anotetosaturn

[anotetosaturn]

Inspo

[anotetosaturn]

"people who stay up at night are either insomniac or In love" people who stay up at night read gay fanfiction on AO3 what are you on about?

[anotetosaturn]

An image response like this with dogs and cats came up on my timeline. I couldn't help but see it as McDonald's, so I tried to rearrange it.

S "I'm home, Danny!"

D "Stay!!"

D "...Welcome back (in a small voice)"

[anotetosaturn]

well 🧍‍♀️ as a reminder this blog is NOT a safe space for trump supporters but it IS a safe place for women, queers, trans ppl, people of color, undocumented people, and any marginalized group.

[anotetosaturn]

"you are the ocean, evan," he said, voice quieter now.

"you live for it. you move like it, talk about it like it's— like it's in your bones.

and manta rays." he swallowed. "they glide. they're steady, even when everything around them is chaos."

eddie took a breath.

"and that's you. to me."

uhhh idk what this is but anywho marine biologist evan buckley au is HEAVY on my noggin tbh

[anotetosaturn]

I know we all say Evan Buckley, golden retriever, but I submit: Evan Buckley, orange cat. Tell me he wouldn’t knock a glass off a counter to get attention or get himself caught in a box on accident and purrs even when you’re slapping his belly. Eddie as a German Shepherd who looks scary but hides under your bed during thunderstorms.

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Steve(about a truly horrible person): Can I shoot her?

Danny:.. Not in public.

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Jee-Yun just assuming her uncle Buck and her uncle Eddie are married just like her aunt Hen and her aunt Karen. in season nine. please and thank you.

[anotetosaturn]

hiii i'm cin 𓂁 he/him. gay. aries. mid-twenties. hawaii five-o and 911.

minors dni! requests open - read rules for more info.

ꕀ masterlist (work in progress) ꕀ twitter ꕀ rules ꕀ

all works belong to anotetosaturn. do not claim any works as your own, copy, or repost. i definitely did steal inspiration for the layout/idea for this pinned post from the-palelady, so thank you, ily.

[anotetosaturn]

𓆝 ⋆. rules

⋆ my asks and messages are always open if you want to chat!

⋆ please be kind and respectful. any hateful asks, or forms of hate will not be tolerated— if you’re here just to be a dick you'll be blocked.

⋆ my blog is 18+ only, i post mature content 90% of the time. if i wind up catching you, you'll be sent to jail sorry.

⋆ i accept any and all requests, however, they may take me a bit. i will not force inspiration. if i don't respond to your writing request it's because it either didn't inspire me to write anything or violated any of the rules above. although i do try to write for every request i get, ideas might not come naturally so don't take it personally it's me.

⋆ pls know that i will not write stepcest, nsfw for minor characters, aging up minors, graphic sexual violence, scat/waterworks etc. i currently write for hawaii five-o and 911, but send the request, i'm down to adventure!

⋆ i write smut, fluff and angst. i am open to dark content depending on the topics and how it is executed.

⋆ DON’T plagiarize or repost/translate my work!

⋆ just please be nice and mindful. i am new to this tumblr thing and writing. i'm usually very reserved and shy, so this is big for me.

[anotetosaturn]

Hii prompt for mcdanno: one of them giving the other a massage? if you’re down to write something like that! (Can be as innocent or as spicy as u like)

pressure and release

mcdanno | explicit 18+ | 1.3k

the sun isn’t up yet, just the palest smear of light pressed against the horizon. honolulu’s quiet, save for the early stirrings of birds and the hush of the waves coming from the ocean. inside the house, everything’s still. except the bed. 

danny’s on his stomach, sprawled like he’d been thrown down by the night itself—arms out, face half-smashed into the silk of the pillowcase, bare skin warm from sleep and faintly damp from the breeze. the sheet’s tangled around one calf. his back is a map of tension, tight across the shoulders, rigid along the spine. 

steve watches him for a minute. not with a smile—he’s not grinning or fond or any of that sentimental shit—but there’s something in his chest, heavy and rooted, every time he looks at danny like this. when danny’s asleep, or half-asleep, or not yelling about pineapple or crime scenes or where the towels go. 

just him. 

steve shifts closer, one knee braced against the mattress. he runs his hand down danny’s back once, slow and firm. danny makes a noise—not a word, just a grunt—and burrows deeper into the pillow. 

