press his lips to Danny’s. Danny forgets to breathe as he melts into the kiss. He’s tugged forward until they are chest-to-chest on the couch, cores close together. Danny’s not sure whose core starts to hum first, but the sound is unmistakable as they waver between pitches. Danny bites at Jason’s lips, making a pleased sound when they part for him.

   It’s weird to be doing this before a spar. It’s backward, unconventional. Danny can’t find it in himself to care.

   It’s a wondrous thing when their cores synchronize. Something finally clicks, like a lock snapping into place, and suddenly Danny can feel so much. The humming harmony of their cores permeates every single one of Danny’s nerves. The rush of giddy happiness is unlike anything he’s felt before. He can feel Jason, too. The rampant emotions fling between them until it's hard to tell whose is whose. In Jason’s arms with a core bond in place, Danny has never felt so secure in his life. 

   This. This is what he's been missing. 

   Danny breaks away from their kiss to nip at Jason’s jawline, paying special attention to the scar. Jason makes a pleased sound, tugging lightly at his hair.

   “Your teeth are sharp as fuck.”

   “Aren’t yours?”

   Jason nuzzles under Danny’s shirt collar and into his shoulder. Danny shudders as he feels canines dig into his skin. They’re sharp, but not as sharp as his. 

   Danny giggles, pressing a kiss to Jason’s hair. “I want to see how skilled you actually are with those teeth. Once you’ve healed we can have a proper spar.”

   “I’ll show you a proper spar,” Jason grumbles. 

  Suddenly Danny is pinned, lying on the couch with Jason’s weight on top of him. Jason kisses his cheek, tucking his head back into the crook of his neck with a contented sigh. It's like the world's best weighted blanket, Danny thinks as his eyes droop shut in relaxation.

   They remain like that in silence, basking in the positive emotions and comfort of their new bond. It’s about ten minutes later that Danny finally breaks it.

   “Why me?”

   “Hmm?”

   “Just… why court me? I know I pass through your haunt now and then but we’ve only actually seen each other like… once. What could I have possibly done to catch your attention?”

   “You punched a mugger.”

   “Yeah… so?”

   “You knocked the fucker out in one blow before I could even lift a finger.”

   “And?”

   Jason lifted his head to give him a pointed look.

   Danny stared back.

   Oh…

   Oh!

   “Do you have a competency kink!?”

   Jason flushed, ducking his head back down with a groan. 

[mrghostrat]

editor's note - chapter 4/5

[slaps chapter] this baby can fit so much gay panic in it

“It’s not so bad, when you’re not drenched in it,” Crowley thought aloud. Aziraphale gave him a doubtful look over the top of his glass, so he doubled down. “Kind of romantic, really. Like a Richard Curtis film.” Aziraphale followed his gaze to a window streaked with endless drizzle. He watched for a moment, took a delicate sip of Tempranillo, then hummed a complacent sigh. “I suppose so.”

[literatooru]

𝐦𝐨𝐯𝐢𝐞 𝐧𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭

pairing: f!reader x dabi

warnings: 18+ (NSFW) (MDNI) slight exhibitionism, cockwarming, very slight degradation (calls reader slut exactly once), unprotected sex

Dating Dabi has taught you to always expect the unexpected. It's obviously tough, but you've learned to control your own reactions to deal with whatever he throws at you.

One thing you can always take for granted though, is that, no matter how used to him you are, he'll always manage to somehow catch you off guard. Especially when he comes and suggests for you to do things you would could never imagine yourself doing. But of course, it's Dabi. You couldn't possibly say no to him.

That's how you find yourself settled in his lap, his fingertips running along the plush skin of your thighs make your entire body shiver, his chin rested on your shoulder, and his cock buried so deeply inside you that the barest of moves makes your gut twist.

You were initially suspicious when he suggested —almost demanded— you wear a skirt for movie night. Granted, calling it that is a bit of a stretch. Yes, a movie is playing, but everyone in the league is drunk out of their asses to pay any mind to it. That, at least, is one of the reasons he managed to convince you to go along. No one will notice, he had said.

As soon as you both entered the room, he pulled you to the far end side of it, plopping into the couch and pulling you into his lap as someone started the movie. Of course, due to the season, everyone agreed on playing horror one. Just your luck.

You try to focus on it, you really do. But when a particular jumpscare manages its purpose on you, you start in your place, and the movement makes Dabi's body react almost immediately; his hips slightly thrust up.

He chuckles, his hot breath hitting the back of your neck making goosebumps arise all over your body.

"What's the matter, doll?" he murmurs, kneading his fingertips into your flesh.

A whimper manages to escape past your lips and you crane your neck to hide your face in the crook of his to conceal your embarrassment. He tuts, the sound laced with mirth. "Shh... you better make sure to keep it down," he says, shifting his hips once more to rip another moan out of you. Another chuckle makes his chest rumble, and he takes your chin between his fingers to make you look at him. "You don't want everyone in here to know what a needy little slut you are, do you?" After you shake your head, he nudges his chin forward. "Eyes on the screen," he says, then waits until you're facing forward once more.

His fingers continue tracing teasing figures on your exposed skin, sometimes slipping past the hem of your shit, moving up, up, up before stopping; never touching you where you need it most.

