#this was in my drafts oop

[jrockmania]

Today is a glorious day because on this day of our lord 2023年10月4日 Lime announced that he has decided to quit smoking😭🫶🏽

[larissa-the-scribe]

guys I had this realization the other day that Redwall works really well for reading aloud, and kinda half-remembered something about the author reading to kids? So I looked it up to see if I had made a connection.

And it turns out, yes, actually, because he read aloud to kids at a school for the blind. But all the books they gave him to read were depressing. So he wrote Redwall, a story about heroism and courage and making it through struggles, and filled it with so many sensory, visual details so he could give them something better and I just-- that's so wholesome-- help

[purplecatghostposts]

Chat Noir: Hey, my lady? Quick question: why was Argos multitasking during patrol and trying to solve a cryptex? He said he got it from you.

Ladybug, casually: Oh, it’s from my latest treasure hunt I made for him.

Chat Noir: …You give him treasure hunts? Why?

Ladybug: I still don’t totally trust him not to pull another ‘Red Moon’ incident so I figured if I give him enrichment, he’s gonna be spending his time solving puzzles and figuring out clues that take him all over the city instead of potentially becoming a supervillain again.

Chat Noir, who watched Félix spend several hours to solving riddles last night: …Huh. Does he know..?

Ladybug: 90% sure, yes. I don’t think he cares that much, he’s pretty invested in it and I’m great at creating complex systems with clues to follow so— it works out. Plus usually there is something to find at the end of the trail. Usually Kagami.

[teethburied]

rust + hallucinations

[ennabear]

ʕ≧ᴥ≦ʔ cowboy!abby brainrot has me doing backflips lately… specifically ab/happy trail riding… 18+

propping herself up on her elbows, she sits and stares at you with a cocky grin, watching as you helplessly rub yourself on her abs. a glistening trail of your arousal paints her pale stomach in a clear glitter that sparkles and sticks to your folds as you move your hips. her pout returns as she notices you unable to get off on her abs alone, so she grabs your thighs and maneuvers you lower, briefly restricting your movements until you’re settled just below her belly button.

the coarse trail of hair that crawls up from her bush adds a new level of friction, causing you to speed up your movements and completely soak it in an instant. whines claw their way out of your throat, but abby shushes you gently, saying “you don’t want them hearin’ us now, do you?” and gestures to the group of cattle farmers on the other side of the barn walls.

your thighs quiver as she traces circles on your hips, the soft, tickling sensation adding to your arousal. your moans suddenly amplify as you inch closer to your orgasm, so abby has no choice but to grab the bandana from her neck and tie it around your mouth. “that’s it, now give it to me.”

and with that, you’re feeling nothing but intense pleasure washing over you. stars sparkle in your vision, hearing momentarily impaired as you flow through your dizzying orgasm. before you can come down fully, abby is untying the bandana and leading your head down to her happy trail. “better put that mouth to good use babygirl, clean up the mess you made.”

[recycledraccoon]

What if....

Damien and Danyal Al Ghul are twins. Danyal takes heavily after Bruce but Damien is a perfect mix of their parents, and he came out of the artificial womb first, so Damien is decided to be the heir.

Growing up in the League is hard, but Damien excels in a way that Danyal doesn't, because for all the potential Danyal has, he hates the killing and there is a rebellious streak evident even as young as they are. A rebellious streak is a...very dangerous thing to have. Grandfather won't kill Danyal, for as ruthless as he is he doesn't kill his own lineage. But that is not to say that the additional "training" Danyal goes through is merciful.

Damien and Danyal love each other, not just as brothers but also in the way partners do when they don't even have to blink to anticipate the others actions in the midst of action. Which is why Damien, not even yet six, can see the way Danyal is being broken down under the burden of their joint legacy.

So many times, in so many of the universes in which he exists, Danyal Al Ghul is or is seemingly killed, of which is the catalyst for his escape from the League of Assassins, and his brother is left behind thinking him truly dead.

In this universe, when the Demon Twins are out on a training mission (an assassination of a target so easy it's beneath the League for anything other than the simplest of first training missions) a massive earthquake occurs.

They are alive at the end, but both their communication devices are beyond repair. Damien is more roughed up than Danyal at the end, but both are dirty and bloodied.

This is an unprecedented opportunity, of which Damien knows deep down he will never get again.

He loves his brother deeply, but Danyal is weak, always hesitating before the kill, hands shaking. Damien loves his brother and fighting side by side, but he values more the quiet moments when Danyal is looking at star maps and trying to match them up with the sky above their home or making snarky comments about their trainers under his breath. (After when they can't hear Damien doesn't laugh but Danyal always knows he agrees and is amused.)

Grandfather's and Mother's additional training to bring Danyal up to Damien's level is making Danyal go quiet and emotionless and Damien is selfish.

