#should i write a full fic on this?

[sluttyminghao]

just spitballing some ideas here... thanks @beomcoups for spurring my imagination

okay but...

reader kneeling in front of mingyu and seungcheol, mouth open and awaiting their cocks. they're smirking from above you, twitching in excitement at the prospect of you taking both of their cocks in your mouth at the same time.

your naked body only turns them on even more, how the curves perfectly accentuate all your features. it doesn't take them long to slide their cocks into your mouth, the tightness and wetness enveloping their tips and making them both cum almost instantly.

[ochiody]

in which during odysseus' absence, diomedes is the only man allowed inside penelope's bedroom. though he helps her at the loom, he refuses to desecrate the bed and what it represents; the most he can do when she cries is to kneel beside it to comfort her.

^badly paraphrased off of @shouldertheskies so sorry

[benevolenterrancy]

hi!! I think your art is *so cool* o(≧∇≦o)

do you think you could draw more moshang? either post canon or that au you did last time?? (baby mobei has my heart and all I own)

(˵ •̀ ᴗ •́ ˵ ) oh! how about return to childhood—moshang flavor?

don't question this king, shang qinghua, he knows what he's about

[brainzzzeater]

Happy Halloween spideypool nation‼️

Halloween version of this post since booping is back

[rosalie-starfall]

Agatha All Along

If I Can't Reach You / Let My Song Teach You

[kinardscake]

Chimney discovers a recipe for making Buck do whatever he wants him to do. Only 3 ingredients are needed: a daughter, a pilot and a toy.

He discovers it by accident when Buck and Tommy come over for dinner one day. And it’s a special “I need something and only you can help me” kind of dinner. So they go all out making Buck’s favorite foods hoping that he’d agree to babysit Jee-Yun for a few days while they go away on a shortest, tiniest vacation.

The dinner is over and it’s now or never. Chimney asks Jee-Yun to show Tommy her new toy helicopter while ‘Mommy and Daddy talk to uncle Buck’.

They start off by saying how much Jee-Yun loves him and how great it would be for her to spend so much time with her favorite uncle. And Buck just says “yes”, no hesitation, no questions, not needing them to convince him. That’s when Chimney realizes that Buck didn’t even look at them once, his eyes were fixed on his boyfriend playing with his niece the entire time.

A theory starts forming in his head, because Buck agreed way too easily. Of course, it could be because Buck loves Jee-Yun and his daughter is an angel (most of the time anyway), but his heart tells him it’s not it.

So, Chimney sets out to prove his newfound theory.

At Bobby and Athena’s house he ask Jee-Yun to go up to uncle Buck and Tommy and ask Tommy to give her a piggyback ride. Meanwhile Chimney asks Buck to take over his firehouse quarters’ cleaning duties next shift. Buck agrees.

At the Wilsons’ house Buck agrees to loan Chimney his precious car for a week.

At his house Buck agrees to name his firstborn child Howard.

At the firehouse team and family party Chimney and Maddie once again find themselves asking Buck to babysit Jee-Yun for a couple of days. Buck agrees, looking at them this time, a dreamy look in his eyes. He says he and Tommy love having her around. And they could use the practice.

Maddie jumps up in her seat and asks Buck if he’s thinking about starting a family with Tommy.

Buck shows her his left hand, his ring finger no longer empty. “We already have,” he says, “Asked each other last night.”

Tommy comes over with Jee-Yun on his shoulders, laughing and shrieking “Uncle Tommy” while he tickles her feet.

He sees the stunned expressions on his future in-laws’ faces and Buck twirling his ring, smiling wide.

Tommy laughs, connecting the dots. He sets Jee-Yun down. He grabs Buck’s hand and sits down next to him.

“Maddie and Chim are asking us to babysit Jee-Yun next week,” Buck says happily. “I said sure.”

“Seeing me and her worked like a charm again, huh?” Tommy laughs again while Buck shrugs his shoulders.

Tommy looks at Chimney and Maddie and says, “We’d be happy to,” and adds after a moment, “By the way, Howie. We’re not naming our first child Howard, I’m sorry.”

[piscespetals]

summary: in which sevika becomes your boss at The Last Drop

content: this fic is another multi-chapter work! i hope you enjoy.

content warning for this fic: depiction of sa (this chapter only), blood, slight gore/fight scenes, cursing, sexually explicit content. pretty heavy topics to be honest, it makes a lot of commentary on how it's like to live in Zaun. since this chapter has an sa scene (very lightly detailed scene but still hints to it), if you would like to skip that part, there will be three asterisks (***) that indicate when the scene begins and when it stops so that you can do what's safer for you. sa will not be talked about alot in depth for the rest of the chapters, and i will give a content warning to chapters that hint or reference it.

word count: 3k

thanks for reading!

Part One

When you are first hired at the Last Drop, it only takes 4 hours for Sevika’s name to circulate the building and make its way towards you. 

The first time you spot her, she is brushing through a crowd of drunkards, seemingly not wanting to be approached with an expression as hard as stone. The tall woman, attractive and large as she may be, is intimidating. Her figure, although only in your line of vision for a few seconds, is something made of pure muscle and height. You know that she could easily tower over you if she wanted. 

Despite her quick and fast entrance, it only takes your first day to realize that Sevika isn’t someone that you fuck around with. And based on the way that your coworkers and supervisors tense at the mere mention of her name, it’s obvious that she’s someone important here.

Throughout your first month at the Last Drop, any other appearances of Sevika is no different. Her steel cold stare could freeze anyone to death. You’ve seen her drag people upstairs only for them to never come back down (who knows what she or Silco did with the body?). You’ve seen the way she dominates the deadliest men–how she doesn't let them silence her. 

How she challenges them…

You've also seen the way that your coworkers have gotten their heart broken, hoping to be the one-night-stand turned lover that changes Sevika’s promiscuous ways. And every time, your coworkers end up heartbroken. Gender doesn’t really seem to matter with Sevika. She’s ruthless with everyone. She’s mean.

And, God, you really hate how much you like mean women.

At first, you thought it was amusing to be pining after her. It isn’t surprising, since you've had your fair share of passionate romances (and heartbreaks) with people similar to Sevika. Like a moth drawn to a flame, you can’t seem to stay away from them.

