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#whats with chicken hulk
mobius-m-mobius · 1 year
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#wake up y'all new fav excuse just dropped
+bonus
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lettherebemonsters · 2 months
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I love how no matter what I try convincing myself with, the same truth resonates....
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Adam is a rooster. He's got his hens and he's got his spurs and he'd ready to rock-a doodle doo.
Here's an idea of what super chicken Adam looks like...
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fatguarddog · 3 months
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You're the heir to the royal family of a kingdom besieged by demons and during a surrender, are offered up to one of the Demon Lords as a prize of battle. Don't worry, he assures you with a warm yet devious smile, you'll soon 'grow' to love your new life with him
You're taken back to his manor and draped in a lavish, yet skimpy outfit, one that really shows off your body and highlights the slight curves of your features. Your new Lord sits you down at a huge banquet table and takes his seat across from you. All manner of succulent and delicious foods are lined up before you, you take a moment to really take in the size of this hulking, handsome demon and assume he must eat like a beast. But when his impish servants are done setting the table, he just brings his elbows onto the table to rest his head in his hands. He smiles at you,
"You've nothing to fear. Eat."
His voice is so commanding. Nervously, you load up your plate with foods that seem the most familiar to you. Roast chicken, potatoes, various vegetables and a bread roll. It's delicious. With the effect the war has had on your kingdom, you can't remember the last time event he royal family could assemble such a sumptuous selection to feast upon... so you end up forgetting yourself a little and eating until you're quite stuffed. You lean back in your chair and graciously thank your Lord for the meal, shyly paying your compliments to the chef
"Good," he smiles wider and snaps his fingers. "Eat."
A surge of warmth courses through your body. With some demonic intervention, everything you'e just eaten rapidly digests within you and you feel hungry again. Your frame even grows a little bit softer, though not enough for you to notice just yet. You blush and oblige his order, you brain trying to rationalise what's happening. A display of dominance, perhaps? Or did he notice how much you were enjoying the food after having had so little for so long and just wanted you to get to enjoy that more? Was something bad coming after this, or was he actually a good demon somehow?
All of your questions seemed to melt away as you dug in to the feast again, this time trying the honey roasted ham, sweet fruits, leg shank and more. Once again you eat until you feel completely stuffed. Once again you thank your Lord for such a wonderful meal... and once again he smiles at you with fiery eyes from across the table, his own plate still empty and untouched,
"Good," another snap of his fingers. "Eat."
That familiar surge of warmth strikes again, but this time you notice how much plumper you look after, especially in your skimpy clothes. You look up at your Lord in shock and confusion, but he just gestures to the food in front of him. You timidly shake your head, yet your stomach growls audibly in the large dining hall
"Perhaps you'd be more in the mood for wine and cheese?" the demon snaps and the feast before you changes to a decadent cheese plate with crackers and dried meats abound. "Or would my royal prize prefer dessert?" Another snap and the table becomes stacked with cakes, pies and pastries alongside jugs filled with custards and creams, all so sweetly mouth watering The look of disbelief doesn't leave your face. Your stomach growls louder, more painfully as your owner laughs
"Better not to ignore your hunger, my dear. It'll be much more pleasurable for you if you just. Eat."
The command rings through you and sends shivers down your spine, you want nothing more than to stuff your face with every dessert in sight. Your hands reach forward greedily and you begin to eat your fill as your Lord looks on, almost lovingly at you
"So good, so obedient, I'm going to like you a lot," he stands and gently makes his way all around the table to your side, his towering form standing behind you, gently rubbing your now slightly pudgy shoulders. "I'll spoil you so much, feast after feast, night after night of pure pleasure to make you into the perfectly fattened up image of hedonism," his hands feels so good and warm on your soft skin as you gorge yourself. "Just think how demoralising it'll be for your kingdom, to see how easily their royal heir fell to demonic corruption... but I must say from a personal standpoint, I do just think you look so beautiful enjoying yourself like this. I'll have a bath ready for us after I think you're done here, there we can really relax and get to know each other, my dear. But for now, please keep eating. I told you you would grow to love it here."
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mrwavellswaps · 7 months
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Becoming His Type
Jamie had just been sat and having a couple drinks at the local gay bar when a man walk in who immediately caught his eye. He was fairly tall and lean with young handsome features. But most notably he was wearing a very sharp looking suit. Not a cheap one that was for sure. The man sat down a few seats across from Jamie and ordered a drink. Short and stylish brown hair, perfect porcelain skin, dark stubble coating his face, impeccable sense of style. He was Jamie’s type. So much so that he couldn’t resist shooting his shot. Part of him expected to be shot down right away. After all Jamie never felt like he was anything special. Skinny and pretty average looking, small in most departments and a rather mundane work life. And yet after 10 minutes of talking and laughing the suited man, who’s name turned out to be Leo, grabbed his hand and led Jamie out of the bar so they could head back to his place.