(Damien convinces his twin brother to leave the League of Assassins.)

Damien drags himself to the rendezvous point and returns home alone, reporting the target dead and his brother lost under rock in the quake, body unable to be recovered. He is colder, furious at the world and himself. He pushes and pushes and PUSHES himself. He is the last remaining of a set and he will prove himself perfect to carry the title of Heir perfectly and without reproach. He is more loyal day by day, the guilt his selfishness and betrayal of his family a deep sting he can't ignore.

Talia does search, but so many bodies were lost or unidentified inside mass graves. She grieves and then refocuses on her remaining son without looking back. Grandfather laments the loss, but cares little for the spare in the long run.

Meanwhile, Danyal hid himself long enough to sneak onto one of many transports filled with foreign aid. He is small and sneakier than any average stowaway, and remains undetected all the way to the US.

He doesn't go to Gotham to find his father, but picks a direction at random and leaves, until eventually he's picked up and put in the system. Bouncing around until one day, not long after he turns seven, the Dr.'s Fenton and their young daughter are visiting in their search to adopt their second child. (A combination of genetics and radiation from their earliest experiments in college leaving the pair with low fertility rates and very high risks if they ever did get pregnant. The two get procedures early on and adopt Jazz when she is still fairly young, but wait until she is a bit older before adopting again.)

Danyal Al Ghul had an older twin brother.

Daniel Fenton doesn't think he could handle having an older brother again, but an older sister is acceptable.

Danyal left to go full civilian, and when Damien had sent him off decided he would carry that knowledge to his grave if he must. He tells no one, and does not even mention ever having a twin when he goes to live with their Father in Gotham. If Mother did not tell Father of the deceased son, then neither will Damien.

Danyal Al Ghul is dead, and Damien will keep it that way.

.

.

.

.

(The greatest secret is this: The two have never lost contact. It is very easy, during a natural disaster, to steal a pair of burner phones, each with one number only on them and prepaid with enough stolen funds to last years. Danny smuggles his with him in one piece, Damien smuggles his in pieces, ready to be hidden and repaired when necessary. He checks it scarcely, but every few months is enough to make sure his twin is alive. When he goes to live with Father in Gotham, they communicate a bit more frequently. This remains his most fiercely protected secret.)

[kurikorso]

in my moomins era once again. i've been amused lately at the idea of The Joxter carrying baby Snufkin around in his mouth

[asoftepiloguemylove]

YOU'RE IN MY VEINS, YOU FUCK

Henry Miller from a letter to Brenda Venus Dear, Dear Brenda: The Love Letters of Henry Miller to Brenda Venus // boygenius We're In Love // Francisco de Zurbarán Agnus Dei // Katie Maria I used to be a hole in the ground (via @heavensghost) // Rafael Nicolás Angels Before Man // Céline Sciamma Portrait de la jeune fille en feu // Kate Moss in a text message to Pete Doherty // Sophocles Antigone // Joan Didion South and West // Richard Siken Editors Pages: The Long and Short of It // Japanese Breakfast Boyish // VIVINOS Alien Stage; "ROUND 6" // Li-Young Lee I Loved You Before I Was Born // Hannibal; "Secondo" dir. Vincenzo Natali // Hozier Francesca

[tearsofcalamity]

wanna sit behind aventurine and jerk him off...

imagine moving behind him just after he gets up in the morning, watching over his shoulder while he works on his lil tablet, sliding in til you're flush with his back and you can reach around and start palming him through his pants

he's very taken aback and tries to just laugh you off, but your eyes are dark and very hungry when you look back at him. it's not long before you have him panting and huffing, his finger stuttering over the metrics on his screen as he tries to finish up the smalltime work he wanted to take care of (to little avail). eventually, he just moves to set it down, but your grip is like iron around him.

whisper in his ear, ask him what he's doing, doesn't he have to finish up what he was doing on his little screen? his hand trembles as he tries to do just as you asked, but it's clear that his mind is far too hazy and distracted to even think of doing any of it right.

as soon as your hand slips beneath his waistband he's whining loud and canting his hips up into your hand involuntarily, chasing the pleasure from your fingers gliding over his shaft, his slit, rubbing circles into that sensitive spot right beneath his tip. he's bending into you, back arching as he pants harshly into your neck and squirms, little pleads escaping his mouth as you continue to work at his weeping cock.

notice it when he goes to reach for your wrist to set his own pace only to restrain himself and fist the sheets instead. what a good boy. be sure to tell him just that, praise him lots.

tell him what a good boy he's being for you, tell him how pretty he looks, how can one man look so gorgeous just after waking up? he looks so lovely when he's desperate, looks even prettier when he cums, ask him if he wants to cum, yeah? does he want to cum? you can feel his pretty cock twitching in your hand, surely he's right on the brink--

he's got the absolute loveliest sobs when he hears you praising him so, calling him all sorts of lovey petnames that make him feel like he's melting into you, hips stuttering as he makes a mess inside his pants and gets your hand all wet n sticky. oh, but he's more than willing to make up for it when he dazedly gets on his hands and knees without so much as a word from you, licking your hand clean of his spend with adoring eyes, so desperate for more praise and adoration from you. and yes, he'll certainly return the favor -- he's already going for the waistband of your pants, eager to hear all the ways you'll call for him and tell him how good he's being when he's pleasing you.

