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Currently writing for Top Gun (1986), Top Gun Maverick, Stranger Things, Masters of the Air, and as of now am still considering requests for Elvis (2022)! Send requests if you’d like, but no smut please! Unfortunately I can’t guarantee that I’ll write them all but I’d love to hear what y’all’d like to read.
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You sneak James into your apartment to be together away from prying eyes.
Word count: 1.8k
Warnings: mature content 👀🔞this is a spicy one y’all!
Dedicated to my companion on the Dónal wagon, @winniemaywebber 🫶
Masterlist
a/n: this was written going off of two entire episodes of Young Sherlock that I saw like three months ago and my newfound obsession with Dónal Finn 😈🤭I promise I will actually continue watching Young Sherlock so I can get darling Dónal’s character right but for now… y’all get this.
If you enjoy, feel free to like, reblog, comment Shakespearean declarations of love, whatever strikes your fancy. Feedback is always welcome & my ask box is always open. If you'd like to be added to my tag list, let me know!
“James, hush!” You hiss, glancing around the hall for any prying eyes. “My landlady will have my head if she finds out I’ve got a man in here.”
“You don’t hafta worry about me, love,” James whispers, ever-present mischief in his brown eyes, “I’ll be quiet as a mouse.”
True to his word, he’s silent as the two of you slip inside your tiny apartment.
And then he’s got you pressed up against the door the moment it’s closed and locked behind you, lips brushing your ear.
“I am a bit worried about your noises though, darling.”
Your knees are already weak, and it’s a miracle they don’t buckle under you entirely when his lips land on yours, muffling the gasp of surprise that escapes you.
Your arms wind around his neck, pulling him impossibly closer as one hand slides up from your hip to cup your cheek; his thumb glides over your cheekbone, a startlingly tender motion compared to the rough way he’s kissing you.
You let out a shuddering sigh of his name into his mouth— an act that has him smiling against your lips, pressing his mouth fiercely to yours before changing course and kissing a trail along your jaw. James’s hands slide from your hips to the buttons holding your bodice closed, effortlessly undoing them even as your hands wind their way into his curls and tug gently, a soft moan escaping you.
He hushes you, a soft shhhh against your neck, which you can’t help but find outrageous considering he’s the one currently trying to strip you out of your dress.
“James—”
Your retort is cut short by the strangled noise that escapes you when he decides to drag his teeth gently along your skin, scraping against the delicate skin of your neck.
“I said,” he breathes against your skin, fingers still determinedly working through your layers of clothing, “shush, darling.”
You manage to remain relatively quiet as he busies himself with scattering kisses over your neck, long dexterous fingers slipping you out of your skirt, petticoat, bustle…
“So many bloody layers,” he mutters to himself, dark eyebrows knitting together as he casts one item of clothing aside only to find yet another in his way.
“You’re having a fine time removing them, imagine how much fun it must be putting them on every day.”
“I’d rather imagine what’s waiting for me underneath, love.”
He’s finally gotten you out of your corset by the time he presses his lips back to yours in a fierce, claiming kiss and— to your surprise— hoists you into his arms.
Your legs lock around his waist instinctively, heat flooding your body at the feeling of only your chemise and drawers standing between him and your bare skin, something firm and insistent and hard pressing against your thigh, lost in his mouth on yours until you’re gently laid down onto your cozy— albeit tiny— bed.
His jacket and waistcoat have long since been discarded, and his tie soon joins them… well, somewhere on your floor as he takes in the sight of you splayed out before him.
“Gosh you’re gorgeous,” he breathes, sweet brown eyes wide and dark with desire.
“You’re not so bad yourself,” you reply breathlessly.
The nearly feral grin gracing his freckled face is all you have time to make out before he’s on top of you, capturing your lips in a fierce kiss, hands dragging along your sides to ruck up your chemise. For your part, your fingers are fumbling blindly at the buttons of his trousers, eliciting a sharp inhale every time you brush against the tent tucked inside them.
“Love, if you keep doin’ that…” he grinds out, gently grasping your wrists in one hand and guiding them up, up, up over your head, pressing them into the pillows.
“Stay there, yeah?” He breathes into your ear, biting down gently on your earlobe. “Be good for me, darling.”
All the response you can give at the moment is a jerky nod, a shiver cascading throughout your body as he carefully divests you of your remaining clothes and his damnably talented hands come into play once more.