“your back’s a mess,” steve murmurs. 

“that’s what happens when you let your insane navy seal boyfriend use you as a human shield during a takedown,” danny mumbles, voice thick with sleep. “also, your bed is a rock. not that you care.” 

steve smiles, just a little. “stay like that. let me work on it.” 

“unless ‘work on it’ is code for letting me sleep—” 

but he cuts off when steve presses his thumbs in, just below danny’s shoulder blades. danny jolts like he’s been shocked. air rushes out of him. 

“fuck—what the hell, steve—” 

“tight as hell,” steve says, quietly. “i’m not joking. this is bad. how long’s it been since you let anybody fix this?” 

“never, probably. who the hell has time to get massages when we’re dealing with meth heads on jet skis?” 

steve leans in. he spreads his hands across danny’s back—wide palms, slow pressure, tracing muscle and bone. the mattress dips beneath his weight. he moves with precision, methodical, like he’s disarming a bomb or reassembling a rifle. 

he works from the top—fingers sliding under the line of danny’s neck, down the sides of his throat, where tension knots like wire. his thumbs dig in, drag out. danny groans. 

“jesus christ. that’s not massage, that’s assault.” 

“breathe through it.” 

“i am breathing—barely.” 

steve keeps going. he knows the way danny’s body holds stress. left shoulder worse than the right, neck like iron, lower back always tight from the way he sits in the car. he shifts his weight, kneeling beside danny now, and slides his hands lower. 

the touch changes. still firm, but slower. more deliberate. his calloused hands stroke down danny’s sides, just barely brushing the ribs. his fingers hook under the edge of the sheet, then peel it down, exposing more skin. 

danny’s still beneath him now. no complaints. just watching him through one sleepy, narrowed eye. 

“steve,” he says, not quite a question. 

“relax.” 

steve’s hands settle low, just above danny’s ass, thumbs bracketing the dimples of his lower back. he starts to knead in slow circles. danny’s breath hitches. 

“you’re—getting suspiciously good at this.” 

“seal training.” 

“they taught you how to do this in the navy?” 

“close-quarters manipulation, muscle control, injury prevention.” 

“uh huh. and that conveniently translates to you grabbing my ass at six a.m.” 

steve smirks, just barely. his thumbs press deeper, circling in slow, relentless strokes. danny swears are muffled from the pillow. 

the muscles under steve’s hands start to soften, melt. danny’s body loosens by degrees, tension bleeding out of him like color from a bruise. his arms shift beneath the pillow, spine flexing under the weight of the massage. 

steve leans down, breath ghosting over the curve of danny’s back. 

“tell me where you need it.” 

“you’re already there,” danny mutters. “fuck.” 

steve drags his hands lower. not rough, but no hesitation either. he palms the backs of danny’s thighs, works into them like he’s trying to draw something out from bone. danny spreads his legs just a little more. 

the room’s gone quiet again. just breathing, the creak of the mattress, the distant sound of waves outside the open window. the smell of salt hangs thick in the air.  

steve bends low, presses a kiss to the base of danny’s spine. soft, slow. not asking. 

“you okay?” 

danny’s voice is raw. “yeah. keep going.” 

steve does. 

his hands sweep upward again, smoothing over flushed skin, then back down, tracing the slope of danny’s ass. his thumbs spread him apart gently. no rush. just a careful, intimate pressure that has danny sucking in a breath. 

