Tumgik
#in a sexy way
slasheru · 11 months
Text
Tumblr media Tumblr media
HEY I'M USING TUMBLR BLAZE FOR ITS INTENDED PURPOSE AND TELLING YOU ABOUT MY HORNY HORROR-COMEDY DATING SIM THAT I MADE.
(also on itchio ooh ahhh https://suiteddevil.itch.io/slasheru-act1alpha)
2K notes · View notes
lokisprettygirl · 7 months
Text
Rugged looking Matt Smith in His House.
Tumblr media Tumblr media Tumblr media Tumblr media Tumblr media
214 notes · View notes
returnsandreturns · 1 month
Text
once i finish this story where matt is charmingly and deeply--deep down to his very soul--horny and in love and a very good boy, i will start writing the fundraising fics 💕
--
“Should we talk about this?” Foggy asks, probably because Matt’s a panting mess on top of him even though he’s still fully clothed, because it’s been years and years—of weird, intense friendship and also Matt having patched together fantasies from listening to this entire goddamn city’s sex life and porn and hookups that went a shade filthier when girls realized pulling his hair while he went down on them led to him being almost pathetically desperate for more.
Anything. Whatever they wanted.
He ended up getting fucked by one of their boyfriends just because they told him to and, after establishing some things about himself he had been valiantly trying to ignore, his fantasies shifted in Foggy’s direction immediately and settled there for years to come. Once he figured out he could have sex with men—that he was allowed to by God or the universe or something because he did it and he liked it and he wasn't guilty—then it would never again escape his mind that he could have sex with Foggy.
56 notes · View notes
robthegoodfellow · 1 year
Text
Billy and Steve get into an argument about Billy’s behavior—he baited Jason Carver until Carver punched him in the face—and Billy has the shattering realization that he’s been zeroing in on Carver in particular because he reminds Billy of Neil—just like how so many of his destructive behaviors are all about Neil. Sensing he’s about to spiral and not wanting to lash out further at Steve, he tries to leave.
“I just—don’t want you getting hurt,” Harrington insisted.
“Noted. Roger that,” he said, bitingly, and Harrington glared, losing patience. Billy tried to press Pause. Didn’t know why he was being so—“Sorry.” He breathed in. Out. “I should go. M’all screwy—I don’t wanna be a dick. I’m sorry.”
“No, you don’t have to—” Harrington looked gutted, and Billy couldn’t stand that, rounded the counter before he knew it. Insinuated himself between long legs, wrapped himself around Harrington’s torso and got an affirming squeeze in return. “Don’t care if you’re being a dick,” Harrington mumbled.
“I care,” Billy said, and stalled out there. He’d been on such a good stretch for a while—hadn’t felt like this in… weeks? This riotous inner mess pulling him in different directions, thrumming in that panicky, aimless way that demanded some kind of release, that sometimes ended in explosions if he couldn’t redirect it. Numb it. Drown it.
It wasn’t altogether unprecedented, periods of relative peace. Of even-keeled almost-normalcy. For one thing, Neil always lay off a bit during basketball season—the one time of year when he deemed Billy marginally less of a fuckup—so there was less to rock the emotional boat, those months. And it helped to have a Neil-approved reason to be out of the house a lot. So yeah—nothing had really sent him spiraling.
But now it was back: that roiling mass just below the surface—a subconscious disturbance that was liable to boil over at a moment’s notice, and he didn’t want to accidentally burn anyone if it did, least of all Harrington. It was partly the fight with Carver, and his mixed-up feelings about it, partly the crummy resentment that came with uncovering the roots of yet another warped behavior and finding they sprouted directly from Neil. Like Billy was a dumb puppet laboring under the delusion that he was a real boy, when really every jerk of his rotten strings was dear old dad.
Huge, heaving sigh, so big Billy could feel the lungs expand and contract within his hold. Harrington tipped his head back, and Billy obligingly dipped down for a kiss, tried to convey through the gentle press of lips that they were okay—but he couldn’t quite repress a fine tremor.
“I care,” he said again, drawing back, trying to step away. Big warm hands framed his face, and he stilled, looked up to find Harrington evaluating him closely.
