honey and milk

a place for all my fiction writing. follows, likes, and messages from holdyourthroat.

[ectothermal]

I just found baby teeth. Is it on hiatus or dead? Cause oh gosh I love it so much

hi, i realize you asked this 2 years ago but i wanted to give u an answer - i will never fully consider baby teeth dead. it may be on indefinite hiatus but i'll always have thoughts, feelings, and fondness for baby teeth that leave a possibility for another installment if it strikes me. thanks so much for reading it and loving it ♥

[ectothermal]

.01/24.

[ectothermal]

LOVE ME (like you used to)

co-authored by @mary_peachy on twitter

Fandom: Homestuck Ship: Dave’s Bro | Beta Dirk Strider/Roxy Lalonde Words: 9520 Rating: Explicit Warnings: Underage, Dubious Consent, Parent/Child Incest, Emotional Manipulation, Risky Sex, Sub Drop Other Tags: Daddy Kink, Daddy Issues, Breeding, Rough Sex, Nipple Play, Age Regression Summary:

“What do you say, Rox Star? Gonna be a good girl and give your daddy another baby?”

She can only whimper out a soft Daaaadddyyyyy in her frustration and impatience, tired of being teased and feeling ready to burst. He doesn't even ask her to beg, but she does anyway: “Yes, Daddy, please, I wanna be good, I wanna have your baby, please, Daddy, god, please fuck me.”

--

Baby Slut Gets Bad Touched By Daddy Dearest Dot Pornhub Dot Com

Read on AO3

[ectothermal]

krissy 💖💖💖 thank you SO much

she loves her daddy and her daddy needs her so much, that's the same as love, right?

and of course, dave loves his bro, he's the best and the coolest and he's making him stronger 💖 other people just don't get it

[ectothermal]

there's a lot of things about dirk that aren't quite right. disappears on the weekends, sleeps in the living room of a one bedroom apartment filled with almost nothing but toys and weapons, runs shady websites with shadier clientele, calls his son 'little brother'. as far as roxy knows, dave's never seen his mother, never considered his big bro might be his dad. 

none of that matters to her, though. 

what matters to her is the sweet southern drawl when he murmurs against her skin, strong arms solid around her on hot, humid nights with the fan blowing over their exposed skin to cool their sweat. the rare times she sees him without hat or glasses or gloves, and she sees the beginnings of lines at the corners of his eyes, the silly cowlick at the crown of his head from wearing his hat all the time, his broken and crooked knuckles that ever since she's placed kisses to through the holes in his gloves. 

there are a lot of things about dirk that aren't quite right, but roxy is sweet sixteen and doesn't care about any of those things, doesn't care that she met him walking home from junior high, doesn't care that he used to hire her to watch dave while he was gone. doesn't care that he's never just dirk - he's 'bro', he's 'strider', he's 'please, daddy please, daddy please', but to 'dirk' he's only tense shoulders and little flinches, short words and shorter temper. 

no, roxy is sweet sixteen and all she can think about is the rough scrape of stubble against her lips, cheeks, throat, thighs, jaw dropped and eyes unfocused with dirk's tongue working hard between her legs as she stares right past a red light blinking across the room. like this, she exists in strands of blonde held tight in little girl fists, in ten sweet bruises under ten strong fingers as he holds her thighs open even as she shakes and cries and shakes and tries to jerk away from overstimulation. like this, she exists in the low rumble of her daddy's voice, all 'sweet girl's and 'perfect whore's, exists in the way his tongue fucks her taste into her mouth, in the way wet, sticky fingers dig into her cheeks to force her jaw open for him. she exists where consequences don't, where thirty eight means nothing, where videos online of her heavy tits bouncing as her daddy fucks her stupid aren't real, where the way dave can't seem to meet her eyes is just a coincidence. 

roxy is sweet sixteen, and dirk strider ain't quite right. but roxy soothes paranoia from quaking muscles in the twilight, kisses wrenched-tight eyelids until they relax enough to let tears slip through. she traces smart fingers over scars in gentle patterns until her daddy's chest smooths from stuttering heaving into the slow rhythm of sleep, gently admires in the blue tv glow how he looks wrought even then, rest shallow and fitful, brow wrinkled with stress. she sits, his heavy head cradled in her lap, carding fingers through his hair until the sun glares through the windows, never considers growing weary of the routine, of the ways he needs her more and more. 

roxy is sweet sixteen, and her daddy ain't quite right, but she wouldn't trade this for the world.