His lips begin a trail from the corner of your mouth, down to your neck, spending a delicious amount of time sucking marks into your collarbone, all the while his hands are running over every inch of bare skin he can reach, a worshipper at the altar of your exposed skin.
You barely manage to clamp down on a moan as his mouth moves lower, pressing kisses over your breast before deftly capturing a nipple, one hand coming up to toy with the other. Your hips jerk up in search of… something, in search of the reassuring weight of him.
“Oh my— J-James—”
“Mhm,” He smiles against your skin, humming sweet nothings as he turns his attentions to your other breast, “That is indeed my name, love.”
All you can offer in the face of his infuriatingly calm demeanor is a mumble about “you cheeky little—” and then his mouth and hands are gone from your chest, and his mouth is working a line down your stomach to his true goal.
A needy whine tumbles from your lips as his mouth gets closer and closer to your core, hands fisting in the pillows by your head a poor substitute for where they long to be clutching at his curls. His gaze flits up to meet yours, a glint in his darkened brown eyes as his mouth works along your hipbone, along your inner thigh… everywhere except where you feel you need him.
James drags this out for long enough that you’re about to truly beg for him, landlady down the hall be damned, when he pulls away, meeting your eyes.
“Ready, love?”
“James!”
The look you give him says it all, and he wastes no time diving back between your legs, tongue dragging over your core, diving into you like a man starved. One hand presses your hips back down from where they’ve lifted from the bed in an attempt to chase the feeling of him, needing more, while the other drifts up to intertwine his fingers with yours— you’ve given up on clutching at your pillows, and now the one hand James isn’t holding glides down to tangle in his curls, pulling him closer.
You gasp his name, head thrown back against your bed as his tongue dives impossibly deeper, his groans of pleasure against your core sending shockwaves through your body. A choked moan tumbles from your lips when he shifts slightly, and his nose nudges up against the bundle of nerves between your legs.
“Ohmygoshrightthereyes—”
He indulges you for a while longer, dark, knowing brown eyes peering up at you through his lashes until he licks one final delicious stripe up through your folds and his mouth clamps over your clit.
You can feel the muffled noise he makes as you instinctively grip tighter on his hair, keeping him right there for as long as you can.
The hand clutching yours remains in a vice grip, as the fingers that were once grabbing at your hip glide down to your core, slipping and sliding through your folds. The only thing holding back the moan that longs to escape when his fingers finally dip inside you is your own teeth clamping down on your bottom lip, reducing what would have been a delicious cry of pleasure to a needy whine as you press yourself deeper onto his mouth and fingers.
He groans against you, sending vibrations throughout your body as his fingers work in and out of you, curling them in a come hither motion that brushes against a spot inside you that has you seeing stars.
Heat builds inside you, and James swears softly, clearly sensing how close you are.
“C’mon, darling… doing so good for me, just let go love…”
The world goes white as your orgasm crashes over you. The sight that greets you as you return to your body is James’s delighted gaze, his mouth glistening with your arousal as he cleans his fingers of the same.
“Fuck,” he groans, surging forward to press his mouth to yours, “You are incredible.”
You whine softly as he pulls away, attempting to chase his lips with yours until you realize what he’s doing.
Nimble fingers make quick work of his trousers, shoving them off and kicking them aside, his shirt is stripped off and tossed to join the rest of the clothes scattered about the floor, and you’re left there with your mouth hanging open as you take him in.
“Mind if I return the favor?” You murmur, eyes locked on his cock, hard and clearly aching for you.
His eyes flash, pupils blown wide as he climbs atop you, limbs caging you in.
“As wonderful as that would be, sweetheart,” he groans, lips dragging along your jaw, “I need to be inside you, please.”
You shiver, letting your legs fall open a touch wider.
“Yes, please, James—”
He pulls back the slightest bit, his nose and lips just barely brushing yours as he lines up at your entrance and then—
“Fuck, darlin’,” he gasps, eyes fluttering shut as he presses into you. “You feel— oh god—”
All you can do is let out a ragged moan as you adjust to the stretch, your nails raking gently down his back as he pulls out and thrusts back into you.