Judging by the attire alone Jamie assumed this guy must’ve had a nice place as well and boy was he right. Soon enough he was standing outside a huge fancy looking place with a gorgeous view as Leo fiddled with his keys until he’d finally unlocked the front door. The two made their way inside and Jamie was just as blown away by the interior as Leo guided them though the place.
Upon arriving at the bedroom, Jamie was last to enter so he turned to close the door behind them. Only when he turned back around, he didn’t have a second to react as Leo slapped what felt sort of like a sticky note on his forehead. “Hey what is-OOUUhhhGghhhHHhh…” Jamie moaned involuntarily as his entire body started to convulse.
“I’ll be honest. You aren’t really my type. But you did seem the most into me at that bar so I thought I’d fix that…” Leo took a step back as he pawed at crotch and watched the transformation begin.
Jamie’s grunts filled the room as his body quickly started the change. His height shot up several inches placing him well above six foot causing his shirt and pants to ride up. His skinny noodle arms quickly started to bulk up, growing larger and thicker by the second. What were once lanky chicken legs began to bulge with insane size, pumping up not only his thighs and calves but his glutes as well! Not to mention his back and shoulders widening while a plump pair of muscle tits began making themselves known. As his muscles continued to swell and rip apart Jamie’s clothes, his pale skin darkened significantly as it filled with melanin giving it a rich brown pigment. All the while his facial features shifted such as his lips growing fuller and nose becoming broader. Even his wavy hair became darker and more wiry before restyling itself into dreads. His hulking body managed to rip through his pants and underwear just in time to give Leo a full view as Jamie’s small dick thickened and elongated to monstrous proportions while his balls grew fat and heavy.
The tag that’d been stuck to Jamie’s forehead fell off at last as his transformation came to an end. “Huh? What the… fuck did you do!?” Jamie bellowed in shock, slightly started by his much deeper voice. “My body… my skin…”
“I made you my type.” Leo grinned as he knelt down to pick up the small piece of paper that’d caused this. “I used one of these handy magic tags on you. This one in particular can turn anyone into a massive black jock.” He said while gesturing towards Jamie’s gigantic new form. “Now how’s about you get over here and stuff me full with that big black cock of yours!”
Jamie wanted to protest but… how could he? He might not have asked for it but this body… it was everything he ever wished he could be. Tall. Buff. Hung. Plus he’d alway kinda wonder what it’d be like to be a black dude. How could he ever be mad about this! Instead he simply allowed Leo to grab him by his giant dick and tug him towards the bed with heavy footsteps!
———
The next morning Jamie was the first to get up. Not much of a surprise considering how he’d destroyed Leo’s hole after depositing three fat loads in there last night. He grabbed the large pair of pyjama bottoms Leo had prepared for him yesterday and pulled them on, still baffled by how such a massive pair of bottoms could fit his new body.
It’d dawned on him that during all the fucking last night, he’d hardly gotten a look at his new face so he headed straight for the bathroom. And he wasn’t disappointed. The man he saw staring back at him was gorgeous. An upgrade from his former self in every way.
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Not only was he handsome but was powerful too. He could feel it. These huge muscles weren’t just for show, that was for sure. Every movement he made felt like it had so much weight behind it. And just the way he towered over everything now was intoxicating. Not to mention how even with these baggy ass pyjama bottoms, his new cock was still making a hell of a bulge. And he wasn’t even hard! At that point he just couldn’t stop himself from slipping a hand under the waistband and jerking it a little.
“Ohhh yeah. I could definitely get used to this.” Jamie smirked. “Could probably use a new name though…” He thought as he turned around and pulled his bottoms down slightly to get a look at his thick new ass cheeks, jiggling them a little. “How about… Jabari! Yeahhhhh that sounds good.”
With that Jabari made his way back into the bedroom to see Leo slowly beginning to stir. With a cocky grin he slid back into bed with the man that’d given him this perfect body and wrapped his huge arms around him. “So… I take it we’ll be on for a second date?”
“Absolutely.” Leo confirmed before letting out a small yelp as he felt one of Jabari’s thick fingers sink into his still throbbing hole. Satisfied in having gotten the huge black soon to be boyfriend he desired.
If you love my stories then please consider supporting me on Patreon as well!! ❤️
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pure-plum · 10 months
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Careful who comes knocking at your door...