You let out an exasperated huff, making the corners of his lips quirk up. His fingers dig into your hips to halt your movements when you try to grind against him, and his hands almost slam you back down on him, another small moan managing to slip past your parted lips.

"So desperate," he mumbles against the back of your neck, his nose tracing a teasing trail that makes you shiver, and your entire body tenses up as you hold your breath. He groans against your skin, his tongue peeking out to taste it. "Stop squeezin' me so tight unless you want me to make a mess of you. I don't care who's watching."

You bite your bottom lip so hard that you think you might draw blood. His chest is flushed right against your back; the warmth of his body seeping through your clothes, his scent invading all your senses and clouding your judgment. You need him so, so bad that your legs start trembling from the effort of holding back.

"Tōya..." you mewl softly in a weak attempt to make him do something.

"Yeah?" he whispers in your ear, his hot breath caressing your skin. Moves his head to kiss your pulse point, nibbling on the skin and licking it. You've just opened your mouth to speak when he gives another teasing thrust, your lips instantly clamping shut to prevent any noises from coming out. "C'mon. What is it? Cat got your tongue?"

His hand sneaks under your skirt once more. You yelp when he pinches the top of your thigh, his hand moving inward to brush against you. "Look at you. Soakin' wet and I've barely even touched you."

"Please..." you whisper, your hips shifting on top of him when he uses a single finger to tease your aching bundle of nerves, his amusement growing when he notices how you clench your jaw; the way your brows pinch together and your face scrunches up. The way tears well up in your eyes after almost half an hour of his teasing, feeling so full of him yet feeling no satisfaction at all.

"Please, what?" he snickers. "Use your words, doll."

You're just about to do exactly that when Dabi yanks his hand out and adopts a nonchalant posture. You grit your teeth and are about to complain when a drunken man you don't recognize stumbles forward, catching himself on the arm of the couch before he can hit the floor. You don't have to look too closely to know just how intoxicated the man is; just the smell alone makes you scrunch up your nose, and he's not even standing that close.

"What do you want?" Dabi drawls, discreetly pulling the hem of your skirt down to cover as much of your body as possible.

"Wha's the matter wiph her?" the man manages to say, pointing a finger at you. "You cryin'?"

"Ah, she's all right," Dabi says with a lopsided smirk. "Aren't you, sweetheart?" As he says this, his arms curl around your hips and pull you flush against him, readjusting his position, his hips grinding against yours when he does.

You've managed to to merge your moan with a groan and hide your face behind your hands.

"Sure," you blurt out, your voice muffled behind your palms.

"She's just a crybaby," Dabi has the nerve to add, patting your leg. "Not a fan of horror movies."

"Ah, well. I see," the man says, nodding as he staggers away. "They ain't tha' scary! They ain't real! Jus' actors 'n stuff," he mumbles as he makes his way through the crowd.

"Dick," you hiss at your boyfriend.

He smiles, his body relaxing against the cushions of the couch.

"Isn't that what you want?" he retorts.

You grumble something under your breath (definitely a bunch of insults, all directed at him), and he snorts.

"Right then," he starts, his hand going under your clothes and finally touching you where you need him most. "How about I take care of you properly now?"

[sleevebuscemii]

the thing about silver and stories and silver’s story is that before s3 before he loses his leg before he becomes quartermaster before he becomes long john silver. well. i think the reason silver’s story works against him in the end and by his own hand and his own self is that it’s not really his. the choices he makes in the end are born out of a belief in a reality that doesn’t exist, that what he wants is a quiet life with madi, that madi wants that, that flint is a threat, that flint doesn’t care for madi, that flint doesn’t care for him, and it comes almost from a belief of his own lie. of the fabricated version of himself after the events of the s2 finale, the version of himself that is long john silver and that is a pirate and is a walrus crewman and a revolutionary, which was all a narrative that was bred for him by circumstances, not out of his own choosing. i think a lot about the look he gives flint when flint tells him the crew named him quartermaster. the hate and the disdain and the doom because he knows he wasnt chosen as quartermaster because of his own scheming but because of the circumstances of what happened. not because the crew didn’t actually care and want him to be quartermaster but he didn’t win them over with the charm and wit of his manipulation it’s largely because of the sacrifice they believe he’s made for them. and that wasn’t a sacrifice he chose to make. his new role isn’t a victory he’s carved for himself it’s a position he’s caged into, just like billy’s creation of long john silver. silver assumes the role but gets lost in it because it’s not of his own making and that undoes him in the end. for someone who’s identity is created spontaneously based on the situation at hand, i think the one grasp on identity that silver ever had was that at least whatever identity he would create it was His creation. which isn’t the same thing as Having an identity but he loses his identity definitively when he loses that small power. and so much of it is the disability. in the same way that flint’s conflict with identity is between who he is and who people think he is based on his queerness, based on his ‘monstrosity’, silver’s identity narrows when he loses his leg, and narrows his power of being able to become anyone from anywhere doing anything, so he adopts the identities he’s assigned because he has to, because the options for identities he’d chose for himself are limited anyway, would probably be along these lines anyway. and in the end. in the end there’s nothing anyone could do about it because there’s no real silver. flint and madi couldn’t realize or recognize or argue that this version of silver isn’t real because neither one of them knows who the real silver is! madi certainly doesn’t because she doesn’t even know who silver was before s3 and flint doesn’t because silver never tells him. it’s so much of the painful resignation that comes up in their final confrontation and why silver’s backstory, specifically lack of, comes into priority at the 11th hour. flint can’t convince silver that this isn’t what he wants because there’s nothing to reference, he has nothing to bargain with, not the cause not madi not even their friendship. in the same way that miranda worried she’d be unable to recognize who she is now and flint tells her he recognizes her. in the same way that miranda tells him she recognizes him. there’s no one to recognize silver and there is no silver to recognize.

