#might write more tomorrow

[becca-e-barnes]

I've been way too into hot wife stuff at the minute, I blame Serenity Cox and it got me thinking about being Steve's wife but he's really into watching you with Bucky.

Most of the appeal for Steve is that you and Bucky really degrade him. He gets to watch his little wife cum on his best friend's cock while you both taunt him and he never thought he'd be into it the way that he is.

"Your girl's so fuckin' tight, Steve." Bucky pants, slowing his thrusts into you because if he keeps up his current pace, he'll cum faster than he wants to. "Does Stevie fill you the way I do? Bet he can't. He's not as big as me."

You shake your head, staring right at Steve. "Not even close. You're pathetic, aren't you Stevie? You'd rather watch me get fucked by your best friend."

You know it's mean but Steve fucking loves it. He's cum four times already and he's still jerking himself off. It's like he just can't stop and it's so thrilling to see him enjoy this as much as he is.

"I'm gonna cum in your girl, Steve. Gonna make you watch me stuff her so full. Just imagine your pretty little wife with my cum dripping out of her greedy cunt. If you're lucky, she might let you fuck her after I'm finished." Bucky's not usually so vulgar but God, it works wonders for both you and Steve.

"I don't know. I'm not sure if I'll ever want to fuck Steve again." Hearing you say that sends Steve over the edge, spilling a fresh load all over himself while he groans pathetically and even then, he doesn't stop.

"I can't blame you. Now you know how it feels to be fucked right. Felt you cum on me more times than I can count." Bucky's not wrong but his excitement is building and you feel his pace start to falter.

"Fuck, oh fuck." You whimper, feeling the first few pulses of his cock and the unmistakable feeling of his load splashing into your eager body. You've needed this. You were desperate for it and after a second you realise neither of you needed it more than Steve did.

"Good girl, fuckin' take it. I can't stop." Bucky groans, pressed as deep inside you as he can get, pumping his cum right to your cervix. He cums for what feels like an eternity and it's pure bliss.

By the time he's finished, Steve is trembling with need once more.

"If you don't want your wife knocked up with your best friend's baby, I suggest you get to work." You tease, pressing Steve back on the bed and repositioning yourself so you're sitting on his face, letting his best friend's cum drip out of you and into his eager, waiting mouth.

[stella-soulaan]

[solarpunkani]

PROGRESS!!!!!!

[sealofarchives]

Hello, could you do a Rottmnt headcanon of what kind of relationship Leo, Raph, Donnie and Mikey would be?

Headcanon: The reader might need 4 rings in the future since they couldn't decide on one turtle. (Requested prompt)

A/N: sorry for bringing up watt/pad again but, I did at least a couple of oneshots towards the reader in a poly relationship with the guys. So I had a bit of deja vu seeing this type of prompt again (probably around 5 years of writing) but anyway...

One last note: It was a bit difficult to understand the wording towards this particular ask. I already had some unpleasant interactions with "those fans" so I hesitated for a bit with this one.

So please double check your asks before sending it because I don't want to end up with another semi-hiatus because of asks that were out of my control...

If this isn't the kind of relationship you're into, then just skip this one.

Leo

He honestly wasn't expecting you to make the first move.

And tbh, he kept pacing around his room by the time the new feelings bonked him on the head. Like "Ooooh no... (Y/N)'s actually really really really cute..."

Surprisingly, he went to Splinter for advice. Part of his soul left his body when the rat man explained the importance of that special relationship in a lovey dovey manner. But, actually listened slowly realizing Splinter's previous relationships ended in failure. Especially with how things are with Splinter and Big Mama.

Its close to the end of the week when you suggest that idea to date all four of them. And you were very much taken back that he's okay with it. Though he can't promise not to be jealous from time to time. But, he and his brothers will make sure not to break your heart and will swear by it.

- More likely to do surprise visits (or alerting you with a text that he's dropping by for a few minutes. sometimes close to an hour or more if he's not really in the mood for a night patrol)

- Accidentally starts light hearted competitions with him and his brothers trying to impress you. He's still gonna be a showboat but tones it down the moment you pretend to ignore him.

- He's a bit insane and brave with the idea of wanting to meet your family members (the ones that you feel comfortable with). Or towards people that have been there for you in those darker times. Aside from April and his future self being close to a guardian figure to Casey Jr. And the brief time he and his family had with Karai, might be the reasons why he wants to reach out more. Mostly starting small though since the mental scar from the Krang and Shredder really changed him as a person.

Its usually Mikey or Donnie that challenge the red slider turtle to a friendly game on winning your affection. And when he's not feeling up to it, he just waits when Raph's turn is over and asks for your TLC (tender loving care).

Despite the horrors, he's still the same ol whiner. And will probably latch on to you with the most saddest eyes. That you're luckily immune to as you hold hands with one of his brothers for the start of the next week. Donnie has used a spray bottle with water at him and still does it even when its not his turn.

Raph

Very confused about the idea and trying to make sense of it.

It might be close to a few weeks where he finally understands. (mainly asking from April because his brothers can make it sound more confusing)

He hasn't really thought that much about the existential dread of the mutant/human relationship until seeing either Leo or Donnie silently anxious about it. Like the alligator snapping turtle is always more focused on keeping his family safe. And with you as a partner (and potential future spouse) being shared with him and the rest of his brothers. Mind Raph is pestering him even more just to say it out loud than just waiting for you to lead the relationship.

He'll eventually get used to it and given his oldest brother status. Takes it with ease being more patient compared to their high energy.

- Doesn't realize he acts like a "proper gentleman" (or gentleturtle as Donnie would say) when Raph opens the door for you while you're carrying boxes or something. Or offers to help you with the heavy lifting. Even Splinter calls him out on that behavior.

- When its his turn dating you, you get immediate "dibs" on everything. He plays very innocent with you but on his brothers. They always work together on a prank back at him for being annoying about it.

- Tends to look at your hands sometimes. He blushes thinking about how soft it feels around his face and lightly tracing around where its safe to touch his spiky shell.

While he always has good intentions, his brothers heavily hate the 'chaperone or third wheel checking in on the date idea'.

- It's mostly brought at least once a month and the trio usually try to tell you ahead of time before it happens again.