Big Cryptid Sightings spoilers from Chapter 18: The Episode Bedeviling Bodies Part 2 by @naffeclipse . I just really loved that line so much, "I let the wrong one in," and the horror that it carries, both from Henry writing the line and what happened to him and Charlie and how much that worry digs into the poor Hunter.
And I loved the thought of some familiar faces showing up in lore text so I gave them some demon designs! I have some extra thoughts and ideas for how monstrous they can get, but right now they're being polite (except for Springtrap who is always a bastard).
So excited for what comes next!!
(Alt-text bubble is very long, image description under Read More)
Image Description: In the setting of a mausoleum, there are four doors that stand open with three demons emerging from the darkness beyond, while one seems to be inviting the viewer in. Across the screen, the words read, "I let the wrong one in.". The word "wrong," stands out from the rest and is placed over the odd figure out of the group, while the word "in," is written in blood splattered over the ground that leads into that odd figure's doorway.
From left to right, the demons are Chica, Monty, Springtrap, and Bonnie. Chica is an elongated chicken-like figure, coloured with a pale yellow with her eyes glowing white. Her doorway is slightly cracked, with viscous goo dropping down from it, and it can be seen dripping from her clawed hands as she takes a step past the door and into the main room. Her door frame is topped by a triangular shape that seems to be decorated with a sun, clouds and birds- or if seen in a different way, a pizza.
Monty is a hulking alligator figure, with a thick neck that lead into strong shoulders. His tail creeps into the room past the doorway as his left hand reaches up to hold onto it. His mouth is open, showing a stout tongue and sharp teeth. He is a faint green colour and his eyes are glowing white. Monty's doorway is topped by a fully grown humanoid skull, bracketed by longer bones and scapula, mimicking the shape of a star.
Springtrap lingers mostly behind his door frame, and has a desiccated appearance of loose, torn skin over dry flesh. His face looks like a skull, his lower jaw broken in half with a purplish tongue hanging loose past his open maw. Bone protrusions on his head simulate rabbit ears, although his right side ear is broken in half. Springtrap's eyes glow a fierce violet, with white slitted pupils that stare out at the view. His right hand is held up with a finger pressed to his teeth as if to shush the view, while the other holds out a handful of candy to try and lure them closer. Springtrap's doorway is framed by many small skulls arranged into the wall, representing his preferred meal. Across the top of the doorway are dried corn stalks nailed into the wall, and prominently nailed in place on the top is a small scarecrow like figure that is pierced in three places into the stonework. There are blood splatters that surround his door frame and pool out on the ground in front of it. The drag marks of blood that lead to Springtraps door varies from old blood stains to new smears.
To the right of Springtrap is Bonnie. Bonnie is a purple hare-like creature, walking bipedal as he steps into the room. He has four ears, two of which stand upright behind two small spike-like horns, while the other two flop down on either side of his neck. Bonnie's face is skull-like but smooth and unbroken, his eyes wide and glowing white. Bonnie's two hands are crossed as if politely making his way out of the darkness towards the viewer. Bonnie's door frame is topped by a rounded shape with small triangles that dot the perimeter of the half circle. Within the half-circle are two larger comets that trail across the arc of the sky, with diamond shaped stars that fill the rest of the expanse. Looking at it another way, the half circle also resembles a bowling ball.
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tarjapearce · 8 months
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A Life Ahead
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Miguel O'Hara & Teenage mom! reader
WARNINGS: Mentions of teenage pregnancy, strictly Platonic relationships, Mild angst, fluff, pregnant cravings.
Requested here
Hope you like ❤️
Pregnancy. It was something you hadn't though much more later in your life, something you had contemplated once you had gone out of college (mostly out of your parents satisfaction) had a job and your own place to settle. Hormones and a dead beat teen as a dad had hindered all of your plans.
Round belly nested between your legs, hair damp, freshly combed out of the shower, a comfy set of clothings. A t-shirt that belonged to the guy that had promised to be there and was nowhere to be found now. Your mom  had been initially livid, even going so far to give you the silent treatment for a while.
But after some days, she approached once she saw you in the verge of a breakdown. Of course you were scared, you had been growing a child inside you for the last four months, and the thought of you being a single mom now was just heart wrenching. You had absolutely no idea of what you were doing.
The nausea state had passed, instead the cravings came.
Going outside was a torture, the different smells of various foods only made your mouth salivate. To your dismay, your child demanded the weirdest food combinations, sweet corn with cherries, oreos with dipping cheese, and the most normal one, shredded spicy chicken, or how the neighbors had called it, Tinga.
It was like you could sniff it miles away. The only few cons about you being a teenage mom was that you spent mostly of the time alone, didn't see your mom until it was 9 pm. Thankfully you had a nurse in the building nice enough to clear all of your doubts and helped you out in case you needed anything.