“jesus,” danny rasps. 

steve dips his head. 

one lick, slow and deep, all the way up. 

danny jerks up. “oh fuck—” 

steve’s hands pin his hips down, steady, and he licks again. thorough, possessive. the flat of his tongue dragging over tight muscle, teasing danny’s rim, circling with patience only steve has. danny moans, harsh and sudden. 

“steve.” 

“just relax.” 

he keeps going, unrelenting now, tongue working him open with slow insistence. his grip stays firm. danny’s thighs are shaking. 

“you’re gonna kill me,” danny chokes out. “this is how i die. smothered in my own bed by—oh god—by a fucking navy seal with a tongue like—” 

steve pulls back only long enough to press two slick fingers inside, slow and deep. danny tenses, then groans, long and wrecked. 

“fuck. fuck, steve—” 

he stretches him with practiced control, curling his fingers just right, playing with danny’s prostate, and danny lets out a sound that’s almost a cry. 

steve’s voice is low. “you want more?” 

“yes. yes, fuck, yes.” 

steve doesn’t make him wait. 

he shifts forward, lines up, and pushes in slow. maddeningly slow. inch by inch, until he’s buried deep, until danny’s back arches and his fists twist in the sheets. 

“fuck,” danny gasps. “steve—” 

“i got you,” steve breathes. “just feel it.” 

he starts to move. deep, steady strokes, grinding in with full-body force, hips pressing flush, every thrust hitting exactly where it should. his hands never stop roaming—over danny’s back, his ribs, down to his thighs to spread him wider. 

danny’s gone, completely. muttering curses, grabbing at the pillow, panting into the mattress. 

“you’re—insane—jesus, that’s—fuck, yes—” 

steve doesn’t talk. he doesn’t need to. he just drives in harder, gritting his teeth, fucking danny with the kind of focused precision that made him lethal in the field and devastating in bed. every grind of his hips earns a broken moan. every shift makes danny lose a little more control. 

when he leans down, his chest slick against danny’s back, their bodies locked together, it’s more than heat. more than sex. it’s them—all of it, unspoken and lived and known. 

he wraps a hand around danny’s cock, stroking him in rhythm. danny keens—high, desperate, already close. 

“steve—fuck, i’m gonna—” 

“do it,” steve growls against his ear. “cum for me.” 

danny shudders. his whole body seizes, muscles clenching, a cry torn from his throat as he spills across the sheets. 

steve fucks him through it, hips stuttering, then groans deep in his chest and cums hard, buried to the hilt. 

silence, then. just the sound of breathing, the quiet slap of waves outside, and the warm, wrecked weight of them tangled together. 

after a minute, steve pulls out, slow and careful. he drops beside danny, one arm slung around his waist, lips brushing his shoulder. 

“you’re gonna complain about the bed again?” 

danny makes a wrecked sound that might be laughter. “i’m not complaining about anything ever again.” 

“good.” 

“also,” danny mutters, voice already fading into sleep, “that’s not a massage. that’s a felony.” 

steve smiles into his skin. “you didn’t say stop.” 

“didn’t want to.” 

and he doesn’t. 

not ever. 

work number two is done and first one for mcdanno ♡

i really hope you enjoy this one!! let me know what y'all want more of!!

‎‧₊˚✩ 🪐✩˚₊‧ until next time ‎‧₊˚✩ 🪐✩˚₊‧

[anotetosaturn]

Buddie prompt!!

Smthing about eddie flirting with buck in Spanish not knowing he understands it

here ya go!! i hope you enjoy ♡

si me dices cariño otra vez

buddie | explicit 18 + | 1.3k

Buck's POV 

He isn’t drunk, not yet anyways. Buzzed? Absolutely. Head warm and edges softened.  

The beer has made his bones feel light, but he’s got the clarity that comes with watching Eddie from across the room– a private kind of intoxication Buck has been nursing for years now.  