[arty-platypi]

a couple of doodles for my Roz x Vontra fic and cover ideas for said fic. i chose to use the texture of the brush to help with the "shading" in the mini illustrations but now that i'm seeing it here on tumblr the image quality brings it down lole. Haven't been drawing them too much but it's just because I keep writing for them, ha...

[mike-wachowski]

“Okay.” Sam takes a deep breath, in and out, and Lena can see the cloud of frost forming around her exhale. The sub-thermal temperature of the freezer is already thawing what was left of Lena’s growing hot rage. “Spill. Why are you acting like a dick?” 

Lena huffs. “I’m certainly not acting like a dick. Jess made a mistake. It’s within my duties as the head chef to make sure everything is perfect—”

Sam raises a hand and immediately silences her. “Lena. I’m not your brother. I don’t want you to be perfect. I don’t need you to be our boss right now. I need you to be our friend.” Sam pulls out an empty apple crate from the bottom shelf and plants herself down on it. “Now tell me what’s wrong. Please.” 

Lena slumps to the floor. She sighs, watching the small puff of ice that gathers around her breath, and buries her head in her hands. 

She whispers, “Kara and I kissed.”

“What?” Sam leans in. “Lena, you gotta speak up, the fan is on-”

“Kara and I kissed!” Lena shoots her head up, making eye contact with Sam. “Kara and I kissed, and… we haven't talked about it or anything, and we haven’t done it since, but I— I made her pizza, and my brother called, and I was so upset, and I kissed her, and I can’t stop thinking about it.” 

the final chapter of you can tell a whole story with a taste is now live (and its 16k!)

you can read it from the start here.

[searenbound]

I feel like being friends with Bakugou and stealing/wearing his clothes is a quick way to no longer be friends because his possessive ass will immediately jump from ‘they look good in my clothes’ to ‘mine’ and that’s how you end up in his bed in only his sweatshirt and legs draped over his shoulders

[nomadicism]

Castlevania and Blood of Zeus sexy-walked so that Twilight of the Gods could horny-run.

[infamous-if]

Spicy Snippet #3: M!Seven

VICTORIA - ORION - F!SEVEN

The high you feel hearing the crowd after a performance is one that can’t be replicated. Not even the strongest drugs can make you feel this…alive. Nothing else in the world can make you feel this alive. 

Aside from Seven, of course. 

But if the danger of the drug is measured by how strong the addiction is, you fear Seven Lawless is definitely the worst. 

Or best, depending on how you look at it.

That thought runs through your mind now when Seven takes your hand and motions to the bathroom. Your friends are too busy riding that post-performance high by dancing together, and you look away from them to give Seven a nod.

The sly, evil smile that rises on his face makes a shiver run down your spine, and you allow him to pull you through the crowd. 

When you two reach the bathroom, Seven looks under each stall as you throw cold water on your face. You’re panting, sweaty, and your skin still burns with heat from the performance. When Seven is satisfied that you two are alone, he turns to look at you through the mirror. The secret smile on his face makes your skin burn hotter, and you’re certain that performing on stage to a stadium of people won’t ever hold a candle to how he makes you feel with one look.

He keeps his eyes trained on yours when he walks over to you, stopping to stand behind you. A lump forms in your throat, and a swell of excitement and nervousness rises in the pit of your stomach when he puts his hands on the sink, looking away from the mirror to tilt his head at you, gazing at your face. 

“Hi.” 

You manage a smile when you drag your eyes away from the mirror to turn your cheek, meeting his eyes. “Hey.” 

His humor fades away once his eyes settle on your mouth and you subconsciously lick your lips. Doing the same to his own, he appears debate something for a brief moment. Then, with heated eyes, he leans forward and presses his mouth to yours. 

The action is cautious, delicate, which is funny considering Seven was just head banging on stage minutes ago. You can taste the strawberry chapstick on his mouth, and the heat of his tongue against yours makes your legs feel like goo. Kissing Seven is still something completely new to you. 

After being best friends for years, you thought you knew all there was to know about Seven. It’s only recently that you discovered there’s a version of him you were completely in the dark about. Like how he kisses. How, sometimes, you look at him while you two are singing on stage and feel like he’s undressing you with his eyes. Or how he makes a certain sound in your mouth when you kiss him just right. A sound only you can pull out of him. 

When he pulls away, it’s too soon. He smiles at you. “You did really well on stage tonight.” 

“Is that why you brought me to the bathroom?” you say with a smile of your own. “To compliment me?”