[ectothermal]

"open your mouth."

"bro, wait -"

"i said open your fuckin' mouth, dave." bro's fingers are fast and opportunistic, slipping back between dave's teeth when he opens up to talk, forcing his jaw wide like he's forcing a stubborn cat to swallow a pill. he holds his son there, admiring the way his thick fingers pull the corner of dave's mouth way back, the way pretty pink lips pull over his gums to bare teeth, the sharp frustrated glare that bro can just barely see behind dave's shades. his grin is sideways and sharp as he works his pants open with his free hand, pulling his soft cock out from the vee of his fly. dave shifts forward, assuming what's expected of him, and bro presses his fingers further into the back of his mouth until he gags, places a heavy foot on a skinny thigh to force him back down.

"did i tell you to do anythin' besides open your mouth? come on, i know you're not fuckin' stupid."

"fugh ough."

vitriol drips from dave's glare and mangled words the same way drool drips from his round bottom lip to paint a pretty wet spot down the front of his shirt; it makes bro laugh, mocking and fond in equal measure.

"shut up, dave."

he can still feel tension pull through the lean muscle under the sole of his shoe, can feel dave's jaw straining to not chomp right down on his father's fingers, can feel spit soaking his glove.

bro is a patient man, capable of biding his time, but he doesn't like wasting it - so he doesn't waste any time taking aim, shoulders sagging as he starts to relax. dave's defiant expression shifts to disgusted recognition as the stream starts to splash against his face and glasses, thick drops rolling down the lenses and onto his cheeks, rivulets running from his nose into his mouth. he jerks back, hands reaching to shove at bro's thighs, head turning to try to escape, to loosen his dad's grip, but bro only bears down on him, foot digging painful into his thigh, fingers wrenching his head back and mouth wide until piss splashes right off his tongue, filling his mouth and spilling down his chin with his refusal to swallow.

it's not long before bro finishes, tucking himself back into his pants; he withdraws his fingers from dave's mouth only to force it shut, one hand clamping over his mouth and the other rubbing up and down dave's throat until he can't fight the reflex anymore.

he swallows.

bro steps back, eyes roaming over dave; head bowed and soaked, even the tips of his hair wet and gathered into points where they hang in front of his face. he drips from his nose and gasping mouth onto the floor, a small puddle formed underneath him from what his clothes couldn't soak up in time. his shirt clings to him, positively see-through, the cooling dampness pulling small nipples into peaks underneath the fabric. similarly, the soaked denim of his jeans stretches taut over his lap, doing absolutely nothing to hide the strain of his cock growing hard in its confines. bro's mouth pulls into a cruel smirk - no matter what he does to dave, or how much the kid protests, his body always tells the truth. bro could do anything he wanted to dave, and dave would take it.

because after everything, dave is a little freak.

like father, like son.

bro turns away from the display in front of him.

"clean that shit up."

[ectothermal]

dirk knows exactly what do when the soft, silken petals start collecting in his mouth: he chews them up and chokes them right back down.

"pretty dumbshit move," hal comments. "you could be eating rhododendron or belladonna right now. oleander. monkshood. lily of the valley." hal continues to list off poisonous flowers until dirk, annoyed, spits a bright purple wad into the palm of his glove.

over the next few months, dirk gets used to the flowers sprouting up his throat, filling his mouth with petals and leaves. learns how to discreetly deal with them before he joins his friends in the session with something to hide. hal blithely reports that the flowers are hyacinth, representing jake clearly in its symbolism of playfulness, sportiness, rashness; hal continues that the purple flowers beg forgiveness.

"how?" asks dirk.

"apollo accidentally murdered hyakinthos with a discus, and in his regret turned him into the flower, as the myth goes," says hal. "not to be that guy, but this doesn't sound very promising."

"i have it handled, thanks," dirk murmurs.