He'll be slightly grumpy whenever the trio share a single brain cell about a really stupid thing that he won't get.

- And he'll whine for a bit if you end up taking their side so, just take his side to save him from another wrinkle on his Raph chasm.

Donnie

He's silently making a fuss about it during the first month.

And a bit at himself, for waiting so long to ask you out. Before you went ahead with the bold move of "I don't want you guys to fight over me so... Is it okay if I date all four of you?"

It takes him a long while to get used to it. Or when Dr Feelings notices the softshell turtle not being open and honest about this relationship with you.

However once he's fully settled in, a very charming and laidback sort of relationship.

- I always get the vibe he uses 'dearest or darling' as his term of affection towards you. (His brothers used to tease him about it but, on days where bad luck decided to give this turtle a break and more on them. They're pleading for your help and whether you want to add fuel to that fire. That's on you)

- To me, he has that dramatic hopeless romantic energy. The only difference he pulls it off better than the dense couples in rom com movies/shows. With the amount of words he knows, at least a few or almost all of his compliments at you will send your heart into a flutter.

- At least every now and then, he'll try to dazzle you with something. Either one of his incredible inventions or surprising you with your favorite thing. (He'll boldly insist he was a step ahead getting it as a surprise. Even though his brothers actually chipped in to avoid another "The Purple Game" incident)

He sort of has a friendly rivalry with Leo on trying to make you laugh.

- If he starts to gloat about it, especially winning with the claim "Told you I was the funniest."

You kissing the softshell turtle's lips will instantly shut him down. use that power wisely

He unfortunately has jealousy issues by the time his turn is up.

- Like pretending to give the cold shoulder until you need help with something he's an expert at.

Mikey

Very much the mature one taking this relationship seriously.

Even though it took a few days with Donnie's help to get a better understanding of your idea of the poly relationship.

Dr Feelings and Dr Delicate Touch are working overtime because of these dumb dumbs sometimes.

Despite that, absolutely the sweetest turtle boyfriend. (and best future turtle husband material out of the four of them)

- While he has the Lou Jitsu charm, Mikey's bundle of sunshine is a whole another level. You can't help but, slowly break into a smile from his toothy grin.

- If you're the type who takes a long while to warm up to pda. He'll mostly stick to handholding and ask whenever you want a hug or kiss from him. (He's definitely more warm as a result of the mystic fire-based energy and ninpo that just naturally went with the flow towards him. So you sometimes fall asleep on his shoulder without realizing it)

- More likely to make any boring task you dread doing into a fun adventure. You both have matching hats from a previous grocery trip and pretended it was a mission from one of the Jupiter Jim comics.

His brothers were totally not jelly about it.

Very much tries to hide his embarrassment from his brothers suggesting 'better date ideas' to the best of his ability. He glared a few times at Raph with the chaperone idea. The usual youngest not getting along with the oldest brother sort of deal. So whenever you're around, the biggest sign is a strained smile on his face while lying that everything is okey-dokey.

- He almost clamped his shell shut when Splinter immediately disapproved the ideas with something even more embarrassing.

The only downside is he might go to some extreme lengths with how stubborn his brothers act.

- So you might need additional help from Splinter or April to prevent a new doctor persona along the lines of Dr Chaos.

[kakushigotofanclub]

Currently thinking about Senjuro turning 21 and realizing he’s officially older than his big brother ever got to be.

[rotworld]

30: Ravenous

art by @exorbitantsqueakingnoises

the binding pact between a human and a familiar is powerful and not easily broken. it's best not to make promises lightly, especially when you don't fully understand what you're promising.

->original work. contains implied animal (familiar) abuse, graphic descriptions of violence, hard vore, feral behavior, possessive behavior, manipulation.

.

.

.

The first thing you do every morning is try to get Bailey’s collar off.

It’s an ugly, vicious contraption, a heavy ring of metal clamped tightly around his throat. Inscribed with a spell for sure, because it adjusts to fit him no matter his size but just barely. It’s always slightly too tight, strangling his voice and irritating the skin underneath. You run your fingers along the edge in search of an indent, a hidden switch, a secret symbol—the hint of a release mechanism. No luck so far and nobody online has seen anything like it, either.

You sit in the armchair in his room while Bailey sits between your legs on the floor. He’s tense and alert, ears pricked and eyes fixed on the door. Guard dog posture, you think. He does this all the time but especially when you’re in his room. You’ve tried to make him comfortable but there’s only so much plush dog beds and cutesy toys can do. He hates loud noises and sudden movements. He’s an extremely light sleeper and if you touch him without warning him that you’re about to do it, you could lose a hand. Jagged markings circle his limbs just above the paw, bumpy zigzags of flesh circling the lower part of his legs. 

It’s not some big mystery. They’re exactly the right size in exactly the right spot to be the ghost of shackles and chains, just as painful as the one around his neck. All around them are fresher, still healing lacerations where he’d gnawed and scratched and nearly torn himself apart prying them off.

You let out a sigh, rubbing your thumb over the collar’s faint engravings. “Sorry. I still can’t figure this thing out. I’ll try again later. But, you know, we could try calling a professional—”

Bailey growls. 

“Okay,” you say gently. “No professionals. It was just a suggestion.”

He turns around and rests his head on your lap with a huff. You pet him, stroke behind his ears, and he gets as close as he ever does to relaxing. Big amber eyes peer up at you with calm confidence. Certainty that you won’t harm. That you can’t. 

You can see the moment an idea sparks to life in his mind. He brightens, straightening up and nudging his cold snout at your thigh insistently, trying to push you. 

“What? You wanna go for a walk?” you ask. 

He lets out a very quiet, “Arrruff.” He licks your hand and playfully nips at your fingers. He looks up at you with big, pleading eyes. 

You pull your hand away quickly and he whines. Refusal is on the tip of your tongue but you don’t voice it. You don’t feel like you can. He sits up taller, resting his front paws on your thigh. It’s easy to forget that Bailey isn’t really a dog—he’s more reluctant to speak or change form than any familiar you’ve ever met—but that attentive, knowing gaze always snaps you back to reality. This isn’t just some sad, simple creature incapable of understanding the complexities of everything around him.

You promised him something and he’s holding you to it.