“Maybe.” Your nose brushes his when he moves his head to kiss you again, chaste and brief. You ache for more. “Are you disappointed? Is it not enough?”

“Not nearly,” you admit, the words leaving you in a sigh. 

His eyes glitter with happiness and he chews on his lower lip in thought before saying, “I like when you want me. For a long time, I wasn't sure if you did. Well...I hoped you did."

You hate how easily saying things like that come to him. “So do I.” 

“Well, I want you all the time so that’s not really anything special…” 

You sputter out a laugh, looking around the bathroom. Like most club bathrooms, it sits in disrepair from lack of maintenance. It’s dirty, and hardly romantic. When you look back at Seven, he’s looking at you with half a grin, already knowing what you’re going to say next. “Even now?”

“Especially now.” He looks at you. “Sweaty from performing and we’re alone…”

You snort and Seven smiles before he leans in again. All pretenses flee, and your skin grows hot when you turn fully to face him. He presses his body against yours, pushing you against the sink. 

You deepen the kiss, your hand going to his neck, pulling him closer. Seven’s chest vibrates against yours when he groans, his palm reaching under your shirt to swipe across your stomach, the heat of his skin against yours making your desire shoot up until you feel yourself reaching between you two, your fingers toying with the zipper of his pants. Feeling exactly just how much he wants you.

Seven pulls away, putting his hand on yours, stopping you. When you look at him, he shoots a pointed look at the door. Understanding, you smile and push yourself off the sink, grabbing his hand. It’s your turn to lead him and you do so to one of the empty stalls. 

The moment you lock it, Seven is on you. He pushes you against the door of the stall. He stifles your gasp with another kiss, this one hurried and urgent as if time is running out. 

When he pulls away to kiss your neck, you bring a hand to his hair to guide him. The strands are soft between your fingers, and Seven smiles against your skin. And then, between kisses, he says, “When do you think we’re going to tell the band about this?”

“Never,” is your immediate reply, and his kiss melts into a bite that makes you stifle a moan. You drop your hand from his hair to the waistband of his pants, forcing it down his hips. “They’d never let us live it down.” 

You and Seven have been hiding away for the past few weeks. You don’t remember the exact reason why you two agreed not to tell anyone, but it had something to do with “not ruining the delicate ecosystem of the dynamic” whatever that means.

“Do you think they already know?” he manages, the words coming out strangled when you hook a finger over the band of his boxers, pulling them down. "They must have an idea." Seven swallows when he follows your gaze to the space between you two.

“Don’t know,” you say, kissing him again. He bites your lower lip in playful warning and you pull away to spit on your hand. “And right now, don’t care.”

“Eventually we’re going to have to tell the—oh.” You know exactly how to shut him up. Your hand wraps around him and he jerks his hips forward, unable to stop the moans from leaving your lips. 

You kiss him again, and he puts two hands on your cheeks. You've barely settled into the rhythm he likes most when the bathrooms swing open, and Seven’s eyes widen. Sensing another groan from him, you put your hand on his mouth and his brows furrow together in panic. Then you quicken your pace and his drops his head against the door, his face melting back into that expression of carnal pleasure you like to see so much. Seven completely forgets what he was worried about. 

“…you think we’ll be able to come back next week?” You almost choke the moment the voice rises in the air, and your hand falters. Seven makes a frustrated sound in his throat and he puts a hand on your arm, urging you to continue. 

“You heard that?” Iris asks. 

You look at Seven with wide eyes, and his brows furrow in faux innocence. “Mfhfnmf?” he mutters against the skin of your palm. You want to scream in frustration—at Devyn. At Iris. At their impeccable timing. 

You hear the doors of the stalls slamming open and Seven shoots you a look. Ah. Shit. The last thing you need is for your friends to find out you and Seven are…whatever you are right now. 

You step back and Seven fumbles for his pants, grumbling in disappointment as he buttons it closed. You look around, uncertain at first, before you step on the toilet so only one pair of feet are seen in the stall. Seven spins around in confusion, not knowing what to do with his hands and...with himself, and you point at the door so he understands. 

“I swear I heard that,” Iris says. “What if someone is dying or something?”

“It’s…me,” Seven calls out. His voice is thick with desire, still hoarse from what you two just finished doing.

Well, finished isn’t exactly the word. 

“Seven?” Iris ventures. “You alright?”

“Yeah, just felt sick,” he responds, looking back with a shrug. The heat in the pit of your stomach hasn’t gone away, and when he looks at you, it takes everything in you not to tell Iris and Devyn to fuck off somewhere. 

“You need a hand?” Devyn asks.

"A hand?" You hear Seven snicker, and you want to kick him. Though you can't stop your own smile. "Nuh-huh. I'm not throwing up or anything." Seven puts a cheek on the door, then his hands. He looks like he’s getting irritated. You understand—you want them gone.“I’m alright. I’ll meet you guys back outside.” 

Your legs are starting to hurt, you shift in order to give your muscles relief, but the toilet seat moves with you, making you slip. 

You scream, because what else is there to do when you're slipping face first off a toilet seat?

“Wha—” Seven barely has time to spin and catch you before you’re crashing into him, making his head clatter against the door. The sound echoes against the bathroom, and your friends are gasping.