But now it’s been over a month and you can't help but wonder when the crush will dissipate. At this point, it's entirely inconvenient.

You've managed to keep yourself out of the limelight for the majority of your time at the Drop. You’ve found your rhythm by staying in the kitchen, away from the wandering eyes of questionable strangers. Away from Sevika.

But that only lasts for so long.

Amy, your boss, manages to shatter your Switzerland bubble on a Thursday evening at noon. It’s exactly the last thing you want to hear: “I need you to swap schedules with Janessa,” Amy barks.

It isn’t a suggestion or question. It’s a demand. 

Your mouth opens to object, already feeling that familiar pang of agitation within you. But Amy doesn’t hang around long enough to hear. 

“Thanks!” She calls over her shoulder, briskly walking behind the counter and towards the kitchen.

Your teeth grind and your jaw clenches. With balling fists, you stand there for a few more minutes. Trying to simmer down. Trying not to get fired.

You cook. You make new recipes. You may even help the dishwashers every once in a while (especially on nights that are packed). 

But you don’t buss and you don’t wait. That’s Janessa’s ballpark. She’s known as one of the best waiters in town. Her reputation followed her as she hopped in between different restaurants before landing at The Last Drop for good. She’s usually quick, efficient, polite but not too polite (no one ever could be considering the kind of people that this job attracts). 

The idea of Janessa swapping places with you in order to cook an overwhelming amount of food under the pressure of constant verbal abuse? That doesn’t sound right. 

Well, it doesn’t sound like something she would willingly do.

“I tried to help you out,” Max, your coworker, whispers. He clicks his tongue while washing down the countertop of the bar. You forgot that you were holding a conversation with him before Amy interrupted. “I overheard her talking to Nessa about it and offered the swap.” Max blinks through his thick lashes, which are covered with clumps of purple mascara, before he makes eye contact with you. “The bitch told me I wasn't qualified. Can you believe it?”

You snort underneath your breath, nearly choking at the idea of such a conversation happening.

Max—a petite curly-haired himbo with stunning hazel eyes and nails long enough to claw your heart out—most certainly isn't a popular bartender due to his skills. He has charisma, a charming personality and a smile that can make anyone stop in their tracks. He’s willing to listen to anyone that needs a shoulder to cry on (which is almost always every regular that comes here),  and he doesn’t mind sucking up to Amy as long as it means that he has full control of the bar. He’s been employed here long before Amy’s time, which you truly believe is his saving grace.

He knows the history, the neighborhood— the business very well.

But mixing drinks? Not his strong suit.

Seeing him out on the level ground with numerous tables to handle would be comical. A train wreck for sure, but definitely comical.

“Did she say why Nessa was swapping?” Self consciously, you peer at the rest of the pub over your shoulder. Everyone is seemingly out of earshot but it doesn’t hurt to be sure.

Max’s shoulders tense. He stops his scrubbing, right hand still holding onto his soaked disinfecting cloth as he sends you a sidelong glance. “Not my place to tell.”

The hairs stand up on your arms as you register his reply.

The sound of the entrance door opening is what shatters your reverie. Just like that, Max’s shoulders relax. A smile spreads across his face, this time not quite reaching his eyes, as he looks towards the door. “Welcome to The Last Drop!” He says, voice dipping into that flirtatious cadence you know all too well.

That is all he is going to say on the matter. You know Max doesn’t like gossiping about people’s shit. And your coworkers definitely have a lot of messy situations throughout their employment here. He wants no relation to any of it. 

You pick up on the hint, instead swallowing your curiosity and looking at the incoming customer. It’s one of the workers from the brothel across the street. She’s a leggy brunette with towering stilettos and a resting bitch face as cold as stone. She’s just as unapproachable as the last time you saw her. But there’s a spark in her eye when she regards Max. Based on her last few visits, you’ve grown to learn that she’s taking a liking to him.

“Well, that's my cue. I’ll leave you to…do your thing,” You mumble, fighting off a smirk. Max peers at you with a quizzical expression as you gesture vaguely to the bar around you. “Or whatever nonsense you do up here…”

“Hmph,” He rolls his eyes. “Shouldn't you be back there making shepherd's pie or something?”

“You mean working? Something you're not familiar with, I’m sure.”

“With a face card like this? I’m too fabulous to work.” He winks before gesturing towards his face. “A reality you're not familiar with, I’m sure.”

A laugh erupts out of you as you click your tongue. You’re walking towards the kitchen, ready to clock out for the day and finally rest, when you hear the lady of the night approach the bar. You believe her name to be Scarlett, and her voice is a low and silky murmur while she addresses Max.

When you glance over your shoulder, you can't help but notice the way her cleavage spills over her frilly corset top. Her braids are pulled into a bun on top of her head, eyes alluring as she peers at Max through thick long lashes.

Too caught up in all the glamor that Scarlett is, you walk right into a nearby wall (because that is unfortunately what happens whenever beautiful women are near you). 

Max and Scarlett immediately glance at you. Max, with that all-knowing smirk, and Scarlett's raised eyebrow is enough to make you want to dig yourself a grave.

But you don't. Instead, you clear your throat, apologize and shuffle to the kitchen with haste.

The air is thick with cigarette smoke.

That’s one of the reasons why you hate waiting. 

You don’t mind occasionally working in such an atmosphere. After all, you are one of the few chefs that regularly make an appearance everyday. So you’ve grown accustomed to walking through the boisterous crowds of smokers and drunken belligerents before and after your shifts.

But then, for the rest of the shit, you usually find solace in the kitchen—swallowed by plates and dishes and food and ingredients—which is more your forte.

“Hey pretty lady,” A bald, greasy buff man grumbles. His eyes are set on you yet simultaneously far away. Out of focus. “I’m getting hungry. Why don't you come over here and serve me?” Then he winks with a shit-eating grin that makes you queasy.

“You're not in my section,” You reply dryly with a shrug. “But I'll let Dylan know that you're ready to order.” 

“I don't want Dylan,” His eyes linger on your chest, before trailing down your entire physique. It's almost as if he allows his entire train of thought to become visible for everyone to read. 

Your teeth grind as you quickly scan the room once more. Dylan said that he was stepping out for a 5 minute smoke break 40 minutes ago. 