The room fills with sighs and gasps and moans as his thrusts in and out of you, one of your hands tangled in his curls, the other dragging your nails down his back, James pressing messy kisses along your cheek, your jaw, your neck…
“James,” you gasp, feeling that familiar pressure building, “James, I’m—”
He swears softly, lips brushing your ear.
“Me too, love, I— just let go, darling, I’m right behind you—”
You reach your second orgasm with a cry, James’s driving into you with several more erratic thrusts before pulling out of you and spilling onto a thin blanket you’d thrown over the edge of the bed.
“Ah,” he pants, realizing what he’d done, “I, er—”
“It’s… it’s fine, darling,” you reassure him breathlessly, “I’ve been meaning to wash that one anyway.”
With a laugh, he balls it up, tossing it off the bed before turning his attention back to you, his hand cupping your cheek as he captures your lips in a sweet kiss.
“Hello.”
You giggle against his lips, pulling him down onto the bed with you.
“Hello,” you grin once he’s pulled away, snuggling against him. “You don’t happen to have any… prior commitments today, do you?”
“None whatsoever, love.” He smiles, crinkles appearing in the corners of his eyes, “I’m free to stay here until your landlady chases me off like a stray dog.”
You laugh, twining your arms around him and yanking him in for a kiss, a tangle of limbs and sheets and laughter.
The first rule of fandom is have fun. The second rule of fandom is find an enabler and become an enabler. Yes you should write that fic. What if it was even hornier? What if it was angstier? What if you wrote it just for me?
I love these prompts so much that I'm going to give you some more!
23. Buttons for Jules and 30. Peaches for Vika. 💗
-@rosiecheekswindswepthair
Lou!!!! Thank you SO much for the request(s), I loved working on these! Hope you enjoy! 🥰🫶
June prompts!
23. Buttons for Jules
“Aw, darn it…”
Juliet pokes her head out of the closet, pausing her search for the perfect date night dress to see her husband frowning down at his shirt.
“What’s wrong, darling?”
“It’s nothing,” he waves off her concern, “just lost a button.”
He holds up a small white button, pointing to the place on his shirt where it once belonged.
With a huff, he begins unbuttoning the rest of his shirt and shucks it off. With remarkable focus— really, how delicious her husband looks in just an undershirt shouldn’t be allowed— Juliet gestures for him to hand it to her.
“I’ll fix it, Johnny. Won’t take a minute.”
He blinks.
“You sure, Jules?” His gaze flicks back to the closet, “I can just find another one, you’ve still gotta get ready—”
“I said give me the shirt, Johnny.”
It’s amazing how his wife can slip so seamlessly into what their friends have dubbed her Teacher Voice— the one that has them scrambling to do what she says before they get detention, despite them all being well beyond their school days. Before he knows it, Jules is striding over to her little sewing kit on the dresser, his shirt and button in hand.
Something warm blooms in his chest watching her set to work, still not entirely dressed— she’s just in her underthings, a petticoat and stockings as she seamlessly threads the needle, that familiar furrow appearing in her brow as she begins sewing; the same one he’s seen countless times appear as she pondered homework in the Cornell library, graded essays from her very first class of students, bustled around the kitchen trying a new recipe from Val or Vika. Her green eyes are sharp, one Victory Red lip drawn between her teeth as she absentmindedly brushes back a loose strand of her dark curls.
“Done!” She chirps, seemingly satisfied as she tugs at the button one last time to test her handiwork. “Told you it wouldn’t take a minute.”
He gives her a tender smile.
“Thank you, sweetheart.”
“Anytime, my darling,” his wife hums, pressing a light kiss to his cheek— making sure, as always, that she didn’t leave any lipstick behind.
“Which tie are you wearing again?” Her voice drifts from the closet, “I want to make sure my dress matches.”
“The blue and green one— I think last time you went with that one lighter blue dress you’ve got? The one with the flowers?”
“Oh, yes! Thank you, Johnny.”
She steps out in the very dress he’d been thinking of, smoothing the skirt before turning into a twirl.
“Well?”
John’s blue eyes are glowing with adoration as he takes her in, reaching for her hands and pressing a kiss to the back of them.
“Beautiful as always.”
Something inside Juliet goes soft and gooey at his words, the rest of the world melting into a haze… until her gaze catches on the clock on her nightstand.
“Johnny, we’re going to be late for our reservation!”
30. Peaches for Vika
“Si, si, just like that, gioia!”