The food your mom brought was always store bought, full of either salt that made your feet swollen, or stale. There was no in between. The torture just increased it's levels once you had noticed the next door neighbor's delicious food smells wafting through your window. It actually made you cry.
The closest thing you could find was a local Mexican restaurant a couple blocks away that served Tostadas de Tinga. They weren't as delicious as your neighbor's you were sure, but the taste was enough to fool the little baby that grew inside. But today's luck was over. The place had closed earlier due holidays and as desperate as you were, you could help but to go home.
Teary eyed, hormonal and so so hungry. You got into the elevator, A man, the biggest person you had seen so far in your short life had to duck a little to get in. His broad and hulking frame easily towered you, but of course you weren't paying attention to him right away, no, but at what was in his hands.
You pressed your floor's number and the doors closed. The smell, the all too familiar smell made you whip your head towards his hands.
"Uh... Excuse me?"
He looked down on you and arched an eyebrow.
"Yes?"
"Sorry to bother, Uh, I was wondering where would you get that?"
You pointed at the packaged food on his hands.
"I made it."
"Oh..." You now had found out who your neighbor was, he looked rather annoyed, "I see." Your eyes gazing to the juicy shredded pieces that nested within a plastic tupperware.
You just nodded as your elevator's door dinged and the elevator's door stopped. The little movement made your hand to grip at the side bar ad your other hand rested ontop of your belly, a little 'oof' as you did so. You walked your way out, so did he, finally noticing the little belly underneath your sweater.
His eyes widened slightly. How old exactly were you? Certainly not above 19 or even less. But you were young. So young, but he was none to judge.
"Hey."
Your head craned up to look at him, he had put a bag on the floor and untied the knot to give you one large tupperware full of what your stomach and child begged you for.
Your eyes swelled with tears almost instantly and he chuckled.
"I'll give you the Tupperware back once I'm finished. Thank you so much!"
You wiped your eyes with a smile. He just nodded with a little smirk on his face and entered his place.
-----
The man cooked like a god. Exaggerated comparison maybe, but the food tasted so homey, so flavorful, enough to just rail up and not overwhelm your senses. The container was full of your precious Tinga, a couple of tortillas and of course some packed jalapeños and chopped onions with coriander.
You scarfed it all down happily. Even saved something for later. You'd then wash up the tupperware and knocked on his door.
"Thank you. It was really good."
He took the container with a light chuckle.
"I know this might sound invasive but, could I have the recipe? I've tried other places but... they're kinda bland or too spiced. It's... It's OK if this is some sort of family recipe you rather keep a secret"
"Relax, kid. It's easier than it looks."
-----
You learned that his name was Miguel. That he worked at Alchemax, and he was above 40. Quite serious but that for some reason started to leave food on hour door after learning that you spent the whole day alone, cooking for yourself and just experiencing being a future mother.
He would leave small notes with the tupperwares
"Drink water." "Take your vitamins" "Don't eat that much jalapeños. Might irritate the baby."
It kinda made you wonder if he had any sort of family from his knowledge about pregnancy.
It kinda amused the quantity of different containers the man had.
On a particular evening you were up in the roof, crying and holding your belly. Your mom's stress levels were peak, and as usual, she would say things that shouldn't be said to a teen. Specially a teen mom. It had been two months exactly since Miguel started to look after you in the ways he could.
"¿Tas bien?" (You ok?)
You just wiped your eyes and stretched your back softly. You were six months going and sometimes the pains in your lower spine were too much, it hadn't help that your mom had yelled.
He took a swig from the beer he was holding and sat next to you. You sniffled.
"I know I fucked up." You'd mumble and he pursed his lips.
"Just everyone think they have the right to actually judge me for it. I even bet you thought the same when you saw me, people think I'm stupid, but I hear everything."
New tears shedded from your eyes.
"People's fucked up, kid. Everyone is a saint until someone else mess it up. Heard you fight your mom."
"She kicked me out."
"Nah. She didn't. Te lo aseguro. Puro coraje nada más. " (Promise, just pure anger)
"I don't know what you're saying, Miguel. but thanks I guess." The ends of your sweater was full of tears.
"Do you know when's the due date?"
"I don't know. Doctor said it was around the 20th of December. How fucking convenient." You laughed at the irony and he frowned.
"Don't say that. I know you have regrets, but taking it out on your baby won't help. They can hear you. Be kind to your child."
His words just sent a new fresh wave of tears spilling down your cheeks.
"I know it might be scary as fuck, but you'll do great. You're a good kid"
He patted softly your shoulders.
"Where's the dad?"
You shrugged
"In another state with a new girlfriend."