"Ow..." Seven groans.

“Seven?!” A moment later you see Iris peeking out from under the stall, her eyes widening. “[MC]?”

“Heyyyy,” you drawl out casually, your body slumped over on Seven’s as he uses his arm to hold you up. He uses the other one to open the door, and it swings open pathetically until Devyn and Iris are looking at you with twin expressions of surprise. 

“Hey.” Seven nods his head in greeting, smiling awkwardly. He puts his hands together to lock his fingers behind your back, holding you to his chest.

Devyn glances at the both of you, lips parted. “What the fuck are you guys doing?”

“I…uh.” He swallows. “Thought I had a bowel problem. [MC] was just helping me in making sure nothing wrong’s down there.” He forces out a laugh. "All good."

You look at him, wanting to beam your disappointment into his brain. Really? That’s all you could come up with? 

“Ugh.” Iris waves a dismissive hand, walking away. “You two are so fucking weird sometimes. Go to the doctor! It's not normal to be that close!"

"You have no idea how close we are," Seven mumbles, and you nudge his rib. He coughs, and then smiles again.

Devyn stands there, not so easily convinced, but then she follows Iris out anyway. Not without shooting you two a look. 

When they’re gone, you two glance at each other. "I think it's time we tell them." You detangle yourself from him, adjusting your clothes.

Seven lets out a laugh, letting his head fall back against the stall wall.

“You think?” 

[kinardgo]

bucktommy / tevan prompt: drive, car/vehicle, hands

i literally cannot see the words "bucktommy" and "hands" and not instantly get weird about it so uh. sorry. if you're not into short, kinda horny oneshots. thank you for the prompt!!! <33

bucktommy / rated m / mild and implied sexual content / prompts open

-

Buck never gets out of the city, these days.

That's an over simplification, of course. Sometimes he does. Calls out of the city. Assists out of county. But it's been a long, long time since he made it out of LA for anything fun. And, this? This is fun.

The early evening has made a painting out of the North California landscape, streaming past them like so many brushstrokes. A sky in pink and lilac, trees tops in black shadow. Tommy, pretty as a picture, pretty as he always is with his hands on the wheel and his eyes forward.

Jesus, Buck has never wanted anyone so much in his life.

"You're staring."

"You're gorgeous."

Tommy huffs, but doesn't tear his eyes away from the road.

"You know I could watch you do this for hours."

"You have been watching me do this for hours," Tommy reminds him, mouth a sly smile, "Except for that powernap you took after lunch."

"You want me to take the wheel for a bit, babe?"

The same smile that always crossses Tommy's expression when Buck callshim babe appears. It's a soft little thing, but it's one of his favourite things in the world.

"Nah, there's only an hour left. Besides, I wouldn't want to deny you your favourite spectator sport."

It's true, it is. Maybe not in the way that Tommy thinks, maybe Tommy doesn't get it at all, actually. Buck likes to watch him. Watch him drive, watch him cook, watch him shave. Watch him nap on the couch after along shift, watch him comb his hair back before one. The confidence in his walk, the set of his shoulders, the surety of his hands.

His hands.

The same hands that are on the wheel that have pulled people out of burning buildings have washed Buck's hair in the shower. They've piloted helicopters, and cooked dinner for the two of them. They've patched up burns and lacerations and concussions in the field, and touched Buck the way no one else has ever quite managed.

Tommy flexes his hands, palms sure on the wheel.

Something stirs in Buck, a sense memory tucked into the joints of his wrists, the swirl of his fingerprints.

Buck stretches out in the passenger seat, a pleasant warmth settling at the base of his spine, a tingling in his gut, his fingertips, his legs.

There's a little sweat gathered in the fabric at Tommy's collar, where it's trickled down his neck. There's a drop of it tracing a faint red mark there, just under his hairline. Too faded to show any trace of what caused it, but Buck knows it was his teeth.

Buck runs a hand up his thigh absently.

"Evan," Tommy says warningly, but there's a touch of amusement in his tone, too.

"What?" he says innocently.

"You know what."

"Nope," he grins, "You look good."

"You look like a distraction."

"You can handle it."

"If I crash this car, and someone phones 911, you do realise neither one of us is ever going to live it down, right?"

He knows. He can practically see Chimney laughing his ass off already, hear Hen cackling. They gave him enough shit when a photo of Tommy appeared in his locker, a perfectly innocent picture of his boyfriend passed out cold on the couch in Buck's apartment, Jee-Yun beaming wildly into the camera after a day at a waterpark. Tommy's not wearing a shirt, because it got wet chasing Jee through a splash field. It's in Buck's locker because it's a great picture. No correlation.

"You flew a helicopter into a hurricane, I think you can manage the I5."

"You didn't have a hard on in the helicopter."

"That's what you think," Buck grins. He does now, easy and eager to go, like he's eighteen again, dick on a hairpin trigger.

"You didn't get enough this morning?" Tommy asks wryly.

This morning was slow and easy, still under the covers with the early morning light coming down on them like a blessing. Tommy's mouth on his stomach and his fingers inside of him, pulling an orgasm out of him like pulling on a loose thread - unravelling Buck into an incoherent mess.