“By ‘screwy,’ do you mean like that day we did this?” His pinky brushed the hoop in Billy’s right earlobe. “Because I gave you my number for reason.” A small, stern smile. “Remember?”
Billy did. It was the fourth phone number he’d ever memorized—after his home phone, his grandparents’ place, and Cherry Lane. He’d mentally placed the Harrington landline in the empty category that had once belonged to Carlsbad: In Case of Emergency. He nodded in answer to both questions.
“So,” Harrington said, leading. His thumbs stroked Billy’s cheeks, under his eyes. “Don’t go. Tell me what you—need.”
Everything went tight: Billy’s throat, his lungs, every muscle. Tight and trembling. “I don’t know,” he whispered through gritted teeth. The tingle behind his nose heralded tears. “I can’t—”
It was all a jumble. Knew he’d half intended to go home and instigate something: deliberately wake the monster, walk into Neil’s backhand, maybe add some symmetry to the bruise already blooming. You know, seize some punishment now rather than wait who knows how long for the consequences of his actions. But there was a competing impulse to stay as far away from his puppet-master as possible—to give himself over to some other force, whether human or substance, because… was being in control even an option when so much of what Billy did was a reaction to… him? And so—wouldn’t it be better… to pick who or what was pulling his strings? To at least have that reprieve?
“Can’t—couldn’t you?” Billy asked, breathy and begging, resting more of his weight in Harrington’s hands. “Tell me? What I need? What to do?”
Somehow, Harrington didn’t look confused by that—just considering, cautious. Probably helped that he already knew Billy sometimes liked being ordered around during sex, but that had only ever been little commands here and there, a cheeky means of teasing more than anything. Not quite—as all-encompassing as this.
Harrington slowly pushed back on him until he was standing upright, let his hands fall to Billy’s jittery shoulders.
“You’ll tell me if you don’t like something,” Harrington said. It wasn’t a question, but Billy nodded anyway. “Okay.”
Already Billy was buzzing in anticipation—primed to drop to his knees, or strip and bend over. Whatever mind-wiping method was on offer, he’d take it.
Harrington was chewing on his lip, lost in thought. Then he took Billy’s hand, guided him back so he could stand up. Didn’t lace their fingers together like usual, but sort of—grabbed his palm. Held it between them.
“Come on,” he said. Then, in the tone of someone testing a theory: “Past your bedtime, baby.”
Oh. Billy’s eyes went glassy as everything froze. He thought they were gonna—fuck. Not—whatever this was.
“Okay?” Harrington checked.
Billy cleared his throat, blinked till his brain rebooted. “Yeah,” he managed.
Before leading him by the hand out of the kitchen, Harrington asked if he needed anything—Was he hungry? Thirsty? Billy stared, blank, still finding his footing.
“My head,” he said, at last. “Hurts.”
They went to the medicine cabinet. He downed some Advil with the water Harrington gave him in a little Dixie cup.
Harrington kept firm hold of his hand up the stairs, and every step was a toss-up on whether Billy was gonna laugh or cry. His insides had gone fuzzy—staticky and soft. Then he was in the hallway bathroom brushing his teeth because Harrington had told him to, because Harrington would be back soon to check. Unbidden, he’d been silently running through the ABC song—keep brushing till you get to Z, Billy Bear.
He spit, wiped his mouth on a damp washcloth, his burning eyes.
Harrington smiled when he returned, murmured, “Good job,” and herded him down the hall, toward the door at the end, while good job, good job ran on a loop in Billy’s ears. Beyond the door lay a dim cavernous space—the master bedroom. The light from the hallway and the roaring en suite illuminated a massive four poster bed, gleaming dark wood bureau and wardrobe, a chaise lounge by the window…
Not allowed, he thought, nonsensically. Not allowed to be here.
Steam billowed from the adjoining bathroom, the hard surfaces resounding with the thunderous deluge of multiple taps, and the sound shot him back to—god, when he was… eight? Had it been almost ten years since he’d had a bath?
Since someone had given him a bath? Since his mother had?