Buck sat at the table the group had all but claimed, a long booth in the corner littered with glasses and plates in various states of full, or empty, depending how you look at it. Buck chews on his straw as he half listens to whatever conversation Hen and Chim are engrossed in, too busy not thinking about how good Eddie's thighs look in the jeans he’s wearing tonight.  

Eddie makes his way back from the bar with fresh drinks for himself, and Buck. Eddie immediately plops besides Buck, close enough that Buck can feel the heat of his leg through those god forsaken jeans.  

That part? Well, that part isn’t new. But the way Eddie's been looking at him all night? That is new. 

It started subtly.  

A lazy glance, eyes tracking Buck’s mouth longer than they should. A hand on his arm that lingered. The occasional brush of their thighs beneath the table. Buck had chalked it up to the alcohol, but there’s something in the way he says Buck’s name that makes Buck’s belly do a little thing.  

And then it happened.  

Eddie's fifth beer is half gone when he leans in. His lips barely graze the shell of Buck’s ear, breath warm and tinged with mezcal and lime, as he says – soft, like a secret  

“Sí supieras lo bien que te ves esta noche, cariño...” 

Buck stills. 

If you knew how good you looked tonight, honey... 

Buck doesn’t move, doesn’t react. Just lets a slow smile creep across his lips as if Eddie had whispered some random joke. Buck nods like he didn’t catch it – but inside? His stomach flips, twists, burns, because surely Eddie hadn’t meant to say that, especially to buck. Right? 

Buck had been wondering for months if Eddie had felt it too – the heat, the gravitational pull, the way something always felt unsaid between the two of them. And now Eddie is practically purring it in Spanish, right in his ear.  

Does he really think I don’t understand him? 

Buck waits, watches as Eddie leans back, smug and relaxed, like he didn’t just flip buck inside out with one sentence.  

Buck does his best to play it cool, he really does. He grabs a fry off Hen’s plate, despite her swatting his hand, and throws it in his mouth laughing at something Chim is saying about Ravi's refusal to sing anything released after 2010. The conversation rolls on, a comfortable wave of noise and teasing, but Buck isn’t really paying attention. His mind is elsewhere. He sneaks a look at the man sitting just inches away. big mistake. 

Eddie is already looking at him. There’s a slight smile at the corner of Eddie's mouth. He’s drumming his fingers lazily against his, now empty, glass. Eyes flicking from Buck’s lips to his eyes, then down to his throat. Almost like he’s waiting for a reaction.  

But buck gives him nothing, not yet. 

He just watches, waits. 

Eddie is tipsy, but not sloppy. There’s a looseness to him, a warmth that usually takes a backseat to his tight-lipped, stoic exterior. Tonight though? That warmth is out in full bloom – a softness in his eyes that Buck thinks he’d never get tired of seeing. Eddie flashes Buck one of his teethiest, yet cockiest grins, one that shows his pointy canines and makes Buck weak in the knees. Buck forces himself to look away. 

Eddie raises his glass to his lips, throws back what's left in the glass and whispers,  

“Ese cuello tuyo me tiene pensando cosas que no debería.”  

It was a murmur, practically inaudible beneath the thrum of the bar, but Buck hears it loud and clear. 

He swallows – beer and heat and something thick behind his ribs – and doesn’t turn to Eddie. Not yet. Instead, he leans his elbow on the table, eyes flicking to Chimney, who’s already mid-rant about Ravi’s refusal to sing. 

“Man has no soul,” Chim says dramatically, waving his beer bottle toward Ravi. “Wouldn’t even sing Bon Jovi. Who does that?” 

“I have soul,” Ravi says, deadpan. “It’s just quiet. And dignified.” 

“Tell that to your playlist,” Hen mutters into her drink. 

Eddie chuckles, tilting his head toward the group. “He’s got a point, though. You can’t trust someone who doesn’t lose their voice screaming ‘Livin’ on a Prayer’ at least once in their life.” 

Buck hums in agreement, pretending to be invested in the debate — but he feels it before it happens. 