He frowned
"Is he old enough?"
"17. I know it was stupid, just-"
"Hey. Being pregnant is enough for you to just keep punishing yourself with your thoughts. Don't worry. You've got your mom's support."
A hand on your shoulder like saying You've got me.
He was a quiet man, barely expressed himself openly but definitely took care of those around him.
" Hospitals aren't that bad. I promise"
"How do you know so much about it?"
"It's something I'd rather not talk about."
The evening sun was settling, painting the skies in a pink, purple and orange shade.
"Have you though about names?"
You shook your head.
"I suck at it." He finished his beer and put his chin on his palm, nearly turning himself in The Thinker.
"Its a girl though. I mean, I don't know yet. "
"You have time to think of one. "
"Yeah, guess you're right. I just... wanna be grateful for all the things you have done for me. Like... Not even my deadbeat dad has done such things for me. I don't know if I'm sounding weird but... Im sure you're a good father."
You patted his arm softly to then rub your belly.
"Thanks kid. Means... means alot."
You smiled at him.
"I mean, you will be an hypothetical grandpa soon... so..."
He laughed briefly.
"I'm too young to be called grandpa, kid."
"Too bad. You'll be one"
"Let's get you inside. C'mon."
He helped you come down the stairs.
He'd give you a bowl full of tinga for yourself, since you had declined a baby shower.
-------
Your baby was born. And Miguel was there after you had given birth. A small little pink outfit was wrapped in a baby motif paper.
"Look at that" He seemed so natural at holding the baby, he would tell you about it, one day for sure. Right now everything was fine, just like he said it would be.
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lululandd · 5 months
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colour me grey;
pairing: simon ‘ghost’ riley x f!reader
word count: 1,719
warnings: soulmates, series maybe?, probably no happy endings later
notes: im a sucker for soulmate shit
summary: soap watched you leave the place before chastising him, “did ye hafta fuckin stare daggers at the poor lass, simon?”
part i. | part ii. |
You were waiting for the rain to calm down under an awning, spice bags open in hand with a cold can of coke sitting on the little table provided behind you. The original plan was to eat it at home with a movie, but that dream died as soon as the rain started. It came down by the bucket, splashing everything at the edges of the shelter you stood under, including the little plastic seat that wanted to sit down on. There was another one that didn’t get wet, but it securely stood behind a big hulk of a man standing next to you.
Halfway through your meal, you were momentarily distracted as your attention was grabbed by a person waving from a nearby parked car.
“Me?” You mouthed, pointing at yourself.
The stranger in the car nodded but also pointed your way, possibly to the large man next to you. He was fully immersed in the book he’s reading when you looked over. You turned your head back at the stranger in the car again and pointed to the man next to you.
Answering you with excited nods and both his thumbs, you turned to the stranger by your side. With a mouthful of chicken and chips, you couldn’t exactly talk to him; so you tapped the back of his hand with your knuckle to get his attention, then pointed at the man sitting in the parked car.
He hesitated for a long while, probably contemplating whether his friend in the car was worth traversing the rain for or not, before fixing his hoodie and jogging towards it without saying a single word to you.
Not even a thankyou. Rude.
The rain let up not long after, so you decided to pack up what’s left of your food and walked home. You noticed a little shimmery speck on the back of your hand as you changed your clothes, so you brushed it off, thinking you’d gotten rid of it.
But you saw it again in the mirror later that night when you’re getting ready for bed. It didn’t go away even after you washed your hand.
Why is this glitter so persistent?
Because it wasn’t glitter. To your delayed shock, you realised it was a soul-mark. Small, iridescent specks around your knuckles, rather opalescent when you move your hand around. You saw the colours on it turn from red, to yellow, to blue, to white, depending on what angle you held your hand at.
Your mind wandered to the spice bag shop. It was the only logical place you would have met someone new.
No.
It was the thankless motherfucker that you waited with under the awning. You didn’t even take in any of his features at all, only that he was tall and rude.
Simon noticed the mark as soon as you touched him. He glanced down and saw the stupid fucking shiny blemish immediately on the back of his hand. Of course his soulmate would be touchy. Of course you would touch him in the place where people could see.
He glanced at your face and it rang clear to him that you were oblivious and wasn’t even paying attention to him. Happily munching on your snack, with your open can of coke sitting next to you, ready for anyone to spike. Shoving the book in his jacket pocket, he trudged into Soap’s car.
The Scot could feel him fuming just from the way he jogged towards the car and decided to call him out on it immediately.
“Tae fuck is with ya, LT? They out ae spice bags?”
“Coulda parked closer, Johnny.” He masked his worry with annoyance, he doesn’t want to tell his best friend just yet, but lashing his confusion and anger out on him doesn’t feel right either.