There's a part of you that doesn't want to give in. You don't mind being the one coworker that won't take on more tables than absolutely necessary. Especially when you were voluntold to switch job roles with someone you barely even know, and without even being told why.

If it wasn't so hard to find a job lately, you're pretty sure Amy’s management within itself would be enough encouragement for you to quit. But you really, really need the money. Despite the toxic work environment and occasional harassment from drunk citizens, this is the closest you've come to financial stability in years. You can’t afford to fuck it up.

A heavy exhale leaves you as you shift your feet. “Have you had a chance to look over the menu?” You ask, eying the man with distaste.

His grin widens. “No. What do you suggest?”

“Well, we offer a lot of stuff really. If you're in the mood for something more fulfilling, we have different stew dumplings. I'm not sure about your allergies though, most of the stews here are made with—”

“Surprise me,” Then he gives you another once over.

There is a part of you, a small part, that's tempted to reach across the table and rip out his eyes. You hate the feeling you experience when men unabashedly undress you with their eyes; especially when it’s from creepy old men. 

Even more so when said men don't know how to respect boundaries.

But you ignore the idea of doing such a thing. Instead, you turn on your heels and walk away.

Or, at least, you try to walk away. 

***

A tight grip wraps around your wrist, pulling so abruptly that you nearly fall over. It happens so fast that you barely register it. A breath, hot and pungent with liquor, travels across the base of your neck before meeting your nose. “You didn't ask me if I wanted anything to drink.” The man adds, voice low and gravelly.

Then more is happening...

And that's what makes you snap. 

Within seconds, you're reaching for your knife, which you had previously placed inside the pocket of your apron. 

A fire courses through your veins as you retract the blade.

“What the fuck!” The man yells, letting go of your wrist. He presses a palm against his right cheek, which now has a wide gash that is gushing with blood.

***

You don't give him time to say anything else. Your elbow comes in contact with his throat, jabbing his windpipe with as much force as possible. He staggers from the impact, landing with his back on top of the table behind him as he gasps for air.

Your knife, now dripping with his blood, digs into his chest. You hold it there, watching him wince when you apply pressure.

“If you ever so much as breathe in my direction again,” You mutter darkly. He’s squirming uncomfortably, a pool of blood soaking through his shirt as your knife continues to pierce his chest.

The pub has grown eerily silent and the heavy weight of countless eyes begins to register.

“I…I-I,” The man underneath splutters in shock. Beads of sweat gather around his forehead as he peers up at you through a cloud of fear. Thirty minutes ago, you’d have been surprised to find him roughed up by someone half his size, especially considering how large his biceps are. 

But then again, The Last Drop seems to be filling up with tons of useless goons nowadays.

“We’ll deal with him.” The voice that breaks your reverie is unrecognizable—feminine and raspy. 

That's when your head snaps up and you realize just how tense the atmosphere has become. Many citizens watch you silently, some mouths ajar while others look ready to egg you on. It's never really a typical Friday night at this place without people trying to drunkenly fight each other.

It's rare, though, that  employees become the main culprit.

Something moves closer to you—a person. “Hey, it's alright. I-”

Still on edge, you're quick to react. You inhale sharply, grip tightening around your knife with reflexes that feel like second nature.

A low growl fills the air, the sound of metal colliding with metal following soon after. Then your blade is being knocked out of your hand, something powerful grabbing both of your arms.

A flash of grey, the smell of cigarillo. Warmth. Undeniable warmth.

“Woah, it's just me." The voice is so close, yet so far away.

"Look-" Then... "Maxwell, I need you to come and help." The voice speaks again. This time even firmer. A woman’s voice. 

When your vision adjusts, you lock gazes with a pair of stormy grey irises. They're merely inches from yours, peering down at you with a gaze that is steady. 

That's when you realize that you can't move because she's practically towering over you. Holding you.

It’s Sevika.

You must have tried to attack her, clearly caught off guard. Surely, you hadn't meant to. For a split second, you lost it and now here she comes, seemingly out of nowhere. It was merely a reflex—a fight or flight response.

“It's me. Sevika," She announces, voice sharp as if she's trying to to speak through a wall. "I'm having them take him upstairs. He’ll be dealt with,” She repeats, almost as if it's a promise. She searches your eyes, grip loosening around your arms, “I’ll make sure of it.” She adds. Despite her expression being made of steel, there's something that flickers in her eyes. It appears only for a millisecond but it's glaring enough to somehow recenter you.

Her shoulders appear to relax when you start to feel present in the room again.

She waits for you to reply. And waits.

And waits.

And waits some more.

Then, “I can handle myself,” Is all that you manage to say. 

She stares at you for longer. You can see the gears in her brain shifting, but you aren't exactly sure of what to anticipate next, or even how to accept the fact that you just tried to attack your boss with a pocket knife.

“I’ve got her,” This time, the source is coming from someone familiar. Max. “It's okay,” He whispers, drawing closer. You feel him before you see him. The tips of his claw-like nails brush against your shoulders as he gingerly grabs a hold of you. 

Only then is when Sevika breaks your gaze, this time turning to Max. “Staff lounge.” The brute woman orders. 

“I’m fine.” You counter. 

The edge in your voice says otherwise.

“...Then I need you to grab Amy,” She continues, completely disregarding you. “I would like to know why we have a chef waiting tables during the busiest rush of the week—”

“I don’t need to go anywhere,” You press, voice raising a few decibels.

Sevika jaw’s clenches, icy eyes flickering towards you. “You nearly decapitated someone. You—”

“...I have four hours left. I will leave when my shift is complete.”

Her nose flares. “Lounge. Now.”

Before you can reply, she’s turning on her heels and walking away.

Unfortunately, Max agrees with Sevika.

It’s apparent in the way he immediately grabs your shoulders after her departure. Every citizen seems to be watching the entire escapade because this is the quietest you’ve ever heard the pub be during a rush hour.

“I’m fine!” You hiss, frustrated by the whole ordeal. You are perfectly capable of defending yourself. You don't need staff members to coddle you. “Seriously.”

Max doesn’t reply, merely huffing underneath his breath as he guides you past the bar and towards a back hallway that leads to another room. 

When the two of you have reached the lounge, he finally says, “You're shaking.”