“We could go to the park?” you offer, your voice somewhat strained. His tail thumps against your chair in a quickening wag. “Okay. Meet me at the door, I’ll let them know we’re leaving.” 

He doesn’t want to lose sight of you, but he reluctantly lets you up. His wet snout pokes your legs and hip in pursuit of your palm again for one last pet. He likes when you smooth your hand over his head and ears, the way your thumb traces all his little scars and scratches. Like they’re precious. Good things, just because they’re attached to him. He soaks up the attention with his eyes blissfully shut for a moment longer before he begrudgingly lets you go. One last affectionate headbutt and then he trots away. You step into the hall and make sure to shut the door behind you.

In the hall outside, enormous claw marks have been gouged into the floor and walls, monstrous dragging marks that end right at Bailey’s door. A few of your coworkers peer around the corner, relieved as always to see that you’re still alive.

You walk down the hall and into the common area, a comfy, carpeted room with both a human-sized sofa and several smaller seating options: cat trees, floor cushions, a wooden perch for birds. The sofa is occupied by a woman, three cats, a crow, and a lizard on the armrest, enraptured by a nature program playing on TV. The woman has white wispy curls like a sheep’s wool for hair, her pupils thick horizontal bars. She waves when you walk by, smiling shyly. The cats nod. The crow and the lizard are gossiping. 

A lot of sad stories come through the Belfry Plaza Familiar Shelter. Tragedy is inherent to this line of work. The best things you have to deal with are negligence; familiars gifted to children who lose interest, pacts formed from flimsy, careless promises. Those are straightforward situations, usually with happy endings. Mom and Dad are often disappointed—summoners want their children to be summoners, too—but compromises are made, pacts are amicably dissolved, and everyone gets to move on with their life. More harrowing and more frequent are worse things: adults who should know better. Magic that isn’t fair. Familiars who run when they can’t take it anymore, more than willing to risk the eternal pull of an unbroken binding spell as long as they can be safe somewhere else.

“You’re taking Bailey out?” Tanya, your boss, is in the lobby. She’s standing by the front desk when you get there, leaning against it like she’s been waiting for you to show up. There’s a chunk missing from the corner and diagonal indentations carved into the heavy wooden surface. Seeing the damage, however minimized they’ve tried to make it, buffed and polished and sanded down, reminds you of that night. 

The storm. The howling. The scraping, the shriek of stone breaking apart, wood splintering, glass shattering. And the blood, the metallic reek of it thick in your nose. There had been someone lying on the floor but by the time you got there, there were just bits and skeletonized pieces, glistening bones notched with teeth marks. An arm here; a lung there. A chest cavity wrenched apart, a ribcage cracked open around the maw of a growling, slobbering beast gorging itself on tender human insides. 

Tanya had been at the desk that night. She told you the beast had come first, limped inside with wheezing breaths and fur heavy with rainwater. The summoner had come right after, well-dressed but waterlogged and clearly in a hurry. He’d tugged at the creature’s collar and scolded it for running off, insisting that it never does things like this. Tanya knew a red flag when she saw one but never had the chance to act on it. The thing bristled, the tips of its fur fizzling and blurry like smoke. It bit the summoner and it didn’t let go.

Hunched on the floor with a femur crunching between strong, unyielding jaws, maw speckled red all the way up to the eyes—that was the first time you laid eyes on Bailey.

“Going for a walk,” you say. 

“Alright. Don’t stay out too long,” Tanya says carefully. 

“I know,” you say, avoiding her gaze. Do you sound guilty? Do you look like you’re lying? She probably wouldn’t stop you either way. No one else at the shelter can handle Bailey. She looks like she wants to say something but she catches sight of something over your shoulder and quickly looks away. You know what you’ll see before you turn around, head tilting to look up at the looming figure approaching you.

Bailey is large as a dog. Even when he’s condensed down from a hulking beast to a more manageable shepherd size, he easily reaches your waist. As a human, he towers over you. Short, light hair, eternally shaggy, hangs in his face, partially hiding the intensity of his bright yellow eyes. He keeps his conjured clothing simple; black pants, tennis shoes, a plain t-shirt under a soft jacket. The collar becomes a chunky metal choker, the skin around it irritated and scabbed. He tilts his head slightly when he sees you. He doesn’t smile but he looks tranquil. Happy. 

Then his gaze shifts to Tanya and he bares his teeth. The growl rumbling in his throat makes your blood run cold. 

“Bailey, let’s go,” you say quickly, offering your hand. “Bailey, come on. It’s fine. She’s going to stay there, she’s not coming with us.” 

Tanya doesn’t move a muscle, doesn’t even breathe, until Bailey’s snarl smooths into an irritated frown and his growl fades. He grabs your hand and practically drags you out of the shelter’s front doors. 

Belfry Plaza is a scenic part of town with cobblestone roads and blushing fall trees but it’s also busy. Bailey is on guard but focused, walking quickly and keeping an eye on everything that moves. He relaxes as the crowd thins and the shopping district shrinks behind you, the park within sight. He stops dragging you along and walks beside you, his breath slowing to a more relaxed pace. 

He always looks so surprised by the autumn leaves. He slows to watch when one snaps off the branch and flutters to the sidewalk in front of him. 

“Did I scare you, just now?” he murmurs. He’s always so quiet. The collar presses hard on his windpipe, just short of suffocation, leaving his voice a thin rasp. 

“I think you scared Tanya a lot more than me,” you say.

He frowns. “Don’t like when people stand that close to you. You’re mine.” 

The park makes him happy. Bailey takes a deep breath of the crisp fall air and you watch the tension gradually leak out of him. He has a favorite bench—a spot of the path beneath a large, leafy tree, the canopy halfway between gold and scarlet. “Is this your first time in the human world?” you ask. You don’t talk about his past much. He volunteers very little and you’re not sure you want to know too much.

“Yes,” he says. He doesn’t leave any space between you on the bench. He sits as close as he can, his thigh pressed against yours. “I’d never been before. I hadn’t really planned on going.” Another leaf falls and he catches it, snatching it out of the air and turning it over to examine. “But this is nice. I like this. The cool air and colors. Very different from home.” He would set here for hours if you let him. He’d look up and watch the clouds waft by, the wind rustling in the trees. He sits up straight and at attention whenever he hears footsteps coming from any direction but he settles down again when they pass by. 