--

after they kiss, the flowers subside... for a while. they never quite disappear, but dirk finds himself breathing easier, choking and coughing less often. with jake's mouth on his, exchanging rough, hot kisses, or with jake's cock pumping deep inside him, he can almost believe he's cured. that jake loves him back, real and true.

of course it could never last, and dirk knew that before it ever started, before roots ever took in his chest at all. he's not the kind of guy people stay in love with; he's neurotic and touch-starved and needy, yet couched in barrier after barrier of guarded calculation.

jake pulls away, little by little. dirk can't say he didn't expect it, but he can't say he isn't desperate to stop it from happening either.

his messages are left on read more often than not. when dirk says "i love you," insistent and uncharacteristically vulnerable, jake laughs awkwardly and says "yeah, you too."

so, all over again, he chokes.

and he swallows.

and he chokes.

he hasn't seen jake in weeks by the time the stems wind their way into his mouth, thick with little blooms that make his labored breath wheeze and whistle. they shift when he swallows, but it's useless - they're stuck in his throat, heavy like the sensation of holding back tears.

"get jake here," he rasps to hal.

"aren't you afraid?" hal asks.

"i have it handled." dirk sets his glasses aside to cut off the argument before it begins; his time is limited, and he's not about to waste any more of it arguing with himself.

minutely trembling fingers reach into the back of his throat, wrapping firm around a stem as far back as he can reach. drool spills from his lower lip as he takes a steadying breath, as deep as he can with the flowers clogging up his throat and lungs.

he tears it out with little hesitation, a mangled, gurgling shriek following the spray of blood from the roots as he flings the stalk away from him. he drops to his hands and knees, then to his elbows as he coughs, unrestrained and animal cries of pain cutting through.

"criminy! dirk, what the hell!" dirk drops onto his side, jake's legs coming into clearer and clearer focus as he runs toward him. jake drops onto a knee beside him, one solid, calloused hand curling around the side of dirk's neck.

petals and blood drip out of dirk's mouth.

"shit," says jake, hushed. dirk laughs, clutching his ribs as he coughs through it. "why didn't you say anything?"

"would it have made a difference?" dirk's voice twists and fluctuates under the pain, and jake's lips press hard together as he watches him struggle.

"no, you're right," he says, eventually. "dirk, i am... truly, truly sorry."

"you tried."

"i did." dirk nods, hand reaching up, patting at jake's shin and knee before jake's free hand comes to grasp his.

"i got it handled. take me to derse," says dirk. "hurry."

he does. jake takes dirk's board, arms wrapped firmly around his waist and stance set wide and solid to support dirk's flagging weight; blood drips steadily down his back with dirk's chin hooked over his shoulder, weak fingers clutching his shirt.

dirk knows derse like the back of his hand, hazy as he is; he knows every back alley and secret passageway, knows exactly how to stay out of sight of agents and the witch herself. with his guidance, jake makes their way to the center of the moon.

he lays dirk on the magenta, heart-adorned slab; the sight of it is morbid, dirk's chin and neck and shirt all stained deep red and sticky, and it makes him feel a little ill. still, he sits on the edge of the slab beside the boy he failed to love, big hand warm on his waist.

"can you kill me?" dirk asks, already knowing the answer.

"... no. i can't."

"yeah. i figured." dirk wheezes in the overwhelming silence for a few minutes, little coughs bubbling up every now and again.

"how about a kiss?" dirk expects another no. jake is leaning over him before he realizes, pressing his lips to dirk's without regard for the blood and spit forming bubbles between them. dirk's reciprocation is sluggish, uncoordinated; he smiles wanly when jake pulls back, mouth and chin stained raspberry red, now, too.

they wait. hours pass as dirk's breath grows weaker, as blood pools and floods in the back of his throat, as he slowly drowns in his own lungs. his eyes are glassy long before he's truly dead. a sick part of jake is reminded of the first time he kissed dirk, cold and lifeless. he doesn't think he could do it again.

dirk stops breathing. for a moment there's nothing. jake holds his breath, lone heartbeat deafening in his ears. then, light blinds him; he scrambles off of the stone and onto dirk's nearby hoverboard, shielding his eyes in his elbow.

when it's over, he blinks white spots from his vision in the relative darkness.

dirk floats before him, magenta-clad and clean, no trace of blood or flowers to be found. he takes his first deep breath in what feels like a year or more, and the corner of his mouth twitches up.