"That was like eight hours ago-"

"It was maybe five, at an absolute push-"

"-and you just look so good sat there-"

"-I'm not doing anything!"

"-and I want you," Buck says, chest going warm at the way Tommy's mouth snaps shut and a blush starts spreading across his cheeks, "the way I always want you because you always look this good."

"We're gonna crash on the I5 and there's gonna be a pile up, and they're gonna check traffic cam footage and see that it's because I swerved into oncoming traffic, and when they ask me what happened, I'm gonna have to say it's because-"

"We're not going to crash, Tommy," Buck laughs.

"-because my boyfriend is insatiably horny," he interupts, louder, before glancing over at him. His eyes drop down to where Buck is rubbing himself through his sweats and he groans, a deep rumbling thing in his chest that makes Buck jerk helplessly in the seat, "and because he looks so good right now."

The satnav on the dash says there's still ninety minutes until they reach their destination, which is damn near an eternity. The thought of being confined in this car with Tommy, in a nice fitting t-shirt and shorts that have ridden up to expose a slither of inner thigh, for more than an hour feels impossible. Buck grinds into the heel of his palm, images of them pulled over at the side of the road, pressed together in the backseat of Tommy's old muscle car, or Buck bent over the hood, or leaning against the driver's side door with Tommy on his knees in front of him- They bomboard his imagination like firecrackers, every one of them vivid and alive like memories rather than fantasies.

Tommy's hand shoots out like a gunshot from the wheel to clasp his wrist.

He didn't realise how close he was to coming until his hand stopped moving.

"Jesus, Evan-" Tommy breaths out, his fingers like a vice, chest heaving, "You're trying to kill me."

"Whatta way to go though, huh?" Buck slurs. His hips are still twitching, even as he steps back from the precipice of orgasm. Everything is still so close, so hot, so intense. Tommy's jaw is so tight the muscle is jumping under the skin, but he lets go of Buck's wrist to lace their fingers together instead.

It's probably not the placating gesture Tommy wants it to be, not now that Buck's so worked up, not when it's Tommy's hands that have him writhing in the passenger seat of this car, Tommy's everything, really.

"Evan."

"What?"

"Quit it," he says firmly.

Buck grins, "Or what?"

"Or," Tommy says easily, "Every time I catch you, I'm adding an hour onto how long I'm making you wait when we get to the hotel."

That definitely doesn't have the desire affect, or it does. Buck can't tell over the wildfire that courses through him, caught between the desire to chase relief as soon as possible, and drag whatever game they've stumbled onto here out for as long as he can. Whatever shows on his face makes Tommy laugh, pull his hand back and put it back on the wheel.

-

(They make it to the hotel by the skin of their teeth, check in like a pair of maniacs on the run from the cops, then Tommy shows him just how serious he was about that three hour penalty by strapping his arms to the bed with his belt.)

-

(He only makes it two and a half.)

[puppetbomb]

An extremely abbreviated synopsis of From Treasure Trove by Peppermeadow

[lamahnel]

Eighteen-Hundred (and Counting) Anna Croft's Bathing in the River Lethe

You are the sum of your experiences, and now they are all returned to the world. Baptism, dissolution - so you finally open your mouth and drink. So you finally open your mouth and choke down salted defeat. This future is not yours to want. Thousands of lives slough off and are swept away in the current; the death of the woman who lived besides Yoo Joonghyuk until the end of all things. It's the prophet in you but it's also the friend you know dearly. Soon, you think. He too will choose as you do now.

2023

[literatooru]

𝐝𝐫𝐮𝐧𝐤 𝐨𝐧 𝐲𝐨𝐮

pairing: f!reader x oikawa tōru

warnings: 18+ (NSFW) (MDNI) fingering (f!receiving), oral (f!receiving), unprotected sex, squirting, kind of under the influence of alcohol ig? but, like, not really (more sober than drunk), overstim

You both stumble into the apartment, giggling like children excited about sharing a secret only the two of you know. Oikawa’s lips are on yours as soon as you step inside, not even bothering to lock the door as he presses you against the wooden surface. His kiss is insistent as he traces your lips with his tongue to require access, which you gladly grant him. He moans mid-kiss, shrugging his jacket off and unbuttoning your blouse with fumbling fingers. He seems to be having a bit of trouble with the few last ones.

“Ah, screw it,” he says, ripping the garment open, the buttons flying in every direction.

“Tōru!” you huff, tossing the useless fabric to the side.

“I’ll buy you another one,” he says, attacking your collarbone with hungry lips.

You tangle your fingers in his hair, tugging lightly to get a soft moan out of him, and you gasp when he gives a harsh suck on your skin.

“You always say that, but you keep breaking them.”

He snorts against your neck, pulling back to look at you with bright eyes. His cheeks are tinged a soft shade of pink, his hair is all over the place and there’s a big, simpering grin on his lips. He’s definitely tipsy, although not one hundred percent drunk. Let’s say he’s simply in a happy, bubbly mood — and you are too, which is why you can’t help but laugh at the silly expression on his face.

“Sorry,” he says with a chuckle, pulling you back in for another messy kiss and whispering against your lips, “I’m just a little desperate. Always am when it comes to you.”