“You’ll get to go home again soon,” you say. Hopeful. Maybe a little desperate.

He turns, regarding you with that curious tilt of the head again. “I know,” he says. “I’m glad. But I’m not in such a big hurry anymore.” He drops the leaf and takes your hand instead, holding it in his to examine. “Have you ever had a familiar before?” 

“Me? No.” You watch him carefully, nervous beneath his intense scrutiny. “I’m not a summoner. Never got into magic as a kid and I don’t really have time now.”

“You don’t need to be. You could’ve been given one.” 

You shake your head. “Well, I wasn’t.” He’s looking at you, you realize. Watching you out of the corner of his eye with a tiny smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “What?” 

“I’m just imagining it. It’s cute,” he says. “You, with a familiar. Trying to assert yourself. You’d probably get taken advantage of.” 

You look down at the concrete winding through the dirt path, the bright leaves scattered across the grass. “No. I would make sure the pact is fair,” you say quietly.

Bailey lets out a hoarse bark of laughter. “No pact is fair. Everyone wants something and we’ll trample each other to get it, whatever it is.” He strokes your head, petting you with the same tenderness you show him. “But it’s sweet you think that way. I like that about you. Much more of a rabbit than a wolf. Just another reason why you have to stay close to me.” He drags his fingers down the back of your neck, scratching your nape. Something catches his attention suddenly and turns, sniffing the air. You inhale sharply when the ends of his fingers sharpen into claws. “I’m hungry,” he murmurs.

You sit up quickly, pulling away from his touch. Bailey doesn’t stop you, his expression betraying nothing but faint curiosity when you stand from the bench. “We should get back,” you say, avoiding his gaze. “We can get something on the way, if you want.”

“I’m hungry,” he repeats, a growl edging his words. When you flinch, his expression softens. He lowers his voice until it’s barely above a whisper. “Please? I can smell it. It’s close. And it won’t take long, I’ll be quick. It won’t be like last time.” He grabs your wrist and brings your hand to his face, nuzzling into your palm and kissing your fingers. “You promised me,” he says. Your heart skips a beat when he looks up at you through his lashes. It’s the same look he gave you before, equal parts pleading and firm. “You promised. We have a pact.” 

You swallow hard. Bailey stands slowly from the bench, unfolding to his full height. You want to say no. You want to insist that he can’t keep doing this. That it was wrong, of course, that what happened to him was wrong—but you don’t want to see it again. You feel sick when he makes you watch. 

But you can’t. The pact won’t let you. When you try, your throat constricts and your heart races. You stumble and he has to catch you, a hand firmly squeezing your shoulder in warning. When you say, “Okay,” in a quiet, broken voice, everything is fine again. Bailey smiles and rubs his face against your hand sweetly like an affectionate puppy. He starts to walk again, tugging you along after him. He moves differently now, even as you pass through the park and into a busier, seedier part of town. He’s not rushing and anxious anymore but moving with purpose, his sharp gaze scanning the streets and alleys. Searching. Hunting. 

There have been some concerns at the shelter. No one will say anything too loudly, but your coworkers whisper sometimes. They email you files and informational websites about familiars. They recommend library books of old summoner lore. Bailey is atypical in a lot of ways. It’s not just the aggression and territoriality. The other familiars are afraid of him. Not nervous, not cautious and pitying from a distance, but afraid. Terrified to even be in the same room with him while he hardly spares them a glance. And that collar he’s wearing, that’s not normal either. It’s overkill; like using an incineration spell to light a candle. Something that intensive would leave any normal familiar barely able to stand, much less move and speak and change form.

One of them found it, illustrated in an old manuscript. The same inelegant shape and the same arcane runes. It takes twenty summoners to properly charge one with the necessary strength. The binding is forged in blood—the very same blood is needed to sever it.

A man in a long gray coat walks briskly down the sidewalk and Bailey hones in on him like a bloodhound scenting prey. You try to run. To pull away, at least. To open your mouth and scream. All you do is shiver, a soft whimper dying in your throat. “You promised me,” Bailey reminds you. 

The man knows he’s being followed. He’s subtle about it, disguising his cautious glances back, leading you on a winding path into narrower, quieter streets. He’s a summoner, of course. All of Bailey’s targets are. And this one is confident. Some of them try to run but they don’t get far. You know the end is coming when he slips behind a row of old, empty buildings into a disused lot.

Bailey lets out a growl. He’s salivating. He wipes his mouth on his sleeve.

There have been stories. Bailey wanders the halls at night. Not as a man or a dog but as something else, a shifting thing that is somewhere in between and also neither. Liquid and shadow, he mutters in a tongue the familiars don’t speak, something that hurts the ears of anyone who hears it. 

He’s not a dog. That much is certain. Even familiars have some affinity for the animals they choose, their true forms in their home realm an arcane cousin. Maybe whatever Bailey used to be, it could conceive of the shape chosen for him: four-legged. Long snout, sharp teeth. Loyal. Domesticated. That’s what they tried to make him. It worked at least a little bit. He had you completely fooled.

The summoner thinks he set a trap. The concrete glimmers with glowing sigils, potent magic crackling in the air around him. Anything else would stop to look at it, to understand the risk they’re taking trying to cross the circle. Anything else would hesitate, at least. Bailey lets go of your hand and steps forward without his eager pace faltering. The change comes over him so much less gracefully than it does for familiars. No soft light and gentle metamorphosis. You can hear his bones crack and rearrange. You can see his flesh slide around, fur sprouting in clumps. For just a moment, you do see a dog, but the shapes keep changing, growing, becoming more grotesque and impossible. The beast that first came to the shelter is no longer a dragging, overgrown thing stuffed in a body-cage too small for it but a sleek hunter. With its fur trimmed and its form filled out with muscle, you can see its many, many eyes, all turned forward, all fixed on the summoner whose confidence erodes in a matter of seconds.

There are other things that summoners have tried to bring into the world than familiars. Things that should not be here. The collar constricts but it lacks the bite it once had, loosened by the blood of every summoner Bailey has devoured before. This one doesn’t even have the chance to scream before jaws snap around his neck with the force of a bear trap. 