"i told you," says the prince of heart. "i had it handled."

--

written originally on my twitter for @acottagewitch 💖

[ectothermal]

Banjo + jo getting back from tour

"Baby Bo - shit. Fuck." The front door swings heavily shut behind Jo as she cuts herself off, heavy bags thudding as they hit the floor around her feet. She pushes her hair behind her ears, frustrated, as she stoops down to pick up her bags. "Baby Girl! I'm home!"

She's exhausted: completely trained from the tour, and physically wiped from hauling gear back into her drummer's basement for the past several hours. Her sweat soaked clothes cling to her uncomfortably, and she knows she reeks and she hasn't brushed her hair in three days and she hasn't taken a real, good, long shower since she first left.

But her baby girl, her Bee, rockets into the entry from the living room, every bit as tall and handsome as she ever was, grin threatening to split her weekend-stubbled face right in half, and Jolene feels renewed. Baronetta wraps strong arms around her, lifts her right up the foot she needs to get on her level. Jo hooks her sweatpants-clad legs around Bee's hips, cups her pointed jaw between her hands.

"Hi, Mama," says Baronetta, dark eyes soft with affection and shaded by her eyelashes.

"Hi, baby." Jo ducks to tuck her head into her girlfriend's neck. "Sorry. I messed up when I came in."

"It's okay." Bee nudges her nose in Jo's hair, hefting her weight to get her hands situated better under her butt. "I missed you."

"I missed you too," Jo mumbles, mouth smashed against Baronetta's pulse. "I smell like garbage."

"Okay, like, honestly? I didn't wanna say anything, but… you really. Really do." Jo snorts a laugh against Bee's skin, letting her legs down and slipping down Baronetta’s torso until her toes touch the ground.

She takes a moment to herself, to close her eyes and lean her forehead against Baronetta's chest, to feel the steady beat of her heart. To lay her hands on either side of her familiar narrow waist, to map her out as the woman she is and will become. To really let it sink in that she's home, now.

"'M'gonna shower, baby," she says, after a long moment, lifting her head and tilting way back to smile up at her Amazonian baby. "Meet me in bed in 20 for a nap?"

"Oh, bitch," Bee says, heaving a joking-yet-absolutely-typical fond, dramatic sigh, "I'm there."

i finally wrote them are u proud of me son

oc roleplay ship: jo belongs to me, baronetta belongs to stef.

send me a prompt!

[ectothermal]

Wincest + "Stargazing was a good idea"

"Hey. Boots off," Dean huffs, voice strained and crunching with gravel from the long, quiet drive across the country. Sam sighs through his nose, lowering his foot back to the ground with a little more attitude than necessary, but he turns and leans his ass against Baby to bend down and untie his shoes without any further complaint.

The stretch of desert on the I-5 between Arizona and California is empty and desolate during the day, but in the dark, it's almost pitch; they operate with the aid of Baby's headlights, but once Dean's got an old and worn woven blanket spread over Baby's hood, he shuts her off, plunging them into the inky night.

Sam fumbles a little, jamming his knee into the bumper with a hushed "fuck" before he clambers up onto the hood in his desert-dusty socks; he drags himself backwards on his elbows until his head rests against the windshield. He reaches out for Dean, fumbling. Dean grunts, snatching Sam's hand away from his face before he full-on smacks him.

"Careful," he says, but it's not hostile. He nests Sam's fingers between his, rests their hands in the narrow space between their bodies on the blanket.

"Sorry," Sam murmurs. "I can't see anything."

There's an empty chill in the night air, but warmth radiates underneath them from Baby's resting engine, and it keeps Dean from shivering. Above the boys, the sky is open and cloudless; unobscured by trees or light pollution, the stars come out in greater numbers than Dean's ever seen before. He's not one to succumb to moments of beauty often - Sam is the bleeding heart, the one that cries on a dime, the one who sees good where Dean could never dream of it - but his breath catches in his chest, held captive in place of the childlike wonder he usually keeps under careful lock and key. He can hear his baby brother's breath hitch as he takes in the view, too, and the sound is like poison, or ichor, or both, maybe, with the way the sound compresses his ribcage at the same time as it pulls it apart.