He stopped a few feet from the threshold, suddenly unsure whether he wanted to…
Harrington came around to his front, ran reassuring hands up and down slack arms.
“All right?” he asked.
Billy followed the arcs of steam curling as they touched the chilly dark. “Are we not gonna…?”
“I wanna take care of you,” said Harrington. On the upsweep, he continued onward, linked his fingers behind Billy’s neck. “Let me.”
“Like this?” Because why would he—want to?
“Like this,” he confirmed. His eyes were warm—dark and steady and sure.
Billy nodded, and Harrington drew him into the golden glow, closed the door behind them. The air was humid, sticky—and between one blink and the next, the lights had softened, only the fixture over the sinks left on.
There was a shower stall to his left, but it was silent and still—all the noise and vapor poured from the opposite corner, where a shining jacuzzi set into this white marble platform was filling up under the onslaught of a pair of ornate faucets.
Harrington helped him get undressed, even knelt to peel off his socks. Billy snuck a glance at the vanity, beheld himself standing there—his broad shoulders, the cut of his pecs, his dick hanging limp from a tawny thatch of pubes.
Lifted his foot, and his foot was bare. Put it down on cold tile.
The definition of his abs, the curve of his biceps, the purple ringing round a socket the way it had so many times before. Then the image split and split and split—the compounding eye view of a bug—and he remembered, in his mother’s voice, the cadence she’d had when reading aloud:
I am still every age that I have been. Because I was once a child, I am always a child… to forget is a form of suicide.
Lifted his foot, and his foot was bare. Put it down on cold tile.
What book had it been? She was at the kitchen table while he stirred the soup. Had paused, looked at him, read it again. Don’t forget that, she’d said. Don’t forget that, Bear.
When Harrington stood, Billy’s face was wet.
He’d forgotten it. And usually his memory was so good. Too good.
“Ready?” Harrington asked, holding out his hand.
Billy sniffed, took it in that childlike grasp from before.
Heeded words of warning as he stepped, awkward, into the water, as he lowered himself into the bubbling currents of the jets. The heat enveloped him, touched every part with liquid sun, and he let out a long unwinding breath. His ass touched the smooth bottom, and Harrington gestured him toward the built-in headrest, where a jet waited to pummel every knot out of his lower back. Billy groaned, heard a chuckle.
“Good, huh?” Harrington crouched by the lip, testing the water.
Billy wiped a hand down his face, rinsing the salt tracks from his cheeks. “Been holding out on me, Harrington.” Eyed him under heavy lids, drowsy in the lulling warmth. “Really not gonna join me?”
The responding smile was so soft that Billy fought not to look away—managed not to blink until Harrington turned his attention to the taps, shutting them off, plunging them into an abrupt, echoing quiet.
“No,” he said, pushing up off of the marble to stand. “Isn’t about that. Just relax.”
Billy sighed, closing his eyes. He heard the thump and creak of cabinet doors, the thunk of items deposited by his head, but he was too droopy all over to investigate—totally al dente. So remote that he sensed Harrington nearby as though through a fog. A palm rested on his brow, smoothed the hair off his forehead.
“Still awake, baby?”
Billy swallowed—wondered why baby was different than babe, why it stung but made him wanna lean into it all the same. He nodded.
“Can you sit up?” At Billy’s whine, he chuckled again. “Only for a bit. C’mon.” He wedged a hand under Billy’s shoulder, and with an aggrieved grunt Billy was levered upright. The water sloshed, settled back to a simmer.
Harrington had pushed his sleeves up, perched himself on the marble ledge next to an array of… fancy-pants body wash and hair products. Considering that Billy was but a noodle, cooked tender by the buffeting current, it was no wonder that, when Harrington arched an eyebrow, it took him a couple beats to put two and two together. But when he did…
His face flushed. Like he was—too big for his skin, heart pounding loud. Harrington waited placidly until Billy nodded, then cupped his nape, told him to lay back. Billy didn’t speak, too focused on his breathing; tilted until he dipped like a ladle, the hot water exquisite, lapping his temples, his forehead, the hinge of his jaw. Shivered when he sat up and streams ran down his skin, dark tendrils plastered to his neck. Harrington gave him a sudsy washcloth then patted the side of the tub by his hip, and Billy shifted so his back was against the smooth surface.