Blood gushes and spatters across the pavement. The body falls and the beast falls atop it, raking open flesh and snapping bone between its teeth like twigs. The summoner is still alive as he’s butchered, disemboweled, pinned down with vicious claws as the beast throws its head back and tears loose a rope of intestine. It pushes its whole maw into the gaping wounds it leaves behind, whole head red and glistening. The collar hums, soaking up blood like a sponge. It creaks like a rusted hinge and slackens further. 

The beast pauses just once in its feast. It raises its head, its shape quivering. Blood slides down its body smooth like glass—slow, as though through fur—sticks, as though to paper. It turns back towards you, its eyes amber. It frightens you that Bailey is recognizable somehow, that you can so clearly envision his piercing gaze and curiously tilted head. Maybe it’s keeping those pieces as sentimental trophies, the man and the dog. Or maybe the man and the dog are starting to look more like the beast.

That night, when some sad, waterlogged thing dragged in, you really did think it was a dog. A big one. A familiar, suffering. Maybe some of that was true. Everyone else had been too afraid to go near it but you’d crouched in the lobby and spoken softly while Tanya called for help. You told it that everything would be okay now. It was safe. It could trust you. You saw that tight band of metal and promised you would do everything in your power to help it get that collar off if it was the last thing you did. The beast looked back at you and you could’ve sworn you saw it smile. 

A long tongue slithers out of Bailey’s maw, lapping the blood off the concrete. You wonder what happens when the collar comes off—if it really will be the last thing you ever do.

[crybaby-bkg]

omg I saw this post of a glass shower with the curtains on the outside and and anddddd

Going on vacation with Bakugou, something that was well needed. You saw the shower when you first entered the room the night before, and laughed about the possibilities you two could have with it. But you were tired from the long flight and late night, and crashed before you could put the shower to good use.

But, as you wake up to the sound of running water, your interests are instantly piqued. You roll over in the fluffy bed, blinking a few times to adjust your sight before you eyes widen in surprise. Bakugou is in the shower, the curtains pulled back, as he stands there under the water as naked as the day he was born. His back is to you and he’s lathering shampoo in his hair, head thrown back as you watch him rinse the suds out.

Your eyes travel down his figure, at how strong his back muscles are from this angle, at the slim trim of his waist, his back dimples, the bubble curve of his ass. You find it in yourself to say something when he turns around with his eyes closed.

“Thanks for the early morning show, handsome.” Your voice is still raspy with sleep, and it makes Bakugou’s eyes snap open. He smirks at you though, and continues lathering himself up, his body this time, and makes a show of it.

“It doesn’t have to only be a show if you joined me.” He tells you, running soapy hands across his chest and toned stomach. But you hum under your breath and sit up with your jaw propped up in your palm. You eye how his cock jumps between his thighs when your gaze lingers on it for a second too long.

“Nah, think I prefer the show.” You grin. “And add more suds. I want you dripping.” You command him, snapping your fingers at him to watch him chuckle under his breath. He grabs his soap and squirts a shit ton of it in his palms, smiling at you all the while.

“Whatever you say, sweetheart.”

[swallowtail-ageha]

I think someone should study the fact that all of the moral issues people have with coleen hoover are just the modern day version of "this erotic literature will corrupt our pure women!"

[rosieparker1856]

I was dead asleep and woke up like a fucking zombie with the thought of “I wonder if when people go to Danny’s Grave to offer their condolences or whatever people do, if Danny can only hear it when he is a ghost.” I’m imagining it like an answering machine, you don’t actually know the message unless you play it back. This idea has probably been said before, but it’s 4 a.m and I’ve written 6 college papers in the last 24 hours. I wasted good sleep for this random bunny.

This premise lies solely on the fact of Danny actually having a grave stone, for people to go to.

That being said, a lot of people don’t go to Cemeteries every time they think of someone who passed away. Personally, with my Great Grandmother, when I want to remember her I bring out her old cookbooks and make her favourite recipes. And I talk to her the entire time I’m cooking. Especially during Harvest Fest.

So, in that mindset, can Danny hear everything people say when they’re remembering him? Cause that could get really annoying really fast for a boy who’s still half alive.

Like he’s partnered up with Wes on a Chemistry project and all that’s going through his head when he’s fighting a ghost when they’re supposed to meet up is “Danny Fenton, Danny Phantom, why isn’t he here already? I didn’t see a ghost on the news” or something like that. Don’t judge the dialogue literally have had 2 hours of sleep the last 3 days cause of work and classes.

Someone please, if this is a thing and there are fics about it drop them in the comments. Is that pick me? To ask you to comment? Anyways, i should try and get back to bed.

This is not proofread and I didn’t even put on my glasses for it, so if it’s clunky/there are misspelled words, no there aren’t.

[magniloquent-raven]

its midnight and im sleeby but i finished this thing i started scribbling out this afternoon based on @harringroveera 's post that i couldnt get outta my brain

i think i might have angsted it up a little cuz i can't help myself but its still cute so. pls enjoy

--

Billy's not super clear on where he is right now.

There are people everywhere. Yelling. Laughing. Music plays over a big fancy sound system. There's a blurry blue light glowing through glass sliding doors that he's been staring at for a little while 'cause it's…pretty. Twinkly and stuff. 

He's too many drinks past a good buzz, that much he's sure of. His head feels. Floaty. And heavy. And if he tries to move the room starts to spin. 

Whatever he's sitting on is comfy though. Soft. Softer than his damn mattress with that broken spring that's always stabbing him in the ribs. 

He's tired. Really tired.

Feels like he hasn't slept in months.

To his left a girl starts squealing as her boyfriend grabs her around the waist, to his right a speaker vibrates against the wall, buzzing to the beat of a deep bassline. Everything sounds far away, though. White noise blending together while the edges of his vision go fuzzy and faded.

He feels his head tip, just a little, and then—

With a sharp inhale he jolts, blinks, glancing around blearily at a silent, empty room.

It's still dark out. The blue glow still shimmers at him through glass. A lamp lights the room he's in. Everything's…shapes. Colours. His brain is still mushy.

He blinks a couple more times. His eyes are dry. Wobbly. All the shapes are wobbly.

"Hey, man, party's over." A voice startles him. He tries to look around, but it fucking hurts, and moving his head is so much work. Whatever, it's a nice voice. Way nicer than the jarring silence. 