"Dean," Sam whispers, as if the quiet is too precious to pierce, and his breath trembles over the single syllable. "Jesus, it's beautiful."

"Yeah." Dean's throat feels thick and sticky. He lifts the back of his free hand to press against the corner of his eye, and he breathes out a laugh when he feels a little prick of wetness there. "Fuck." He turns to Sam to find him watching in the darkness, sharp hazel eyes somehow bright and glittering under all the stars; smiling, but not saying anything.

"Thought you wanted to look at the stars," Dean chides.

"I am," says Sam.

this is the gayest shit i have ever written bye

send me a prompt!

[skellydun]

[ectothermal]

man, y'all... i know i have a bunch of whump prompts sitting around for bad things happen bingo still, but i'm honestly!!! just not feeling whump/angst right now!! baby teeth included!!!

so what this means for Y'ALL is that if you have any fluffy and/or smutty things you'd like to see me do a drabble/ficlet for, my door is open ❤️

tagging some of my close frens (anyone can ask not just these people of COURSE these are just people i know i'm allowed to annoy): @transsammywinchester @jimmiestoorustled @azrielrose @samanddeaninpanties @questionboxjuliet @findanothersuperstition

[ectothermal]

@azrielrose a a a a a a thank you !! so much !! i def went for a particular sound when i was building this playlist, of soft little voices singing slow and dreamlike for the most part. baby teeth is one of my current favorite songs, the slow lilt and the obsession in the lyrics is all just so..... SO perfect. “i taste your teardrops on my tongue at night and it still turns me on” like???? murder me.

that cover of animal was such a cool find too!!! hearing that song in minor was like hearing a brand new song 💖 i personally love bones of a rabbit so much for how RAW and direct it is, how much hurt there is there.... and the wolf analogy works s o o o well for peter too 😍

[ectothermal]

(via https://open.spotify.com/user/ectoplasmorgasmic/playlist/0luuKRuG3opyNPTeMtqQZX?si=2fII0ZnkR_KWEcgx6S9ceQ)

hey everyone! i’ve had an inspiration playlist for baby teeth building since i first started the series, and i thought i’d share it for anyone who’s interested - it’s everything i listen to when i write it, and i figure it could make a good reading companion too! ♥ and feel free to follow it on spotify, as i add to it here and there c:

[samanddeaninpanties]

Prompt Time!

Buy Tori a Coffee. ko-fi.com/outoftheashes

Send me a:

Ship for the SPN fandom

Kink/situation

And I’ll write 300 words or less for free.

If you want a longer prompt, buy me a ko-fi and I’ll write you a one-shot. Preferred pairings, kinks, and situations will be longer (1200ish) than ships or kinks I don’t like as much (600ish).

Don’t buy me multiple ko-fis at once if you want it posted in a reasonable amount of time. (I have a partly finished prompt fill I love and because I got 3 ko-fis for it, it could end up being over 6k).

[ectothermal]

Stupid

Fandom: Supernatural (TV); Teen Wolf (TV); SuperWolf Ship: Stiles Stilinski/John Winchester Words: 2039 Rating: Mature Warnings: Underage, Graphic Depictions of Violence, Abuse, Child Abuse, Humiliation, Spanking, Feminization Summary:

“Daddy,” he gasps, and then again, louder: “Daddy!” Peter sets his drink down with lightning-fast reflexes to avoid getting it knocked out of his hand as Stiles lifts his arms to wave; Daddy looks over for a moment before recognition spreads across his face, quickly followed by confusion. By the time he reaches Peter and Stiles, it’s somehow morphed to anger, jaw set tight and brow heavy over his eyes.

“Stiles, get down right now.”

part 4 of baby teeth

Read on AO3

[dingusandsmartypants]

Me: *asks my followers to send me writing prompts*

My Followers: *send writing prompts to my inbox*

[ectothermal]

y’all... i did it. i finally started writing on blue neighborhood take two