[dokukoi]

[beets]

baby, bi bi bi

[weatherera]

“There were many like you.”

[wretchedbroth]

Some little tenth doctor inks in honour of me finally watching series 1-4 properly.

[yeyinde]

piggybacking off of @ceilidho 's dog soap idea with something awful lmao

You first notice it when you catch him staring at you from the crack of your bedroom door.

He's sitting in the dimly lit hallway, only half of his face peering into the sliver of space between the white wood of the door and the frame. Just—

Watching.

In the bluegreen glow of the flickering screen (Robert Stack paces down a blue hallway, bathed in that hazy, neon glow of early 80s television), he looks more like a lurking shadow than an animal. Eyes dark, and glinting in the soft light like the surface of a placid lake. You think of the dangers lurking beneath the murk when his muzzle dips, the slow refocus of an apex predator acclimating to a sudden change by its prey. The motion almost entire too human, and—

Not.

Not at all. It rides a razor's edge between anthropomorphism and the uncanny valley; the middle a strange, unfathomable realm of eerie discomfort. Something is wrong. The notion prickles against the nape of your neck. Crawls slowly down your back, the spindled gait of a languid spider tickling your skin as it walks over your flesh.

Something is wrong with your dog.

He was fine ten minutes ago. Had his dinner. Went for his walk. You were lazing on the bed flipping through the channels when his ears perked up, head pointed toward the back door.

You didn't think much about it. He had to go. Maybe he heard a rodent rummaging in your garbage. You slipped out of bed, his soft, fuzzy body sliding against your calves as you walked him to the patio, pulling it open and letting him out. He seemed to hesitate at the threshold, though. And while it didn't stand out to you then, it does now. He froze, ears pinning back, flat to his skull, as his fur lifted. Raising high in the air. A whine slipping out—

There was a rustle in the bush. A low noise. A growl. It was probably just the other dog sniffing along the fence, you thought. Your neighbours husky. He placed one paw on the deck, and then turned to you, eyes wet and glossy in the flushed porch light, and—

(and he looked so scared.)

Your breath hitches. Heart twisting in your chest. He's still staring at you from the hall. Unblinking. Expression wild. Wide. Pinning you with his stare. But he's panting. Chest expanding as it heaves through it's snout in quick, shallow breaths. Maybe the other dog scared it. Maybe the husky bit it's paw through the fence. You should check on it—

Him.

Check on him.

He went outside after a moment. Tail flattened between his legs. Drawn toward something you couldn't see, couldn't hear. And you turned around with a smile, waving him off as you walked back to bed. And now—

It's—his—lip curls.

He's never so much as bitten you much less—snarled. The suddenness of it paralyses you. Roots you to bed. Useless and unable to do anything as your dog, your baby boy, lifts his muzzle up with a growl, long, sharp canines dripping red—

"Baby?"

It's a warble when it slips out. Shaky. Scared. The sound of voice makes the dog drop his jowls, cherryred tongue lulling out. Pink, foamy drool spilling to the ground as he pants. His teeth look sharper than they did before. You brush them every night before bed, cooing at him as you scrub his canines clean. Singing some off-key song about dogs and their pretty teeth. He watches you with nothing short of adoration etched into his big, brown eyes. Wide and so trusting, so loving—

It's a harsh juxtaposition to how he looks at you now. Hungrily. Like a starving lion looming over a tired, sickly gazelle. Tongue out, jaws dripping with saliva. Your heart lurches.

"Baby?" You call again and he huffs. The rough noise filling the room, echoing through the hall. Deeper, somehow, than the snarl on his lips. The halfbitten growl booming in his heaving chest. You curl your legs inward under the covers, drawing them tight to your chest as he blinks, slow. Languid. As his lips split wider, wider, and for a moment, you almost trick yourself into seeing a maniacal grin pushing at the corners. Frenzied and full of teeth.

You wait for it. And wait. Wait—

But the lake ripples, and the thought is tucked away. Hidden under a blanket of numbness that spreads, mushrooming over your thoughts. Cobwebbing over the unease that saturates your mind; tiny fangs of a spider piercing through, liquifying them.