Wait, why's the party over. He doesn't want the party to be over.

He wrinkles his nose. "Nooo…" 

"...Yeessss." There's a pause. "Everyone is gone, dude."

"No." Billy rubs his eyes. The chair is still so comfy. He sinks further into it, unwilling to move. "You're here."

"It's my house. I'm allowed to stay." The voice sounds amused. There's some rustling behind Billy. Plastic crinkling. Maybe. Something being moved around. "Why are you even here, anyways?" 

Hazy memories jumble together. A flask of vodka in his pocket, slipped under itchy robes. Sitting two heads away from Steve Harrington, sneaking glances between barely concealed shots. A droning speech. Another droning speech. Neil's solemn face in a crowd, watching him walk across the stage to shake hands with…the guy. The. Whatever.  

Some girl digging her talons into his arm after he slipped away from Neil's attempts to maintain a public image by acting like he gave a shit about his son's accomplishments. Beer and cheap tequila and shitty music blurring into each other as he gets dragged around like a trophy dangling off the elbow of whichever nameless girl claimed him for the night.

"Graduated," he says, picking at a sticky spot on the thigh of his jeans. Pinching the fabric isn't doing anything but he can't stop prodding. 

"Yeah, I know, with honors. Congrats." There's a huff. A silence. "Doesn't explain why you're here though." Footsteps, sneakers on linoleum, tap tap tap, meandering around whatever room is at his back. Glass bottles getting moved around. It's sort of soothing to listen to someone move around their house without any reason to be keeping track of their movements.

Well, unless…

Billy's stomach flips, and his chest goes tight. "You're not gonna kick me out are you?" he asks, his voice small. He feels sick, saying it. Thinking about it. He doesn't want to be anywhere else. This house smells sweet under the stink of spilled beer and leftover perfume. And he likes this chair.

The movement behind him stops for a second. "...Nnno?"

He breathes. Relaxing into velvety upholstery. "'Kay." 

"You sure you don't have anywhere to be? Family waiting up? Girlfriend expecting a midnight rendezvous?" 

Billy snorts. "No one gives a shit where I am." 

Neil will care tomorrow when Billy makes him look bad by pulling up hungover and in yesterday's clothes, but that's a problem for tomorrow. He won't be waiting up for him, worrying about Billy's safety or whatever.

A glass bottle clinks against something. "What about your sister?"

"Pfff…" He snickers, and gives his head a tiny shake. The movement makes everything spinny for a second and he has to pause to swallow bile. The sour taste on his tongue feels appropriate. And gross. "I fucked up. Everything. Beat the shit outta her friend. She's prolly hoping I don' come home at all. Ever."

Another glass bottle gets set down, slower this time. Carefully. "...This friend of hers…"

"Steve," Billy sighs. His eyes fall shut and he leans back into a cushioned headrest. His insides do the stupid fluttery thing they always do when he thinks about Steve. Steve and his stupid kissable face. 

"It was pretty dumb of him to pick a fight with you, huh," the voice says wryly. 

"Mnh…I guess." There's a soft snort behind him. But something prickles at Billy. Guilt, maybe. It's uncomfortable. He chews his lip as his eyes start to burn. "Nah. No. Whole thing was my fault. All my fault. S'always my fault." 

Saying it doesn't make it feel better.

"What do you mean?" There's sounds anymore. Just the voice, and Billy's heartbeat in his ears.

"It's…" Billy swipes at his eyes with the back of his hand. "It's a secret."

"I'm good at keeping those."

"You can't tell him."

"...I definitely will not tell him."

Billy hums. "He's real pretty, y'know."

"So I've been told, but what—"

"No, he's…he's so pretty. Like, I can't believe it sometimes, and I just wanna. Do something about it. All the time. But it hurts. Hurts so bad, and it's not supposed to, so I had to—I had to…I just got so mad. And I had to prove I didn't wanna kiss him, but I do. 'Cause I like him so much. Too much."

The silence is back. Ringing in Billy's ears. He sniffles quietly. 

"Oh…" 

"Please don't tell him. Or anyone."

"Billy…"

"Promise."

There's a strained pause. Billy fidgets, his insides twisting into knots. 

"I promise." The voice is so gentle, and it makes Billy's eyes sting again. He blinks away tears and listens to more bottles being moved. Plastic cups hitting plastic bags. Sneakers against linoleum, and hardwood, and carpet. And after a while, "You're not gonna spend all night in the chair, are you?"

"You said—"

"I'm not kicking you out, I just meant. There's a guest bed, man," 

"Oh."

**

Sunlight hits Billy directly in the face and he rolls over, groaning. 

The motion makes his stomach lurch, but he buries his face in…pillowcase. Unfamiliar pillowcase. Smells like honeysuckle and clean air and it's softer than any bedding he's ever touched. 

His legs are tangled in sheets just as sweet-smelling and finely woven, and his guts give another heave as he realizes he's only wearing briefs. 

Did…did he fuck someone last night?

He was definitely drunk enough to do something that stupid, if the cottonmouth and pounding headache are any indication, but he doesn't fucking remember. Which would normally be a blessing, except he usually doesn't stay the goddamn night. 

Is he going to have some girl hanging all over him for the first couple weeks of summer? Until he can figure out how to ditch her without making it look like he's too eager to.

Or maybe he'll stick around for a little while, this bed is actually ridiculous. He might be able to fake his way through one shitty summer fling if it means sleeping like a goddamn king. There are like, five pillows, and it feels like he's laying on a cloud. 

He nuzzles deeper into the pillowcase. Smells nice too.

His memories of the previous day mostly stop around Tammy Whatsherface dragging him away for a graduation afterparty. Maybe he shouldn't have started drinking at noon. 

Christ, he's not even sure how he got here, or where his car is. 

Or where here is.

It's one of the Loch Nora houses, probably. Nowhere else would have sheets like this.

Eventually he drags himself, reluctantly, out of bed. And immediately tastes bile.

Which is. Bad. 

Being upright is bad. 

And he doesn't know where the nearest toilet is. Which could be extremely bad. Girls whose carpets you puke on don't invite you back to sleep in their nice guest rooms.