Vika preens under the praise of Mrs. DeMarco— er, Ma, as she insists Vika call her— as she carefully fills the scooped-out cookie with cream and presses it to another cookie. She can kind of understand now, why they’re called pesche dolci— peach cookies. The two rounded domes pressed together do look rather like a peach.
“Now we dip them in the brandy— careful, yes— and then the sugar.”
“Like this?”
“Yes, perfect, Vika!”
The smile on Benny’s mother’s face lights up the room as she effortlessly repeats the steps she’d just explained to her daughter-in-law, the two working like a well-oiled machine until the plate is piled high with sugar-coated cookies.
“Now if we were back in Italy we’d be using Alkermes— it’s almost a spicy liquor, I think you’d like it, gioia— but we are in America, so peach brandy will have to do.”
“I’m sure they’ll taste wonderful, Ma.”
Vika stumbles a bit over the last syllable, still not quite used to it— it feels almost disrespectful, despite the many times Benny’s mother has insisted she be called it.
“Go on, try one!”
“Oh! Oh, um… I thought we were saving these for Benny?”
“Saving what for me?”
Vika jumps slightly at her husband’s voice, a sleeping Meatball having given no warning of his entrance to the apartment.
“Ah, welcome home, angelo,” Mrs. DeMarco greets her son, beaming. “I’ve been teaching Vika here all of my recipes, you know, and I know you’ll like what we made today.”
Benny’s eyes go wide as he turns from where he’d been greeting his wife with a kiss to take in the towering pile of cookies.
“Pesche dolci?!” He turns to Vika, “Ma taught you how to make pesche dolci?”
“Mhm,” Vika smiles, “I know they’re your favorite—”
“— and now you won’t keep pestering me for them, Bernard.” Mrs. DeMarco scolds, a playful twinkle in her eyes. “Now go on, take some! You too, Vika, the baker should always sample their wares!”
Ao3 is actually massively culturally important and very very good at being what it is. I’m so serious when I say that ao3 needs to be protected as the anti censorship, by fans for fans, nonprofit, volunteer run, expertly designed archival site that it is. You don’t have to read or like fanfiction to understand that on principle, ao3 is a site that should be defended.
Dude with all due respect ao3 was literally created because other fanfiction sites kept deleting and censoring stories with rape, noncon/dubcon, incest, etc porn as well as LGBT ship fics. The site does have a required ratings and warnings systems and tags so that you can exclude works that have themes or content within them that you don’t want to see.
If you don’t like what the site is showing you, you are using it improperly.
The above tagger has subjects they dislike; they need to learn to navigate around them so they don’t need to interact. That’s why tagging is so important: allowing the work to be found or avoided as needed.
The problem with ‘a little censorship’ is…endless. You want to control what other people are doing: how do you not see how that’s fucked to begin with?
You want to remove the ‘gross’ or the ‘inappropriate’ subjects, like that isn’t wholly subjective. Incest bothers you? Don’t read incest.
I can’t typically do fics with cheating, but I am not about to go tell the folks who write it that they can’t, purely to make me feel better. My eldest hates unhappy endings, they don’t get to dig up sad ending fics and yell at the author. My middle kid likes a different ship than I do in pretty much all of our common media. I don’t get to tell him he can’t read it anymore.
Fancy, emotionally charged buzzwords don’t change the fact that yeah, all of those are the same concept. You don’t like it, someone else is writing it, others are reading it, and that bothers you. That’s on you, my dear.
You will never have the right to tell someone else they cannot read or write it purely because you dislike it.
Learn to block, learn to filter, learn to accept that the real world has people who like things you do not.
This is the donut/diet argument all over again: you can’t have or dislike donuts, so you want to make sure no one else can have it either. Hard no, my friend. You have control only over yourself, and you need to remember that.
‘But those are bad things, I’m trying to get rid of the bad things only!’ No. They make you uncomfortable. There is a difference. Just as there is difference between reality and fiction. Just like what you think is bad may not, and probably will not, line up with someone else.
Fiction is not promoting rape, incest, whatever else. Kids aren’t going to go out and recreate things they’ve read for shits and giggles anymore than playing grand theft auto is going to make them join the fucking mafia or whatever it is. Sims players don’t suddenly rip their clothes off and drown in the pool, reading about Vash banging his brother a la Flowers in the Attic is hardly going to make someone knock on their actual brother’s door, etc etc etc ad nauseum.