He keeps his eyes pinned on you, mouth open wide with his tongue out the side of jaw, and slowly raises himself off of the floor. It's something you've seen him do hundreds of times. Agile flicks. A big stretch. A yawn. A shake.

Something cools on your cheek. Wet, sticky. You don't have to reach up to know that it's tears. They roll down in an endless stream, cold against your frozen face. Unable to move as your mind bends, and bends, but refuses to break. To snap. Shatter. To admit that what you're seeing is real.

That he doesn't shake. He doesn't yawn. He jerks. He twists. Unfamiliar, you think. Like he isn't used to moving with a body this shape. Distorted. Wrong. It snaps. It twitches. He hunches over with his spine bowed and his head slung between his thick front legs, low to the ground but his eyes—

His eyes are on you.

Pinning you down. Glowing in the artificial blue light.

He looms over you. Snout inches from your cheekbone. The puff of his ragged breath glues uncomfortably to the sticky tears on your face. The air that rattles in and out of his lungs is uneven. Choppy. Inhale too deep. Exhale too shallow. It morphs into snarling rataplan. In-in, out. Inout. In, ininin, out.

You can't watch him move. Try to walk. It'll skewer through the molasses you let trickle over your fear, curdling in your belly like sour milk. You drag your gaze away from his jerking gait instead, staring, unseeingly, at the television as he limbers onto the bed.

You can smell something on him when he moves close. Rot, you think. Ozone. Pine. Dead leaves. The wet, mossy bark of a fallen tree. Blood. Bad meat.

Your eyes burn. If your heart beats any harder, any faster, you think you might go into shock. Cardiac arrest. Killed by—

Fear.

That there's blood on his muzzle. You smell it when he leans in close, snout pressing cold and slimy against your cheek.

You're not sure why you do it. Muscle memory, maybe. But your hand lifts. Falls to his head. Nails scratching through matted, oily fur.

He's still staring at you. Whale-eyed. Something inside you whispers not to look. That if you turn your head, all the things hidden under the silk web will bubble to the surface. Things like—

He's big. Too big. Your growing boy.

He smells. He reeks. Got into the garbage again.

He's acting strange. Wrong. He's just scared.

He's going to eat you alive. You love him.

This thing isn't your dog—

He swings his head toward you suddenly, maw open wide, peeling back from those sharp, stained teeth; tongue lulling out—oh god, oh god—and he licks your cheek.

Panic bubbles out of your throat in the shape of a laugh. A giggle. You're going crazy, you think. Hysterical. But you let him lick your face, swiping his too hot tongue over the tears on your cheek. Your nose. Licking into the corners of your eyes. Over your forehead, chin. Jaw.

Its only when his muzzle slides up to your lips do you flinch back. Pull away. "No. N—no. Bad bad. Go—go to sleep, baby."

He huffs, and you stare—resolute, empty—at the blankets when he drops his head down, licking slowly at your rabbiting pulse. Teeth grazing the soft skin of your neck. Nibbling, pinching with his sharp incisors. The gossamer falls. The sheet is pulled back.

The thing stares at you with a hideous, devastating want on its borrowed face. Primordial. Archiac. It's hunger. It's greed. Its a lamb in the lion's den. And you—

You pull the sheet back up. Slowly slide back to the pillows below. Eyes fixed on the ceiling as he looms over you. Your baby boy. There's a huff. A quiet exhale through its nose, and then you feel it move. Twisting. Turning. Curling up against your side, body supine and made of strong, hard muscle. The rough scrape of its fur feels like a beard. Coarse. Wry. Spread out and matted down against its canine body. Burning like a furnace. Reeking of brimstone.

As he settles in his spot, resting his heavy head on your belly (possessively—owner, pet; the lines blur as he flicks his gaze toward you, watchful now and still as heavy, dizzyingly intense as before), you lay awake staring at the ceiling. It'll pass in the morning, you think. He must have eaten something bad. Got into the garbage again. You'll take him to the vet, maybe.

(leave him there—)

He's fine. He's just a little sick, is all. Agitated. It's going to storm tonight. He can feel it in the air. In his joints. Everything will be fine—

Outside, something yowls. The patio door rattles.

Scratch, scratch, scratch—

He huffs, lifting his head with a small snarl pulling on his waxy muzzle. Eyes narrowing into slits. Glaring into the hallway. To the patio.

"Easy, baby," you quaver, and curl your hands into his damp fur. "It's just the wind. It's just the wind—"

Another huff. It sounds rougher this time. Deeper. Masculine. Human.

When he settles back against you, you feel bare skin sliding along your thigh, and realise that the nightmare has just begun.

"Baby? Could get used tae tha'. Are ye gonnae ca' me a good boy too?"

[shadowkira]

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[linoyes]