So, he's very slow and careful about pulling his jeans on. And he makes sure to pause when he starts to feel clammy, sitting on the floor to stop his head spinning. 

It takes him forever to get mostly dressed, jeans and an undershirt are enough. He can't find his button-up and socks require too much bending down, which his dehydrated brain does not appreciate. 

Peeking out into the nondescript hall doesn't provide any more answers about whose house this is. It's all shiny boring expensive decor and not a single person in sight.

Oh, looks like there's a bathroom at the end of the hallway though, good. 

He beelines for the sweet promise of a place to piss and rinse out his mouth, shuffling past a couple closed doors, listening for any signs of life and hearing nothing, until he shoulders his way into the bathroom and freezes in his tracks, because—

"Hey, uh. You're awake." Steve Harrington blinks at him, standing in front of a plain oval mirror, hairbrush in hand. Which he obviously hasn't used yet, because the bedhead he's sporting is kind of hilarious. It's all fluff in every direction. Billy wants to run his hands through it. 

Worse, though, is the fact that he's bare chested, wearing an unzipped hoodie and soft plaid pants, with all that fucking chest hair, and he's looking at Billy with a curious expression that isn't remotely like any way he's ever looked at Billy before and this is…all very, very strange.

So, obviously Billy's theory about what happened last night was wrong. He's not even back to square one, he has less than no idea what the fuck is happening.

"...Yes," Billy responds after a beat too long. 

Great.

Fantastic.

Very smooth.

The corner of Steve's mouth twitches. There's something soft and warm about the amusement twinkling in his eyes and it's making Billy itch. 

"I think I'm gonna puke."

Steve snorts, and drops his hairbrush on the vanity. "Right, I'll get out of your way then." He sidles past Billy, far too close, patting his shoulder as he passes. Which does not help when he's just barely keeping his shit together.

His footsteps fade down the hallway at Billy's back. And Billy doesn't move. 

What the actual fuck.

He slams the bathroom door shut behind him, and leans his forehead against it, trying to breathe slowly through his nose. 

They didn't have sex last night. There's no way. He did not fuck Steve Harrington.

He couldn't have. Steve would never…

He's not…

That's just. Not what happened. Because that would never happen. 

It kind of looks like that's what happened, but it's not. 

He sits on the floor, head in his hands. And breathes. 

It's unclear how long he stays curled up on cold tile. Long enough that his legs start to feel stiff. Nothing about last night comes back to him. He sighs.

And gets up.

And splashes some water on his face. Drinks a little from the tap. Uses some of the mouthwash he digs out from under the counter. Takes a piss.

He's still unsteady. His temples throb if he moves too quickly. But he feels a little less like roadkill.

Steve waves at him when he spots him coming down the stairs. Waggles his fingers in the air, like they're best buds and this situation isn't the most surreal thing to happen to them since the Byers' weirdly trashed living room.

Billy rubs the back of his neck. "...Hey."

"Coffee?"

"Sure."

Steve pulls out two mugs, one of his thumbs stuck through a hole in the cuff of his sleeve. There's sunlight warming the honey-coloured highlights in his hair.

Yeah, no, this is definitely more fucked up than finding Max in a random house with a busted window and shitty drawings everywhere.

He might actually have lost his mind.

"What the fuck happened last night?" He blurts, his cheeks hot, fingers jittery. He shoves his hands in his pockets, fists balled up against his thighs.

Steve glances at him out of the corner of his eye. "Ah, figures you don't remember."

"Don't remember what?"

"You were pretty out of it."

"Yeah, thanks, I know that part."

Steve snorts, grabbing more things out of cupboards. Billy's paying more attention to his hands than what's in them. "You didn't want to leave, so I let you sleep upstairs."

"...Why?"

"You didn't say, just said you didn't have anywhere else to be."

"That's not what I meant." He knows exactly why he didn't want to leave. All the many reasons why he'd rather be here than under Neil's roof. Or anywhere else. What doesn't make any fucking sense is Steve accommodating him. 

Steve's eyes flicker to his again, briefly, before he turns back to the counter. When he shrugs the nonchalance seems forced. "You're a lot nicer when you're plastered."

"I…" Billy opens his mouth. Shuts it again. 

What the fuck does that mean. 

Steve fidgets with a spoon. "You got…kind of weepy, y'know."

Oh.

Goddamnit.

His shoulders go tense, jagged edges of a shield around what's left of his dignity. "Fuck you, Harrington," he snaps. It's all he can muster when he doesn't know what the fuck he was crying about. Every possibility is worse than the last.

"Yeah, you wish," Steve mutters.

Billy freezes. 

And doesn't recover quick enough to hide it from Steve. Steve's eyebrows shoot up. "Holy shit, it's true isn't it?" He turns around fully, the mess he's made of the counter forgotten. 

Fuck.

"I—don't know what you're talking about." His stupid deer-in-the-headlights expression is mostly under control but the sudden tremble in his voice definitely fucking isn't. 

He backs away a step and then stops. Where the fuck is he going to go, he doesn't know where his car is, where his keys are, and he's fucking barefoot. Running upstairs and locking himself in Steve's bathroom seems just a little too pathetic but that doesn't mean he doesn't consider it.

Billy clenches his jaw. It makes his head pound. "What exactly did I say last night?" He grits out, crossing his arms over his chest. 

Steve eyes him. Slowly, carefully. Deliberating. He chews his bottom lip. The silence is fucking agonizing. 

"Can't tell you," he finally replies, his voice light. One corner of his mouth lifts into half a smile, and scratches his cheek. "I promised I wouldn't tell anyone."

"That's…" Billy rubs his forehead with the palm of his hand, like he's looking for the button to restart his poor, confused brain. He drops his hand, exasperated, eyebrows creeping up to his hairline. "Steve, what the fuck."

Steve cracks a full-blown grin. "I told you I'm good at keeping secrets."

"I swear to god—"

"Aw c'mon, I can't break a promise! Especially 'cause you asked so nicely. You were so polite. It was very cute."

"I…what?"

He can't have heard that right.

Or Steve's just fucking with him. That's what's going on here. Billy let something slip last night and now Steve's holding it over his head. Because why wouldn't he, honestly. He has every reason to want to mess with Billy, and now he's got the perfect leverage.