More importantly: there is no end to ‘a little censorship’. Someone else gets to decide what I’m allowed to read and write, and the organizations with that aim have proven over and over and o v e r to be insane. Anything remotely queer is banned for being Bad or Sexualized (because these people have learned that PROTECT THE KIDS is the easiest way to rally the ignorant masses into believing that the rainbow is somehow preying on children… and thus need to be Controlled…)
You don’t want incest, you don’t want no con, someone else doesn’t want any form of kink, a third busybody can’t stand that boys kiss boys, a fourth can’t handle trans characters, another carves out the ace spectrum, yet more go after the stories exploring gender dynamics in the ABO verse.
That’s not even getting into politics, where it turns into now no one can post stories that explore changes in government, that are anti war, that are hopepunk and show all the ways society could be better. Or, on the opposite spectrum, things akin to the anarchist’s cookbook: how to make weaponry to forcibly make things change.
Oh, can’t have books that talk about different religions, either. Can’t have books that let girls know they should be treated equally, that they can do whatever they please, that they’re more than a walking baby factory. can’t have stories with magic, that’ll lead to evil thoughts. Can’t have stories with explicitly consensual anything, gotta keep the population pure and filled with shame about their desires. (There is a reason so many romance novels have a bit of unsavory shenanigans: the thrill of being wanted so overwhelmingly in a world where feeling that want means you are Not a Good Girl)
We’re living this, right now, again.
This is why knowing your history is so important.
Look at books have that been banned, burned. I’m going to oversimplify but: Picture books (and tango makes 3) because two male penguins adopted a baby, and we can’t let our kids know that’s acceptable, never mind that I, a child of a lesbian, literally bawled my eyes out upon finding that book in my twenties. I would read it every day to my own toddlers, because look! They’re like Awa and Gramma! 1984, because the entire point is how burning books is Bad. Animal Farm, the new government is just as bad as the old and we the people deserve better. Gone With the Wind, for being about the American south and not only making it seem like maybe slavery is kinda meh but also hinting at a woman having a sexuality. The scandal. Harry Potter. Not because JK turned out to be transphobic trash, but because it’ll turn kids into satanists, y’know, because of all the magic. A thing that is totally real and possible to recreate. Are you there god, it’s me, Margaret. Because it talked about menstrual cycles.
As an American, seeing headlines where kids are banned from the library because of policies like this is terrifying. Kids in Florida have zero books in the classroom. They have to be screened to be considered ‘appropriate’. And that means whitewashed, bland, and unchallenging of the norms the neo nazis are pushing. Can’t have anything about the struggles of the non white populace, can’t have anything at all about the queers, can’t have anything that paints the south in a bad light.
There is a bill currently attempting to pass into law, KOSA: kids online safety act. Under the guise of ‘protect the kids’ the government here is literally attempting to sanitize and censor the entire internet, for everyone. AO3 will be on the list of places they’re going to try and nuke. Yeah, even your cute vanilla super straight happy ever afters. All in the name of making sure imaginary little Johnny doesn’t think kissing boys, wearing pink, becoming friends with the Mexican kid down the street, or opposing genocide is acceptable behavior.
Censorship is not about protecting you, me, the mythical children, or anyone at all. It never has been.
Censorship is purely about control.
Censorship is about controlling your awareness, your intelligence, your ability to realize you are living in the worst timeline, and your ability to organize and fight back. Censorship is division. Censorship is deliberate cruelty meant to cripple you and make you malleable.
After all, you’ve given up your ability to explore new ideas, to think outside the box they’ve put you in. You are tamed, declawed, and too stupid to notice now. Don’t worry your pretty little blonde haired and blue eyed head about it now, Julie, the government will tell you want you need to know. Oh, what happened to your neighbor? Sweetie, what neighbor? No one was ever there. Repeat after me, no one was ever there.
AO3 is protecting my ability to read and write whatever the fuck I want, while giving me the search capabilities to NOT run into shit I dislike. AO3 is giving my teens a safe place to read and explore their own sexualities and interests, to engage in uncomfortable situations in a controlled way. AO3 is giving my teens a place to practice being human.
Censorship is always the bad guy.
AO3 is a fucking godsend, a pillar of creativity and freedom of engagement, and should be revered as such.
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