It’s true, but that’s how it’s always been. He can never wait to kiss you, have his hands on you, hold you. He loves being with you, and discovering new thing about you — he loves you. Don’t ever tell him to hold back, because that’s just something impossible for him when you’re involved.

You curl your arms around his neck and chuckle when he starts walking, pulling you along toward the kitchen, since it’s the closest place with a firm surface. You both let out silly laughs, discarding pieces of clothing along the way. You laugh especially hard when Oikawa almost trips trying to get rid of his jeans, letting out a soft curse and a sheepish chuckle.

He hoists you up to sit you on the countertop, unclasping your bra and diving his head to wrap his eager mouth around one of your pebbled nipples. You arch your back and hold the back of his head to press him even closer to you, moaning. Then, you give a surprised yelp when he gives a way too enthusiastic nip.

“Someone’s excited,” you say, pushing his head back.

“Sorry,” he repeats with a soft giggle, biting his lip as his hand glides down your body until it finds its way between your legs. Your lips part open with a soft gasp when he draws teasing circles with the tips of his fingers over your underwear, and you curl your fingers around the border of the countertop. “Fuck, you’re so gorgeous,” he breathes out, placing his free hand on the nape of your neck to bring your face closer to his.

The kiss grows heated with each passing second, and the movements of his fingers become faster and more precise. He pays close attention to the soft moans you let out against his mouth, the noises making blood rush straight to his cock. He hooks his thumb to pull your panties aside. It's easy for him to push two fingers past your entrance what with how wet you are for him, eager and ready, and he starts working you slowly, his fingers curling in a come hither motion deep inside you. You press your balled up fists against his chest, hiding your face in the crook of his neck, soft mewls and gasps falling off your lips as you buck your hips against his hand.

“Tōru…”

“Feels good, cutie?” he whispers, using the heel of his palm to stimulate your clit.

You only manage to nod, scattering open-mouthed kisses on his chest, biting gently on the his smooth skin every now and then. He pumps his fingers in and out of you slowly, cursing when he feels you clenching around his digits, and the only thing he can think about is how much he wants to be balls deep inside you, filling you up to the brim. He’s torn between finally giving in and teasing you just a tad longer, but he’d much rather focus on you, so he tugs on your panties to get them out of the way.

With a sufficient grin on his face, he drops down on his knees and parts your legs open with gentle hands, licking his lips hungrily, eyes never wavering from your glistening folds. He watches in awe how you clench around thin air when he moves his face closer and blows lightly on you, chuckling when he notices your knuckles have turned white around the countertop.

“There’s my pretty girl,” he murmurs, running a teasing finger between your folds. You whimper, hips bucking up on instinct, chasing his finger when he withdraws it. He licks his lips once more as though he’s just been presented with the most delicious dish on earth, and in a second his mouth is on you. He laps at your arousal, gathering your slick on his tongue and swirling it around the area to savor it, humming in delight with his face buried between your legs. He groans even louder when you pull on his hair, rolling your hips against his face as the most sinful sounds leave your lips. “Fuck, taste so good. My sweet, sweet girl.”

“Tōru, I want you,” you breathe out, panting heavily.

He smirks against you, holding your thighs in place.

“Mm, let me have my fun first, won’t you?” he says, looking up at you from between your legs just as he lashes his tongue against your clit.

He loves seeing how your brows scrunch up when wraps his lips around your nub and sucks, how you arch your back and your mouth falls open to let out the most delicious sounds when he licks a long strip along your pussy, from the bottom to the top, slowly making out with it afterward, his nose bumping against your bundle of nerves with each lick. Your legs tremble as you squeeze his head between them, and you curse loudly when he pushes his tongue past your entrance, his low groan reverberating against your skin.

“Shit— Tōru! Feels so good… so good,” you babble, clapping a hand over your mouth to stop yourself from being to loud, but he’s not having any of that. He brushes his glossy lips against you, shooting you a disapproving look. “Please,” you beg, your voice muffled behind your hand.

He reaches out to grab your arm and pulls it down, placing your hand on top of his head instead, encouraging you to bury it in his hair and pull as hard as you wish.

“You’re not cumming unless I can hear you,” he says, happily moving his lips against you once more. He smiles when your fingers curl around his thick, dark brown locks, and you pull so hard that it’s just a little bit painful, but he enjoys it nonetheless.

Your moans only get louder and louder with each stroke of his tongue, and you squirm under his grasp when he adds his fingers. You’re a babbling mess, whimpering and mewling obscenely, struggling to keep it together — which is something you can’t do when Tōru Oikawa is between your legs.

He doesn’t stop until you’re crying out his name, eyes squeezed shut as your first orgasm hits you with the force of a train, his name on your breath like a prayer. You struggle to catch your breath, but he doesn’t give you enough time to do it, already getting to his feet, his underwear dropping to pool around his ankles.

He’s throbbing with desire and need, painfully hard, his cockhead oozing thick drops of pre-cum that slide down his tip. He doesn’t waste a second to align himself with your entrance, pushing the tip in before slowly sinking into you inch by inch. He watches as you suck him right in, your spasming walls clamping down on him viciously, and he curses loudly and digs his fingers into your thighs, desperate for something to hold on to. Your sweet moan is swallowed down his throat, he’s trying to stifle his own desperate groans against your lips, although his attempt proves futile. There’s just something about being inside you that always seems to awaken something in him. He goes feral, can’t hold back when your warm, tight walls are wrapped around him.