Your eyebrows furrow. “What?”

He leans forward, grabbing both of your hands,“ You're shaking.” He repeats, looking at you dead in the eyes. That's when he lets go and you peer down at your palms.

A frown spreads across your lips at the sight of your trembling fingers.

“You nearly killed the guy,” Max continues. “Where did you learn to fight like that?”

“It was only self-defense.”

“I'm not saying you were in the wrong,” A flicker of worry meets Max’s eyes. “That asshole deserves everything you did to him, probably more, But,” He winces. His gaze trails off to a distant place behind you. “Chef’s don’t usually do what you just did.”

Before you can reply to Max, the door flings open. In walks the petite redhead that you instantly knew to be Amy. She’s light on her feet, eyes alert and face flushed. At first, you’re surprised to see her in such a state. 

Shortly, though, Sevika enters the room. Then it all makes sense.

Sevika’s domineering in all aspects and has a ferocious air about her that can make anyone feel...tense. 

You thought she was the last of it, but another pair of footsteps walk-in behind her. 

“S-Sorry,” The person stammers, side stepping so they can scurry around Sevika and find a chair to sit in. The person is Dylan.

“This won't take long,” Sevika announces. She seems annoyed, not even looking at anyone else in the room. “Starting tomorrow, nothing about tonight will be brought up again. Now, Amy.” She turns to Amy, who instantly shrinks in her chair. “Why wasn't Janessa on the floor tonight?”

There's a beat of hesitation before, “She's working the kitchen now.”

Sevika’s nose flares. “If you moved her because of last week, I want you to think over your explanation very carefully.”

Another beat drags. Amy blinks. She gapes. She blinks once more. Her cheeks are tomato red at this point. “I-”

Sevika presses on. “Did Silco somehow change his mind?” 

“...No.”

“So you deliberately went against Silco’s orders and switched Janessa to the kitchen. Meanwhile,” Sevika’s eyes flicker to you. Your stomach lurches. “You make our only competent chef work the floor, after I told you that she isn't up for debate. And you expect me to show you mercy?”

Amy doesn't answer. She's on the verge of tears, which shocks you.

Amy is a bitch.

She’s known for brutally reaming people for simply breathing wrong. She doesn’t hold back and she doesn’t mind doing it in front of customers either. You know her to be stone cold. Heartless. Void of compassion and depth.

You never thought that you’d see the day where she’d get her ass handed to her.

Sevika turns to you, face filled with hard lines and calculating orbs. She stares at you for a few moments. You don't quite understand if she’s sizing you up or mentally chastising you. But you wait for her to fully collect her thoughts.

“If anyone touches you like that again,” She slowly begins, voice low. “You do what needs to be done. Whatever that means to you. Do you understand?” 

Your muscles freeze at her words.

No questioning? No reprimands?

“You aren't mad?” You clear your throat.

You were fully expected to get reamed for tonight.

Sevika raises an eyebrow, “Do you want me to be?”

Heat spreads across your body. You don't answer her question, deciding to move on. “Does Silco know about tonight?”

She grows more perplexed, “Do you want Silco to know?”

In the corner of your eye, you watch how stiff the rest of the staff members become. The room is so quiet that you nearly hear a pin drop.

It’s obvious that Silco finding out about this would cause a shit show.

Sevika takes your silence as an answer. 

“None of this will be mentioned again after tonight.” She breaks eye contact and turns to the rest of the room. “Is that clear?”

Everyone nods.

“And Dylan?”

Dylan jumps at the sound of his name. “Huh? I mean, yes? Y-Yes, ma’am?”

“If you disappear for that long again, you won't have a job to come back to.”

“Yes, ma’am. I-I mean,” Dylan blinks with swimming eyes. “Sorry.”

Sevika chooses then to shove her human hand into her pocket, glancing at you once more. When she retracts it, you notice that there is something shiny and silver that she's holding.

Your knife.

Silently, she holds it towards you. 

When your feet stay planted—brain struggling to process everything that's happening—she exhales heavily, evidently becoming impatient.

Clearing your throat, you force yourself to close the distance. You grab your knife, knuckles grazing her palm, which ignites a static shock. Your fingers jump away from her instantly. If the skin contact startled her, her face doesn’t give it away.

“Thank you,” Is all that you say. You hate how vulnerable you sound.

She merely nods. Then, “He's upstairs, by the way. Definitely suffering from what you did to him but not harmed any further." She pauses, rubbing her lips together. "Did you want to come upstairs? It's your call on how you would like him to be handled."

You eyes widen at the realization.

She took him upstairs to do god know what (everyone knows that if Sevika takes you upstairs for any other reason than discussing business, then you probably aren't coming back down). You'd never thought she would include employees in such a thing.

Even with a matter such as this.

"I'll give you ten minutes to think about it," She continues on. "If you decide to come upstairs, he'll be waiting. Otherwise, go home. Tomorrow you'll return to the kitchen.” Then she turns on her heels, adding, “Amy, I expect your desk to be cleaned out by midnight.” Before she walks away. 

In the midst of her departure, your eyes begin to burn. 

Max and Dylan are already stepping out of the room, completely shaken up by the entire situation.

Being reprimanded by Sevika is never on anyone’s bucket list.

You idle there for a while, letting all of the events replay in your mind as your muscles start to unspool. Fidgeting with your knife, you allow the blade to extend. That’s when you notice that his blood has been cleaned off and your blade sharpened.

Amy wails pathetically while curling into herself. 

Her cries are nothing more than brown noise at this point. You're too preoccupied by the hammering of your heart, and the way that Sevika’s words have tattooed themselves onto your hippocampus:

If anyone touches you like that again, you do what needs to be done.

[artiststarme]

Whenever Steve has a migraine, he seeks out Eddie. Eddie’s voice acts as the only white noise Steve’s head can tolerate on the bad days. And he’ll always drop everything to whisper soothing words to Steve for hours long past when he falls asleep.

He’ll talk about upcoming DnD campaigns, mumble about song lyrics, and go on long soliloquies about how Steve looks beautiful even if his brain is melting.

Eddie always has a sore throat the next day but that never stops him. (When Steve finds out about the sore throats, he stops mentioning the headaches but somehow Eddie still knows. He shows up with a face mask, some cough drops, and a smile.)