Soap took one last notice of you as he drove by, “Burd’s a looker.”
He doesn’t know how to respond to that. There’s a weird unease simmering underneath his skin, not knowing why. Chalking it up as confusion over meeting his soulmate, he quickly shakes the feeling aside and opens the warm bag in his hands.
A small, forgotten part of him hoped to see you again someday.
You don’t see him again until months later. Closer to a year, but you’re not counting. Definitely not counting and obsessively looking at people’s hands and surely not silently cursing people wearing gloves. In autumn. Soon it will be winter and everyone will be wearing gloves and you won’t be able to look.
Yet here he is—as if fate themselves cruelly commanded—sitting in a pub, hands free of gloves with his glittering mark out in the open for anyone to see. The desire to come closer is palpable, he’s right there all by himself, the seat next to him empty and inviting. You stared at him long enough to get a good look at the evidence of scarring on his face, his light brown hair, and a little peek of his tattoos under his left sleeve.
You can’t do it. You know it’s him and yet you can’t do it. You walked right out of the building and leaned on the nearest wall. Panic rushes through you in waves. It drowns out the noises around you. Your heart pounds so loudly in your chest you’re afraid it’s going to spontaneously combust and leave you dead on the sidewalk.
What are you even going to say to him? Does he even know it’s you? Does he already know but not want anything to do with you?
Realising too late, you’re breathing hard without actually letting air come into your lungs. You took a step away from the doors, not wanting to cause a scene or deter customers into the pub because some freak is having a panic attack right by the entrance. Taking deep breaths as you close your eyes for a minute or two, you think you can begin to reign your thoughts in.
“Y’allright, dove?” You heard someone speak.
He pretended he didn’t see you when you first walked in. Pretended as if your face hasn't come swimming into his mind as he falls asleep. Has to pretend he never entertained the thoughts of having and living a normal life with you. A little modest house with a little garden, a fancier car for you and a shitty hatchback that's comically too small for him, maybe a cat or one of those big bunnies to keep you company while he’s away. Would you even like bunnies? You seem like a bunny person.
They’re called rabbits, Simon.
His heart burned when you immediately left the premises at the sight of him. It was hard to ignore your stare. Did you see his battle scars where the mask doesn’t cover? Did you see how he tried to burn the soul-mark away? What made you run?
He wasn’t allowed a single reprieve when he saw Soap walk in, with you right next to him. It didn’t escape his attention how you looked deathly pale and how wide and glassy your eyes were. You grew paler and more panicked as Soap led you closer to him, he saw you try so hard not to look at him when he sat you down, just a seat away from him.
“Water for the poor lass, please, barman!” Soap boomed over the crowd. He took the empty seat next to him. He heard him lower his voice when he talked to you, the practised careful tone he uses around hostages. “Stay a while, dove. Least til that heart rate is below a hummingbird’s, yeah?”
You nodded a little too frantically for Simon’s liking.
“Y’aight?” He doesn’t know if he’s addressing Soap, or you.
Soap answered. “Found lass shakin’ outside tae pub. Thought she needed a breather or sumthin’.” He handed you the water that the barman just put down. “Here.”
“Thanks, just had a little panic attack, that’s all.”
The Scot laughed a little, “Aye? You saw someone? Do a needty fuck a prick?”
You managed a weak, awkward giggle, “No, no. I—uh.. I just have them sometimes.”
“That water making ya feel better?”
You nodded quickly before downing the whole glass and waited for a little bit before saying your thanks to Soap, and a little jittery glance at him before leaving.
Soap watched you leave the place before chastising him, “Did ye hafta fuckin stare daggers at the poor lass, Simon?”
“Wasn’t starin’.” He replied, a little too quickly.
“Course ya didn’t.”
He didn’t like how Soap sounded so cross over nothing. They sat in silence and mulled over their own thoughts before he let out a sigh and blurted out to his friend, “She’s the one that gave me this, Johnny.” he raised his hand.
Soap lowered his drink, “Bullshit.”
He glanced at his friend, “Now why would I lie about something like that?”
The air felt stale and constricting all of a sudden, none of them dared look at each other, until Soap broke the silence, pointing his drink in his general direction. “Is that burn mark pure accidental or didja do it oan purpose?”
“Both.”
“Cannae be both, ya daft cunt. One or the other?” The man scoffed at him.
“Burnt it by accident but I let it set to see if it would stop shinin’. So both.”
Not even two days later he showed up during your weekly grocery run, making his move first over the mound of apples, handing you a perfectly deformed little apple that looks hilariously small for his hand.
It was apparently normal sized as you took it from him.