Oikawa’s quick to set a pace that has you trembling in his arms, and a series of animalistic groans and moans spill from his lips. He whispers so many things in your ear, how good you feel, how well you take him, how he can feel you squeezing every single inch of him. His eyes are impossibly dark, lips are swollen and a dark shade of pink as he buries his face in the crook of your neck, peppering your soft flesh with gentle kisses that are a big contrast to his thrusts. He’s going fast, hard, and deep, each snap of his hips echoing in the silent kitchen, which is only filled with the sounds of your skins slapping against each other's and the wet squelching of your pussy sucking him in. Your gasps and moans sound so damn erotic to him, and his hips stutter when you clamp down on him.

He holds your waist with firm hands, pulling you toward him until you’re sitting right on the edge of the countertop as he plunges into you. He lets out soft growls and breathes out your name. Oikawa pulls back slightly to take a good look at you, and finds himself breathless. There you are, head lolled back, closed eyes and parted lips. Despite the place being consumed by darkness, he has a clear view of you, the soft shine of the moonlight washing your face and reflecting in your eyes when you open them to give him the most besotted look, and his heart swells in his chest. His pace slows down a little, rolling his hips in a way that reminds you of waves washing up against the shore at the beach.

He strokes your cheek with his knuckles, cupping it afterward and pressing his lips against your forehead. He then lowers his head to meet your lips in a much softer, gentler, velvety kiss that leaves you breathless, and he holds you as close to him as humanly possible, almost like he wants to fuse with you. His hands are warm on your skin, and they make you feel safe, something that only he could ever manage.

“You’re so fucking addictive… like a damn drug,” he groans, dipping his head to shower your chest with light kisses. “I just can’t get enough of you— fuck.” You wrap your legs tightly around his waist, moaning and holding onto him for dear life. It’s astounding how good he can make you feel, and your body shows it. “You feel so good, squeezing me so tight— ngh,” you clench around him once again, and his fingers flex into your skin, his lips pressed against your shoulder as you tug on his damp hair. “You like it when I talk to you? You like it when I tell you how good your cute little pussy feels around my cock?” he asks, a teasing note in his voice that quickly evaporates when you clamp down on him even harder than before. “Oh, you do. You fucking love it, don’t you, sweetheart?”

“Tōru,” you gasp, clawing at his back. “You’re so deep!”

“Ah, fuck.” His moan comes out a little more high-pitched, and he whimpers softly, pressing his lips to the crown of your head, holding your head against him. “S-ay my name again.”

And you do, and he simply loses himself in you. He feels drunk, absolutely plastered, but not because of the alcohol he had been drinking — but because of you. Your scent invades all of his senses, and his mind grows cloudy because all he can see, hear, taste, and feel is you. And he wouldn’t have it any other way.

“Tōru… Tōru I’m gonna cum, I’m gonna—”

“Go ahead baby, I gotcha. Want you to cream all over my cock.”

“T-touch me… please, ah—”

He snakes a hand between your bodies, deft fingers finding your small bundle of nerves. He uses his fingers to rub on it, your jaw dropping in a silent scream as he touches you.

“Right here? Feels good?”

“God, yes! Yes, yes— fuck!” You scream out his name —among other incoherent things that he doesn’t quite catch, although he gets the general idea—, and your vision becomes blurry with unshed tears of overstimulation, but his fingers never stop. “I’m cumming… Tōru, I’m cumming, I’m—!”

You don’t get to finish your sentence, because suddenly clear liquid is gushing out of you and showering his abdomen, and you cry out in ecstasy as wave after wave of pleasure washes over you. Oikawa lets out and embarrassingly loud, wanton whimper that makes your stomach twist, the sound extremely lewd coming from his lips.

“Holy fuck, did I make you feel that good, pretty girl? Squirting all over my cock like that, shit.” His hips stutter for a moment, his heavy breathing hitting your shoulder when he dips his head, eyes slightly shut. “I’m so close… s’close. Wanna fill you up with my cum.”

“Please, please,” you gasp, riding out your orgasm with slow rolls of your hips, and you shiver in delight.

It’s the simple sight of you that drives him over the edge — a sight he wants to imprint in his eyelids forever. Oikawa dissolves into pleasure, a scalding sensation pooling low in his abdomen as mouth falls open, and he presses it against your shoulder to stifle his obscene whines, his abdomen spasming with each hot rope of cum he spurts out deep inside you, thrusting slowly until you’ve milked every last drop he has to offer, and soft breaths of your name escape his lips like a broken record.

He stays still for a second, enjoying the way you trail your fingers along his glistening back, drawing imaginary shapes on his skin. He kisses your neck and shoulder before pulling out, letting out a soft hiss as his softening cock slides out of you. It takes him a good minute to catch his breath.

He looks up, a drunken smile on his lips, though he’s all sobered up now. You’re just so intoxicating, he could spend every single second of the rest of his days with you, and it still wouldn’t be enough.