[tswwwit]

If I can finish this one scene and slap the draft around a bit, I think I'm gonna split this fic in half and post the first bit on AO3. Wish me luck.

[thekittyokat]

you ever just have a lot, a LOT of feelings all at once about a character and not even remotely enough words or brainpower to FORM the words to describe everything you're feeling. so it feels like you may explode. yeah

[wreckedandpolemic]

nsfw alphabet - white and gold!matty x reader

(mdni) this au has taken over my brain so you can all have a little a lot of filth. as a treat. white and gold isn't required reading but it's recommended. 3856 words.

warnings (mentions of): dom/sub dynamics, praise, cumplay, breeding kink, masturbation, drug use, oral (f and m receiving), unprotected sex, spanking, exhibitionism, overstimulation

a - aftercare (what they’re like after sex)

god he’s the sweetest. he’s obsessed with you, absolutely worships you every time you finish. if it’s been particularly rough, he’ll be even sweeter, kissing all over your body; gentle touches as he cleans you up; lots of reassurances. he overflows with good girl’s and did so well for me’s and so, so perfect’s.

his favourite thing, though, is putting you in his clothes after. especially early on, before you have a drawer or any clothes at his place, it’s pretty routine for you to fall asleep in one of his shirts, and the sight of you drives him crazy every time.

b - body part (their favourite body part of theirs and also their partner’s)

his (and your) favourite part of him is his chest. he works fucking hard to look like that, and you’re quickly learning how hard. he tries his best not to wake you when he gets up at the actual asscrack of dawn to go for a run or to the gym, but he’s almost never successful. catching him coming back from the gym, though, is always a fucking treat, drenched with sweat and panting as you practically rip his clothes off. and he’s a vain little fucker who loves attention, so even in winter he’ll just turn the heat up and go shirtless, gratuitously flexing so you can ogle the muscles of his chest, his defined v-line, the trail of hair that licks down into his waistband. you leave bruises there whenever you get the chance <3

cliche as it sounds, matty loves your tits. he’ll buy you new bras just to rip them off you and bury his face between your tits. every time you fuck, he pays them special attention, kissing and licking and sucking and biting until you’re a soaking wet mess under his hands. one day he swears he’ll make you cum just from that.

c - cum (anything to do with cum, basically)

oh that man has the biggest breeding kink. he’s kind of insane for it actually. he’ll cum inside you every chance he gets, fucking beg for you to let him. “please, baby,” he’s practically whining. “wanna cum in your pretty cunt. need it. wanna stuff you full, make you mine forever.” you can never resist him, locking your legs around his waist and holding him in place as he spills deep inside you.

the sight of you with his cum dripping down your thighs drives him crazy, never mind watching you collect it on your fingers and clean it up with your mouth. he always wants to finger it back into you, kissing the oversensitive whines out of your mouth and muttering about how he’s “gonna fuck a baby into you, yeah? gotta get it all, okay? make sure it takes.”

d - dirty secret (pretty self-explanatory, a dirty secret of theirs)

he’ll never give back that pair of panties you slipped him at the dinner. entirely distracted, he’d forgotten all about them until you went home the next day and he went to throw his clothes in the laundry and found the scrap of lace in his pocket. for some reason, he can’t bring himself to put them in the wash, leaving them crumpled on the dresser and sitting at the back of his mind when he takes you out for lunch. when he gets home, the scent of your perfume and the red of your lipstick lingering on him, he stares at them for minutes, trying to convince himself that he’s not a horny teenager anymore and he shouldn’t.

then he remembers the look on your face when you handed them to him, remembers your dress sliding to the floor and leaving you naked and dripping wet for him, and his control breaks. the lace scrapes harshly against his tender skin as he pumps himself furiously, and he cums embarrassingly quick with your name on his lips.

e - experience (how experienced are they? do they know what they’re doing?)

oh, he knows. and he’ll never stop reminding you. he loves hearing you moan how good he is, how he’s the best you’ve ever had (“‘m the best you’ll ever have,” he corrects), how he’s ruined you for other men. any time you want to try something new, he’ll talk you through it all sweet and gentle; “s’okay, baby. daddy’s gonna take good care of you, promise. such a good, sweet girl for me.”

if he ever even catches wind of a time you’ve had bad or even unsatisfying sex, he’ll take it upon himself to replace the memory, disparaging all the ‘pathetic boys’ you’ve fucked before him. he’s obscenely jealous, adoring your assurances that you’re his girl, that nobody else could ever compare. sometimes, he’ll ask whether you’ve ever tried something, just so he can “show you how it should really feel,” if you have and be your first if you haven’t.

g - goofy (are they more serious in the moment? are they more humorous? etc.)

one thing you do teach him is how not to take himself so seriously every time you have sex. “doesn’t have to be so intense all the time,” you tease. “it’s okay if you laugh sometimes. m’not gonna turn to stone.” he doesn’t really take it on board until the first time you get high with him. by now, you have a key to his place, letting yourself in in the early hours of a sunday morning, having come home for a friend’s birthday. he’s on the sofa, lit spliff dangling from his lips, and he practically jumps out of his skin seeing you. a little tipsy, you climb over the sofa and snatch it from him, pulling deeply before he can even react.

both of you stoned, he’s more relaxed than you’ve ever seen him, free from the tension that strings him tight in his day-to-day. you climb into his lap, kissing him messily between giggles and grinding your hips down against him. when you fuck, it’s slow, indulgent, both of you laughing breathlessly as you fumble out of your clothes, matty’s fingers tangled up in your hair. later, you tell him it might be your favourite memory of the two of you. when he asks why, you shrug. “i dunno. like seeing you laugh when we’re like that. don’t always need it to be such an event, you know?”

h - hair (how well-groomed are they? does the carpet match the drapes? etc.)

gonna be real something about this question squicks me out i think it’s the phrase ‘does the carpet match the drapes’ like that is gross

i will say that he could not fucking care less whether you’re shaved. the first time he catches you unawares, surprising you with a visit to your uni flat, you stutter an embarrassed apology. he stops you with a glare, muttering about how “only pathetic boys care about that. pathetic boys who don’t deserve to look at you, don’t deserve to even think about your pretty cunt.” then he has you sit on his face still in your short skirt and shows you exactly how little he cares <3

i - intimacy (how are they during the moment? the romantic aspect.)