A whisper, warm in his ear: “This okay?”
Billy filled in the rest—that I’m behind you?—and breathed out a broken laugh. “Yeah.” His only associations here were Ma. Just her.
While he scrubbed at his pits, his crotch, strong soapy fingers massaged his scalp, circling firm to work up a lather, and holy fuck, he did not recall it feeling this good as a kid. Damn near divine. Like, so good his dick was taking an interest—until, that is, he noticed some familiar movements up there… distinctly sculpting.
“Are you giving me a mohawk?”
“Maybe.”
Billy turned to level a joking glare at his tormenter, and Harrington let out a giggle.
“Looks good on you,” he said, then leaned over to fill up a plastic cup with fresh water from the faucet. “Tip your head back, baby.”
Billy did, eyes slipping shut, and didn’t mind at all when it took a couple cascades of water—so hot, but not too hot—to wash it out. Pretended it was cleansing him of more than just soap suds.
Harrington offered conditioner, and Billy’s eager nod made him laugh.
When at last Harrington got up to put the supplies away, Billy unfolded, reacquainting himself with the best jet by the headrest, and thought he’d never felt so… pristine. Weightless. A weird buoyancy in the chest rather than floaty in the brain, as when Harrington mind-wiped him the usual way. Like… out, damned spot. And it was out.
Drifting as he was, it took him a moment to realize Harrington had sat on the tile floor, right where Billy had draped an arm… and how could he resist? Harrington hummed when sluggish fingers sank into his hair, craned for better access, and even this spacey, Billy knew what that meant—gathered a fist of brown locks and lightly squeezed. Not enough to hurt, but enough to feel the pull.
“How’d you know?” Billy asked, quiet over the bubbling jets. “To do all this?”
Harrington’s throat bobbed as he swallowed. “Gloria,” he said. “Nanny number two. Had this whole—bedtime routine. Brush, bath, story. It was the best.”
After a pause, hoping he’d keep going, Billy prodded. “Oh, yeah?”
“Yeah.” Harrington snorted. “She would sing, tuck me in the right way… They let her go when I was—six, maybe? Seven? And nanny number three said I was old enough for showers, so…” He shrugged.
Billy combed his fingers through silky strands, a slow sweeping arc. “No more songs? Stories?”
“She made me brush my teeth, still.”
God, that tone. It was a Harrington specialty—this jaunty, blithe bitterness—and it stabbed Billy every time.
“Babe,” he said, tugging, and when that didn’t work: “Baby.”
“You’re baby,” Harrington said, finally looking over his shoulder. Billy tugged again, and Harrington sighed, shifted into a kneeling crouch, his arms crossed on the ledge. Billy curled forward, mirroring him.
“We can both be,” he said. “You think I don’t wanna take care you, too?”
Harrington’s mouth twitched, side to side, gaze glued to the seam between fiberglass and marble.
And that… that silence was deafening—so damning that something sprang loose, and Billy was murmuring hey, reaching to tip Harrington’s chin, coax his eyes up. They shone, glimmering in the half light. And Billy saw him, in there—the child inside.
“I—” Billy choked on a painful lump. Took a beat to gulp it down. “I do. Course I do.”
Harrington didn’t say anything—couldn’t. Billy watched nostrils flare, his throat seize, the sheen pool at his lashes. Remembered that night when Harrington told him he could cry if he needed to.
“It’s okay,” he whispered. “You can… tell me.”
It wasn’t like Billy, the way Harrington caved in. He smiled, for one thing—this ghastly crooked baring of teeth—and a few tears spilled over rictus cheeks. Just a few before he ran dry. Gasped a punctured laugh.
“Christ, I used to…” Shook his head, unfocused—a million miles off. “I used to do the routine with my bear. After she left. I’d help him brush his teeth and pretend to give him a bath in the sink and I’d read to him but I couldn’t really read so I’d just make stuff up based on the pictures…”
Billy blinked away his own prickle of tears and quirked trembling lips. “That explains it, then—why you were so good at this. You had practice.”