“Guess you know what we are, then?” You started.
“Yeah.”
You continued picking apples in silence, with him handing you perfectly good ones from time to time.
“So. What do you wanna do about it, then?” You looked up, folding the bag in your hands as you stared up at him.
He doesn’t seem to know what to do when being stared at, you see his eyes starts darting around the place. “I dunno. But I’m Simon, for starters.” There was a couple seconds delay before he seems to realise he needs to extend a hand, which he did.
You replied in kind, with a hand and a name.
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kedreeva · 5 months
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*rubs my face with both hands* Some Guy(tm) on FB inserted himself into a conversation I was having with two other people about a chicken being conditioned to peck a pink piece of paper, to post a link to Some Blog Post about why chickens peck at red. A post which was full of misinformation (or at best, info with zero citations for scientific proof) about how you shouldn't wear red when attending chickens because it makes them Mad and how if a chicken sees red its instinct is to peck it to death because they kill each other in the wild if someone gets wounded to protect the flock (...) and how waterers and feeders have to be red to draw the birds to them and so on and so forth in a truly stunning display of ignorance.
So since this person CLEARLY wanted to engage, I engaged. I asked why chickens with red combs don't get immediately pecked to death, why don't we have to blukote their combs to save their lives if they'll peck anything red to death? What about red chickens? Roosters with red feathers? Why do chickens drink out of black pig bowls or waterers with purple, pink, green, yellow, white bases (all of which i have and were used fine)? Why do they peck at the FOOD in the red bottomed feeder, instead of the red plastic?? Brown eggs are colored with a red pigment, how do any of them ever survive this violent desire this person thinks they have for red??
They're pecking at red because red = fruits/berries/meat in the wild. They peck each other to death in captivity when they don't have enough space to get away and they're BORED. They feather pick and go for blood when they're missing vitamins or protein. They peck at blood more because they are omnivores, they literally eat bloody stuff and they're too stupid to realize THIS bloody stuff is their friend. Their brain is the size of a walnut, they're just not differentiating between "this blood came from WITHIN my friend" and "This blood is ON my friend from somewhere else." Like yeah they might peck at something red to see if it's food (and continue pecking when it tastes like food), but they're not hulking out at the sight of red things. Geezus.
Anyway now he's pissy because I didn't roll over and tell him how smart and right he is. Because he thinks his chickens are literally pecking at his red shoes because they think he's a weakened flock member they must kill for the good of the flock.
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m3lonpire · 20 days
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A Sleepy, Fluffy Halsin Draft
Rain thumped on the windows of your little cottage, and you tossed and turned like a rotisserie chicken in your bed. Since you were darting between conscious and unconscious, you really started to think about your surroundings. Being the lover of the hulking-yet-kindly elven druid, Halsin, you were certainly trumped by him in size. This resulted in your feet barely touching the footboard of your bed frame, even if you scooched down.
I mean, granted, the man was seven feet tall. You at (Insert Height Here) barely compared to that. Hell, even the taller people you met in your life looked tiny next to Halsin.
Suddenly, you felt the area surrounding you on your side sag down, like a human sized weight had been gingerly laid on the bed. You smiled as the person touched your head. Seemingly noticing your smile, Halsin said “Good morning, my sweet.”. “Morning’, Halsin.”, you muttered with a yawn. It was at this point, what with you sitting up to greet him, that you felt a sharp pain in your hip area.
“Uh, yes, remember that fight we got in a bit ago? Well, let’s just say that even though you passed out rather quickly, it still certainly took its’ toll on you.”, Halsin said with a slightly sad tone. You could tell he was beating himself up over some silly reason, like “not protecting you.”. Despite your smaller size, compared to him, at least, you were still good at fending for yourself.
“Hal, beloved, come lay down with me. I’ll be okay. I’ve survived worse, remember?”.
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amywritesthings · 3 months
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gingerbread sweet. / a reiner holiday ficlet
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pairing: reiner braun x f!reader ( attack on titan / shingeki no kyojin ) word count: 1.1k summary: It's the Titan frat's annual gingerbread house competition. Your boyfriend, Reiner Braun, is determined to win. You, however, are determined to distract.
tags: modern au - university, holiday fluff, gingerbread houses, all the marleyans are in a frat bc i said so, devoted boyfriend!reiner, light sexual tension credit: dividers by @saradika
welcome to the eleventh day of the twelve days of amymas !!
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“Does the door look crooked to you?”
"The what?"
"The door. Look at it."
There’s nothing more amusing than watching your hulk of a boyfriend crouch over a tiny gingerbread house.
Reiner Braun squints as he presses a gumdrop to the front — circular windows make it modern, or so he claims — then pauses.