you wouldn’t have guessed it, but he really is quite a romantic. he loves fucking you missionary, watching your face as you take him, pure adoration in his eyes. he’ll never stop murmuring how beautiful you are, how lucky he is to have you, how you’re made for each other, thick, heady pulses of heat and desire and something more washing over you every time.

the first time you fuck after saying i love you, he uses the words every chance he gets: between breathy, wet kisses; against your skin as he traces his tongue down your body; tracing the words with a finger while he fucks you. when he dips his head between your legs, you can feel him spelling the words with his tongue in your cunt, helpless moans falling from your lips as you roll your hips wildly against his mouth.

j - jack off (masturbation headcanon)

he’s away a lot, always on some important business trip or other, and it drives you mental. somehow, it’s impossible to find more than a few snatched days where you’re back from uni and he’s in your city. so he spends a lot of nights in hotel beds with a hand around his cock and thoughts of you circling his mind. the first time you catch him in the act, it’s an accident — you’re only calling because you miss him, but the low pitch of his voice and his soft groan when you say his name give him away quickly.

“are you getting off, daddy?” his quiet moan is enough of a yes. “are you thinking of me?”

“always think of you, princess.” his words send a bolt of heat straight to your core. knowing you’re the object of his fantasies, the only object, turns you on beyond belief. “wish i could have you right now. need my girl all spread out for me, need to make her feel so fucking good.”

your hand has already found its way into your panties, wetness pooling against your fingers. “what would you do to me if i was there?”

k - kink (one or more of their kinks)

oh, it’s a long list. he introduces you to almost everything; you trust him to keep you safe through it all, so you’ll try anything once. somno, cumplay, bondage, edging and breeding feature most frequently, sometimes all at once, you flush to think of. more than anything, though, he loves being your daddy, practically blacking out the first time you use the word.

and then there’s corruption. corruption corruption corruption! he fucking loves reminding you about your age gap, loves moaning how you’re such a good girl letting a dirty old man ruin you. you love to tease him with it, playing up your innocence with wide eyes and pouting lips.

or the time he spanked you with a belt, bent over his desk after hours at the office. but that’s a story for another day…

l - location (favourite place to do the do)

despite your complaints about adventure, he’ll always love having you in his bed the best. he’s so possessive, nothing compares to seeing you naked and breathless and soaked against his sheets. he’ll spend long moments just watching you like that, committing the sight perfectly to memory before he makes you his over and over again.

m - motivation (what turns them on, gets them going)

everything you do turns him on, but he’d be lying if he said he didn’t adore you making yourself at home at his place. being a homemaker is in your nature, and it drives him wild to come home and see you cooking or cleaning for him.

the only thing missing, he thinks, is a ring sparkling on your finger and his last name joining your first. he tells you as much when he bends you over the kitchen table, rucking your skirt up around your hips and filling you in one stroke. “god, look so good actin’ like my little housewife, princess. can’t wait to come home to you every single fuckin’ day.” he punctuates the last words with deep, hard thrusts. “‘m never lettin’ you go, angel. gonna marry you, make you mine forever.” you can’t hold back a moan as you nod furiously. “you like that? yeah? c’mon, mrs. healy, cum for me.”

n - no (something they wouldn’t do, turn-offs)

he’d never share you, so a threesome is off the table. he’s too obsessed with you, too possessive over you, the idea of watching someone else put their hands on you frankly horrifying. you bring it up once, more for curiosity’s sake, a somewhat stereotypical college experience you’ve never had, and he shoots it down immediately. “don’t wanna let anyone else touch you. they don’t deserve it.” he says, a little sullen that you’d even consider it.

“what about another girl?” you suggest, wondering if, like so many men, the fantasy has crossed his mind.

“don’t care about other girls,” he answers without hesitation. “you’re the only girl i want or need. forever, yeah?” he squeezes your hand, and you can’t really argue with that, can you?

o - oral (preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc.)

as much as he loves seeing you on your knees with your lips stretched around his cock, his favourite place to be is between your thighs. you’ve never dated a man who liked to give oral before, but matty actively gets off on it, moaning into your cunt as he fucking devours you. it’s his favourite way to wake you, pleasure pooling at the base of your spine while you’re still hazy with sleep.

“couldn’t resist,” he murmurs from under the blanket, pressing kisses to the insides of your thighs as you squirm. “looked so fuckin’ pretty, and you taste so sweet. can’t get enough of this pussy, angel.”

p - pace (are they fast and rough? slow and sensual? etc.)

he likes it rough because you like it rough. the man fucking lives to make you happy, any way he can. any way he can make you a drooling mess on his cock. as much as he protests about being “too old for this, darling,” he’ll fuck you anywhere if you beg pretty enough, holding you up against the wall and rutting wildly against you, sometimes with a hand over your mouth to muffle your noises.

when you do go slow, it’s intense. he’ll tease you with it, stuffing you full and just keeping you there, belly coiled tight as you clench and squirm, urging him to fucking move. slow, languid strokes, gentle touches over the most sensitive parts of your body, your legs shaking as you plead and whine. “so impatient,” he tuts. “don’t you trust me, baby? i’ll get you there.”

q - quickie (their opinions on quickies, how often, etc.)

he’ll almost never initiate them. he’d rather tease, get you desperate and needy and spend his time taking you apart. you’re better than a quick, quiet fuck in a grotty little bathroom to him. you see it differently, more into the instant gratification of pulling him aside in secret. he’s more amenable to it while you’re still a secret, those snatched moments sometimes your only chances to be with him.

you’ll never stop trying, though, teasing him until he’s groaning that you’re “such a needy little slut. can’t even wait ‘til we get home, hm? need me to bend you over in public, make sure everyone knows what a dirty girl you are?” you’ll stumble back into the party, sated and so dazed you're seeing stars, and squirm at his cum pooling in your underwear and the knowledge that he’s going to punish you for being a brat later.

r - risk ( are they game to experiment? do they take risks? etc.)

like i said, the pair of you will try anything once. temperature play? blindfolding? anal? check, check, check. at the start, you’re a little shy about it, murmuring about how you “saw this thing i think i wanna try.” generally, though, you’re the risk-taker, crawling under his desk before an important meeting and doing everything you can to make him lose control with your mouth.