Harrington chuckled wetly, propped his head on his hand. “Guess so.”
He was trying—Billy was trying so hard not to picture it… a little kid with a brown mop of hair, tucking his teddy into bed, play-acting what he wanted for himself but wasn’t getting anymore.
A phantom kiss on his forehead, a sense memory from way deep in the archives, and before he knew it, he’d leaned forward and pressed his lips to Harrington’s brow—clumsy, catching half skin and half hair.
He sank back down in the water, chin pillowed on his wrist, and when their eyes locked, something had—shifted. Thought about how they weren’t each other’s everything but were… some things.
Things they hadn’t been able to name.
“I’ll be your baby,” he said. “And you’ll be mine?”
The slope of Harrington’s shoulder rose and fell, the heave of release—relief. A smile played at the corners of his mouth. He nodded.
full chapter
64 notes · View notes
altpuppyslut · 2 months
Text
I’m puppy I’m puppy I’m puppy I’m puppy I’m puppy I’m puppy I’m puppy I’m puppy I’m puppy I’m puppy I’m puppy I’m puppy I’m puppy I’m puppy I’m puppy I’m puppy I’m puppy I’m puppy I’m puppy I’m puppy I’m puppy I’m puppy I’m puppy I’m puppy I’m puppy I’m puppy I’m puppy I’m puppy I’m puppy I’m puppy I’m puppy I’m puppy I’m puppy I’m puppy I’m puppy I’m puppy I’m puppy I’m puppy I’m puppy I’m puppy I’m puppy I’m puppy I’m puppy I’m puppy I’m puppy I’m puppy I’m puppy I’m puppy I’m puppy I’m puppy I’m puppy I’m puppy I’m puppy I’m puppy I’m puppy I’m puppy I’m puppy I’m puppy I’m puppy I’m puppy I’m puppy I’m puppy I’m puppy
4 notes · View notes
zushimart · 1 year
Text
scara manual blinker
34 notes · View notes
dancingisdangerouss · 7 months
Note
Full Magic Grabber? Nah, Full Psych Ward Grabber! Let’s psychoanalyze that himbo
Tumblr media Tumblr media
7 notes · View notes
fbfh · 11 months
Note
Me, who cant find an incredibly specific oneshot for a character in a niche fandom, which has been dead for over 20 years: s-so im supposed to write it myself..?
OH HELL YES SPILL!!!!!!!!!!!! I LOVE A GOOD DEAD FANDOM!!!!!!!!!
18 notes · View notes
quietsounds · 1 year
Text
everybody deserves friends who rlly gets them<3
Tumblr media
ily @spicedchaiandromeda thanks for being so nice to horngoblin Snurm<3333
17 notes · View notes
niishi · 1 year
Text
I finally tested how I was gonna carry zoros swords around my waist and.. figured it out I think... but my god.. this is too much swords.. there's something wrong with his brain
5 notes · View notes
wixterirox · 9 months
Text
Billy deserves to have his hair pulled
5 notes · View notes
suesheroll · 2 years
Text
X
18 notes · View notes
jesustease · 10 months
Text
I need to go to the pet store and buy a collar and a leash
3 notes · View notes
Text
You ever read a book once not have it make any sense so you read again and still no sense than you read it again three months later and it makes some sense but than the logistics don’t line up? Yeah that’s happening to me but there’s just one part that doesn’t match up I hate love it.
2 notes · View notes
reptite · 1 year
Text
gonna freshen up in my suite and then wander down to get one (1) cocktail and use one (1) slot machine
2 notes · View notes
Note
I’m the anon who’d said I’m an Elriel and omg the Elriel one shot!! It was glorious. You writing elriel feels like a fever dream in the best way. “I can’t risk you leaving me again” me: *bursts into tears in the middle of hot smut*. Thank you so much for putting this fic out there, i and I’m sure all your followers as well as elriels who enjoy good fics are so appreciative!! ❤️❤️
The response was so lovely and positive. I would do it again if I had a story for them. I'm glad you liked them, and I'm glad you reached out.
6 notes · View notes