Eddie leans in. Just a fraction. Just enough. 

The warmth of his breath brushes the hinge of Buck’s jaw and Eddie reaches up and runs a finger down his neck. His voice, when it comes, is a low rasp in Spanish — smooth as tequila, biting as lime. 

“Daría lo que fuera por morde morderte rte ahí mismo…” 

Buck doesn’t move. Doesn’t dare. His heart punches the inside of his ribs, hard enough that he’s surprised no one else can hear it over the music. He takes a sip of his drink — slow, steady — and smiles like Eddie just cracked a joke about karaoke. 

Hen raises her brow. “What, now you’re defending Bon Jovi?” 

Eddie shrugs, straight-faced. “I’ve got layers.” 

“Like an onion,” Maddie offers, snorting. “Or an overcooked lasagna.” 

Karen grins. “Overcooked, but secretly spicy.” 

The table erupts into laughter. Buck plays along, tipping his head back, letting the moment wash over him like nothing’s wrong — like Eddie didn’t just whisper something filthy about his neck in a language he absolutely understands. 

Eddie stays close. 

Too close. 

Their thighs are touching now, warm through denim. Buck’s sure he’s imagining it — the slight pressure, the deliberate shift — until Eddie reaches past him for a napkin and lets his fingers graze the back of Buck’s neck, slotting his fingers through the hair at the nape of his neck. 

“¿Sabes lo que haría si estuviéramos solos?” 

The words ghost across his skin like a touch. Soft. Dangerous. 

Buck’s hand tightens around his glass, his knuckles white. 

He breathes. Counts the seconds between the thump of his pulse and the next beat of music. He’s holding on by threads — not because he doesn’t want this, but because he does. Desperately. Stupidly. He’s imagined it a thousand different ways, but this? This is better. Eddie, loose-limbed and warm with beer, looking at him like Buck’s the only thing in the room. Like this game they’re playing is just foreplay. 

Does he even realize what he’s doing? 

Ravi’s saying something now — something about worst pickup lines — and Hen challenges Eddie to throw one out. 

Eddie turns back to the group with a grin. 

“Oh, I’ve got one,” he says. “But it only works in Spanish.” 

Karen raises an eyebrow. “Now that sounds suspicious.” 

“It’s not,” Eddie lies. Then, casually — with all the confidence of someone who knows exactly what he’s doing — he turns to Buck with a smirk, and murmurs: 

“Cariño si fueras mío, no te dejaría salir de la cama.” 

Buck nearly drops his drink. 

He lets out a slow breath and turns toward Eddie — just slightly, just enough to catch the curl of his mouth, the challenge in his eyes. 

It’s too much. Too intimate, too close to the line they’ve never crossed. And Buck? He’s done pretending he doesn’t understand. 

He leans in, closer than they’ve ever been before, their mouths only inches apart. Buck can’t seem to bring himself to care that their friends, family, are watching this exchange. 

Buck’s voice is quiet, but sharp with intention: 

“¿Y por qué no me lo has dicho antes, Eddie?” 

Eddie freezes. 

Just for a second. 

The mask slips — surprise, sharp and electric, flickers in his eyes. His lips part, no sound coming out. His fingers twitch on his empty glass, like he’s fighting the urge to reach out and grab Buck and kiss him senseless. 

Buck smiles. 

Slow. Sure. 

“Si me vuelves a llamar cariño, Diaz, no llegaremos a la cama…” 

[anotetosaturn]

okay my buddie peeps, i am looking for an excuse to pick up writing again, so please send me prompts or ideas! i currently will write for buddie or hawaii five-o!! pls be nice im new to this so any tips/friends are welcome <3

[anotetosaturn]

(insp.)

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[anotetosaturn]

so you f*cked up. you will a lot in life. but then you’ll recover and do better.

[anotetosaturn]

Ryan Guzman as Eddie Díaz 9-1-1, S08E03 - Final Approach