“such a dirty girl,” he murmurs when you’re finally left alone. “what would people think, knowing my pretty girlfriend’s down there drooling around my dick, hm? my little exhibitionist, bet you’re dripping thinkin’ about everyone finding out what a slut you are for me.” he forces you back onto your knees under the desk at a light tap on the door. “can stay down there and keep me warm ‘til i’m done, yeah?” matty smirks, and you shudder as you obey.

“come on in.”

s - stamina (how many rounds can they go for? how long do they last?)

even though you love to tease him about being old, sometimes you struggle to keep up with him. matty devotes himself to making you cum at least twice almost every time he gets you off, whether with his fingers, his mouth or his cock.

you’re almost in awe of how long he can give oral; your jaw aches for hours after giving a blowjob, but he’ll pin your hips down and bury his tongue inside you for what feels like eternity. you’ve lost track of how many times you’ve cum at this point, floating freely in a sea of bliss as sensation wracks every limb. “doin’ so good, princess,” matty says, lips and chin absolutely soaked in you. “can you take one more?”

“can’t. s’too much, daddy, please!”

he only laughs. “yes, you can. be a good girl for daddy, yeah? gonna take as many as i want you to, okay?” you moan. “words, angel.”

“can take it, daddy,” you whine, every nerve in your body on fire. “‘m your good girl. do whatever you want,” you slur.

“that’s right,” matty murmurs, dipping his head back between your legs, his tongue sending heat pulsing under your skin. “whatever i want.”

t - toys (do they own toys? do they use them? on a partner or themselves?)

he loves spoiling you to an almost ridiculous degree. nearly every time he goes away, a tastefully-wrapped little box finds its way to your doorstep. you tease him with pictures and videos of you using them while he’s gone, attaching a message that it’s still not as good as you :(

when he comes home, he’ll use them on you, edging you for hours with intense vibrations on your clit and dragging it over your body while you squirm and plead, tears pooling in your eyes.

one day, you find that his interest in toys doesn’t stop at you. there’s a shoebox tucked innocuously under his bed that you open curiously, flushing ruby-woo-red at the contents. “found something earlier, daddy,” you murmur against his lips, your skirt splayed out over his lap as you make out lazily at the edge of the bed.

matty chuckles. “what’d you find, princess?”

wordlessly, you tug the box out and set it on the bed next to you. he swallows thickly, not meeting your eyes. “do you use all of this stuff, daddy?”

“i- i used to,” he stammers, nervous in a way you’ve never seen him.

“did they make you feel good?” he nods. “can i use them on you?” shuddering, he nods again, and you resist the urge to clap your hands. “oh, this is gonna be so much fun. what do you wanna try first?”

u - unfair (how much they like to tease)

so much. he’s practically evil. he’s better at controlling himself than you, able to torture you in public for hours on end without so much as displacing a hair.

his fingers rub circles into your thigh, inching closer and closer to where you need them as you press up against him. “daddy, please don’t tease,” you whisper as loud as you dare.

he clicks his tongue. “be patient, baby. good girls get what they want,” he promises, running a finger over the lace between your legs.

you’re a desperate, needy mess by the time he finally touches you, the contact electric and buzzing under your skin. “was patient, daddy,” you whine. “please.”

v - volume (how loud they are, what sounds they make, etc.)

another reason he doesn’t so much go for quickies —- you learn fast that he’s very vocal, liberal with praise that falls fluidly from his lips. you wish you could bottle up the sound of his moans, play it on loop like a favourite record. your favourite sounds, though, are the ones he makes unconsciously, when he’s dreaming of you. he’ll murmur your name, hips grinding against your ass, quiet moans and sounds you could only describe as whimpers spilling from his lips. you wake him up with your cunt stretched around his cock nearly every time.

w - wild card (a random headcanon)

it doesn’t come out very often, but he has a submissive side. the first time you find it, you’re spread out on his tongue, moaning how good he is, how amazing you feel as you cum against his mouth. “did i do good?” he asks, eyes shining. it’s a sentiment you know well, and the power of having it directed at you is heady.

“so good, daddy,” you murmur, scratching your nails over his scalp in reward and savouring the way he shudders under your touch. something about using the epithet as he melts under your hands is intoxicating. he’s patient, still, even as his body hums with nervous energy. “you needy, daddy? want me to take care of you?” you tease, pushing him down on the bed and straddling him. “don’t worry,” you say, slowly lowering yourself down on him. “i learned from the best.”

x - x-ray (let’s see what’s going on under those clothes)

there’s no polite way to say it; he’s fucking huge. your eyes roll back in your head when he fills you completely, cunt stretched around him. you giggle with your friends, spilling stories of your adventures, of screaming orgasms and being so sore you can barely walk, to their whines of jealousy.

besides that, though, he looks like he’s been sculpted by the fucking gods, all marble skin and defined muscle wrapped up in designer suits. he knows his tattoos drive you crazy, too, grinning as you kiss and lick at them when you’re working your way down his body.

y - yearning (how high is their sex drive?)

so high. he’s like a horny teenager. he wants you all the fucking time, every little thing you do driving him wild. you giggle and joke about how eager he is, “for a man your age,” and he pinches your ass for being cheeky. it works out great, though, because you want him all the time. most of the time, you fuck until he’s satisfied, and you love being made to take it, being a little toy for him.

z - zzz (how quickly they fall asleep afterward)

he’s a worrier, you notice pretty quickly. he’ll always make sure you’re okay, fussing sweetly over you as your eyes close and you cuddle into him. sometimes you’ll wake up to him tossing and turning, still wide awake. “are you okay, matty?”

he smiles softly. “‘m fine, angel. go back to sleep. sorry i woke you.”

“not if you can’t sleep,” you pout. “always sleep so good next to you. not fair if you don’t get that,” you frown, kissing softly at the corners of his mouth.

“such a sweet girl,” he murmurs fondly. “think a brew might help, if you’re up for it?” you take his hand and let him lead you into the kitchen, sitting at the table with a hot chocolate (tea, blech). the pair of you talk long into the night, and it becomes something of a habit when he struggles getting to sleep.