"Billy." Steve's voice is soft, suddenly. His expression gentles, and he moves to close the gap between them. And Billy…doesn't get it. He's stalled out and stuck trying to figure out how this is gonna go wrong, how it fits into whatever prank Steve is clearly pulling.

He doesn't know what his face is doing, but he's pretty sure he's being way more readable than he'd like. 

He nearly jumps out of his skin when Steve touches him. A hand on his shoulder. A hesitant, awkward pat. Testing the waters, maybe. Trying to make sure he's real, maybe.

Is any of this real? Billy's still not convinced. He can smell Steve's shampoo and see all the little flecks of colour in his eyes and his shoulder is still burning where they made contact, but…

"I'm sorry I hurt you, y'know," Steve murmurs, his gaze dropping, hovering somewhere around Billy's crossed arms. He reaches out again, fingers grazing Billy's knuckles this time. All Billy can do is blink at him, afraid to breathe. "Doesn't have to be like that."

He tugs at Billy's hand, untucking it from the crook of his elbow, unfolding Billy's arms, and Billy lets him. One hand drops to his side and the other stays cradled in Steve's grip. He's…staring at it like he's studying for a test. Billy has no idea what's so fucking interesting, or what Steve's talking about, but he's also not bothered at this point. 

His knees feel like jello. 

"You could've just kissed me."

Billy nearly collapses. Like one of those swooning chicks in shitty romance novels. Breathless and flushed and overwhelmed. Except he just stands there like a moron, staring at Steve. And Steve's mouth.

"What?" he manages not to sound too strangled. Miraculously. 

Steve smiles at him, almost sheepishly. "You still could. I wouldn't mind."

"You…wouldn't."

"Yeah, I mean, if you had morning breath still it might be a different story, but…" Steve gestures vaguely, pulling Billy's hand along with him as he shrugs. 

Billy snorts.

And hey, maybe Steve is messing with him, and this will blow up in his face, but…

Well, he just really wants to kiss him before it does.

So he leans in and presses their lips together. 

~~tag list @spreckle @growup-thatbeautiful @prettyboy-like-you @suddenlyinlove

[raayllum]

new chapter of fanon s6 either tonight / tomorrow at the latest current chapter word count: 4.7k expected word count: 7k

snippet:

It was framed by columns, Deimos touching one with his staff, and then the ceiling unfurled first like a puzzle, then like a flower, the dome’s ceiling retreating to its sides. A dark, wintery sky took its place, wind and snow blowing across the shiny black floor.

Rayla’s warm hand slipped into his. “Callum.”

He turned to her, any jitters in his chest easing as he looked at her, adorably worried as she gnawed on her bottom lip. “I’ll be okay,” he promised.

“You better be, dummy.” She pecked him on the lips, Callum melting into it even as she drew away, snagging the blindfold from his other hand. “Now turn around.”

He couldn’t help but smile a bit as she did so, her tone disarmingly bossy and close to teasing, a more somber, silent mood falling as the fabric covered his eyes and she tied the knot carefully behind him.

“I am going to come back,” he reiterated. “And we’ll free your family. Defeat Aaravos.” A lump formed in his throat at the thought she might still go back to the Silvergrove without him if she was unGhosted, but he also knew—knew in every fibre of his being and his body—that she loved him. Somehow, they’d find a place for both of them. They’d live happily ever after. He’d make sure of it.

[snowangeldotmp3]

don't touch that dial!

or;

the wandavision au

(ronance edition!)

Robin wakes up with Nancy Wheeler in her house. Her house. Not her parents. Hers. Nancy’s in the kitchen, in a dress and hair curled and pinned back in a way that Robin has never seen, already making a cup of tea (Robin hates coffee, but she doesn’t remember telling Nancy that…) and greets her with a, “Hi, Robbie,” and a quick kiss on the cheek. Robin freezes. Her stomach flip-flops and she feels her face warm and she’s not totally sure how to react without shattering whatever this is. So she answers with a weak, “Hi.” Somewhere in the back of her mind, something screams THIS ISN’T REAL. Duh. She gathered that already. But the problem is it’s not her voice in her skull telling her this. She doesn’t know who it is, or why they’re telling her information that she already knows. The biggest worry in her mind is that this isn’t her Nancy. Her Nancy, the real Nancy, would be fighting and kicking and screaming because this is not the life that Nancy wanted. Robin would know too, in-between their world saving adventures, Nancy told her what her future looked like, and being a ‘50s housewife was not one of them. Robin hates the ‘50s. She hates the way her hair is done and she hates the dress she’s been shoved into and she hates the canned laughter (seriously, can anyone else hear that?) and— “Robin?” “Yes, dear?” Robin answers without thinking, going along with whatever this illusion wants. Nancy’s frowns a moment, breaking the tight smile she had on her face, and briefly Robin wonders whether she’s aware of their current predicament, too. If Nancy’s aware like she is, and just simply playing along—just better at hiding it. It’s too risky though to outright ask her, so for now she’s just going to have to read her newspaper (that doesn’t have any articles written by Nancy—seriously?) and find a way to tune out that damned laugh track.

[ehlnofay]

I Walked Into The River

The Tree of Shades, fed by a spring deep in the Shivering Isles' underground, will not surrender its secrets to one who has not earned them. The erstwhile Hero of Kvatch and Sheogorath's current grudging Champion has little left to prove and even less to lose.

I wrote this piece for the summerfest prompt "mirror" and am posting the full thing for the free day! it's my take on the doppelganger bit of that one quest in the shivering isles, which always struck me as having a lot of unrealised potential (especially in conjunction with running themes of duality the questline already has). I've had this idea for a long time now and this event finally got me to actually write it out, which was a lot of fun! if you're inclined to check it out, please do - it would give me much joy :)

[lloydfrontera]

i don't know what would've been worse. if the summons vanished along with rakiel so there was no real sign of him still being alive somewhere out there. or if they were also left behind, waiting for him to come back from a place they couldn't follow him to. either way the possibilities are devastating <3

[cake-chad]

I only have one episode of OUAW left and then I'll be caught up and waiting with the rest of y'all 😭😭😭

[ray935sworld]

I SWEAR I WAS COMMITED TO STUDYING - but while looking for an uni document I found the draft about de-aged Bez ft. marcmarc and Vale soooo........