[unicornpopcorn14]

For the hurt comfort prompts, how about "Just breathe, it’ll be over soon" or "Asking them every two minutes if they need something" for skk? I think the kind of scenarios that would lead to them saying/doing those things for each other would be interesting!

Skk whump || 8.5K words || One Shot

(Sorry for the long wait on thiss :'> Hope you enjoy <3)

Hurt/Comfort prompts

[caraphernellie]

people should write more about ellie being rly goofy in the middle of sex idk... she just would be very goofy i think... i don't think she takes herself that seriously... that idiot is going to laugh at everything. and that makes it fun !! no use being embarrassed by upsetting sounds (like queefs) or accidental farts or anything. she prob calls u some name like queef queen after

[lale-txt]

heartbreaking! one of your favorite artists makes fun of y/n fics!

[is-this-even-relatable]

A Rising Phantom

———

Summary: danny died, and no one knows. He is a full ghost, and only thanks to his dual obsessions can he “live” a normal life and pretend that nothing happened.

I aim to make this a multichaptered fic! Hopefully, the first fic I post on AO3!

HEADCANONS/TROPES/TAGS:

no one knows! AU

full ghost! danny

eventual everlasting trio

dual obsessions inspired by this post, which are protection (Phantom) and space (Fenton)

my own headcanon: danny's death is inevitable, a single point in time that cannot be avoided or changed.

———

Danny died on a Saturday.

He was too young to have been left alone; any other house would’ve be fine, but everyone in that town knew, even then, that the Fentons' house was to be avoided by a wide berth.

His parents had rushed out in a frustrated fit, leaving him and Jazz by themselves for the weekend, just like so many before. They were always an afterthought to their parents, long before he was 14.

Danny didn’t intend to go down to the lab that night. But Jazz was out with her friend Kyle, and he was bored. And something down there called to him, though he didn’t know it.

He didn’t know that forces beyond his comprehension were leading to this point, this singularity.

If Danny had known the fate in store for him, he would have begged his parents for them to stay that night, or take him with them. But he didn't know, he couldn't have known... because that's how it was always going to be.

He didn’t know that a man with a clock in his chest, who changed between ages in the blink of an eye, was watching as he walked down those lonely steps.

He didn’t know, as he pulled on a white hazmat suit hand-sewn just for him, far too flimsy for what it was meant to protect him against, that a sentient dimension was pushing against the veil, straining for him.

He didn’t know, as he stepped through the gaping metal maw, that it had already called his name, and death had claimed it.

And afterwards, while he curled up on the cold basement floor, clutching his chest for a pulse, he still did not know that even if he had known... he would have had no choice but to do the same.

Danny died when he turned the portal on, alone in his parents’ lab.

Standing inside, fifty million Watts of electricity coursed from his palm to his heart, searing its path into his skin. It had no exit route. It cooked him from the inside, lighting all of his nerves on fire, and doused him in an infinite realm’s worth of dimensional energy. After what seemed like hours of screaming, panicking, burning- he somehow managed to crawl out of the portal.

He died then, lying flat in front of the machine that ended him, as the intense pain faded into a dull throb that replaced the beating that used to be in his chest.

And as he sat up, feeling both sore and feather-light, he looked down upon his body, and realized that he had died that day, and he was not coming back.

Danny panicked. And he did the only thing he could do. He decided to run away, afraid of what he was, confused and scared and feeling very not himself.

But the main anxiety that drove him to hide his accident was a rather juvenile one.

…He was afraid that his parents would be upset that he had gone into the lab without their permission.

He had messed with their stuff, and turned something on… something he definitely shouldn’t have.

He had just opened a portal to a realm full of the very things that kept him from sleeping at night, of “unfeeling monsters” that his parents had drilled into him about for years.

A portal to ghosts… that were now free to come through.

That thought made something inside him solidify, and a low hum began to emanate from him as he worried about his family. About the ghosts and the portal and how they were going to manage without him…

He couldn’t just leave like this. Not when he was responsible. He couldn’t let a whole realm of monsters hurt his family. At that thought, dread filled him, and that same something inside his chest ached.

But it occurred to him that he still had to leave. Not just at the thought of his parents stumbling in on his body.

No, it was about him. For he was one of them now, wasn’t he? A ghost. And he was a monster now, too. Despite not feeling like one. Despite knowing that there was clearly something wrong with what he had been told and what he knew was intimately true of himself in this new form.

But something inside him whispered at him that he couldn’t take the chance, if he did turn into a monster. He couldn’t let himself hurt his family.

So with fears on his back and a tingle fading from his fingertips, Danny pulled himself up onto unsteady feet. He took his body outside, to the woods where no one would know. And he buried it, alone, surrounded by trees and the sky.

He sat there, at his fresh grave, and cried.

Holding his arms around himself tight, he mourned the loss of warmth, of blood pumping and his heartbeat, so loud in its absence.

Surrounded by nothing but silence, he mourned that he’d never made close friends, nor really had the chance.

Looking up at the stars, he mourned that he could never fulfill his dream of being an astronaut.

He mourned for himself because no one else could.

And as his last cry petered off into the night, the sun broke the horizon.

A different something tugged at his chest, and he let it pull without resistance, worn ragged as he was.

And he was grateful he did. For a soothing light washed over him and transformed him into something similar, but not quite as he was Before.

But he felt warmth, and he felt a pseudo-beat in his chest, sluggish as it was. And suddenly he realized that although he was dead, he was alive in a different way.

He was still there.

He didn’t have to give up on life.

He was not going to be a monster.

Danny walked back home. He washed the dirt away from under his fingernails. He swept the lab until it looked like no one had been there. Minus the massive swirling vortex.

And when Jazz got home from her sleepover, Danny hugged her with a smile.

He was going to be fine.

They would all be fine, he would make sure of it.

[theseus8349]

I miss the person I was before I made this

They're both distant to love, the doctor has lost so so many people he loves, he's had to lose his loved ones over and over again. He's scared that he'll lose or hurt more people he cares about.

Missy hasn't lost loads of people, no she's lost one specific person over and over again, that person being the doctor. She's scared to fall for him again because she knows she'll just leave being heartbroken.