Distracted by a very minor detail, you can already feel his anxiety running his brain a mile a minute: a lopsided door may deduct a few points from Marcel's arbitrary points system from this very arbitrary holiday competition.
Because he's absolutely fucking determined to win.
Granted, the bragging rights are his, but the grand prize will not be — Reiner, of course, rarely rides this hard for something he wants.
No, he’s too willing to put everyone else's wants and needs above his own.
So the grand prize of the Titan fraternity annual gingerbread house competition is going to go to you, hell or high water.
He’s going to win you that goddamn spa day gift card that Marcel has been dangling as a sweet little incentive no matter how long it takes him to mold this gingerbread house into his image.
"I think it looks straight."
The tip of his pink tongue pokes out a little from his pressed lips as he leans in closer. "...I trust your eye more than mine."
The blonde sits up to fish for the green icing piping bag. He's gentle with the way he eases the icing along the edges of the tiny confectionary door.
(An icing wreath, like this couldn't be anymore adorable.)
“Reiner?” you coo.
“Yeah, babe.”
Flat. He’s in the zone.
“You know you don’t have to slave over this thing, right?”
You scoot your chair closer to his, dropping your temple to his large tricep.
“I can buy my own spa day card.”
“False,” he corrects. “I’ll buy you the spa day card myself, but if I gotta cheat Porco out of winning for the third year in a row. Pieck’s gone at least five times on our dime.”
"When were the other two times?" you ask, not correlating the math.
"Well, our freshman year," Reiner begins, using the green icing to make little bushes at the foundation of the house, "we did a Valentine's day relay race that ended up with Bert in urgent care with a broken nose. Then, the one-and-only pool party chicken fight tournament — Pieck and Porco fought dirty."
"Is that why it was the one and only?"
"Yeah. Bert got another bloody nose, but that time from Annie going a little too hard."
He snorts.
"We had to save him from becoming the next Owen Wilson, so — no more chicken tournaments."
Titan frat is… well, excessively competitive, you've learned in your year or so of dating Reiner.
(Blame Porco and the new pledge, Eren Yeager, for only exasperating in this year with the month-long holiday challenges.)
You shrug a shoulder. “I could help.”
“And mess up your pretty nails?” Reiner shakes his head, glancing briefly through his peripheral vision. He smirks. “Ain’t no way.”
Right.
Reiner’s also very giving, during this season — in more ways than one.
First it was the fully-paid-for manicure yesterday.
Then it was the reservation for a Christmas Eve dinner to your favorite spot in the inner city.
Now he’s trying to win Marcel's approval in this ridiculous decorating contest in your name, and you feel… well, loved.
(There's no disputing that you've won the boyfriend lottery.)
Which, of course, means you have only one thing you can do in this situation.
He’s too wound up.
Distracted.
So you reach down to the pile of icing supplies strewn about, picking the small red accented tube.
You swipe some on the tip of your finger, mindful not to get it under your nails.
Reiner doesn’t even see it happening.
He’s too busy playing fixer-upper on the front side of the house, his too-big hands delicately toying with the too-small decorations he’s pasting on the cookie.
You wait a few seconds, letting him place the door where he wishes, before swiping the icing over the side of his neck.
Reiner tenses, turning to see what the hell just hit his neck, but he’s too late—
You’re already leaning in, sliding the tip of your tongue along his skin.
The man gasps, dropping his own piping bag to the supply assortment below.
“What are you—”
“Decorating,” you murmur nonsensically, grinning from ear to ear as his attention disappears completely from the gingerbread house to you.
“The guys are in the other room,” he rasps, eyes wide.
The pledges, he means — banished to the enclosed patio as they work on their own poorly-designed houses.
Through the last year while dating Reiner,  you’ve learned very quickly how sensitive he is.
Sometimes all it takes is a look to get him hard.
Your ego has never recovered, and it’s not deflating now.
Except his eyes soften and a gentle chuckle exits his throat when his golden eyes search your face.
“Wait, you got—”
“What?”
His hand gently cradles your jaw. 
“Hold still, baby.”
His thumb raises to swipe at your nose, where his smile only grows.
You stay still, obedient to his command, unable to stop looking at him.
God, he’s gorgeous.
He’s so fucking gor—
Something touches your lips, and you belatedly realize Reiner’s taken it upon himself to push the red icing along the seam of your lips, parting them easily.
You can taste the sugary sweetness on the tip of your tongue.
“Shit, sorry." When your brows knit in confusion, Reiner explains himself. "Seems like I missed a spot.”
Oh.
Oh.
His pupils dilate as his gaze drops to your lips, as if he’s ready to devour your whole.
Your entire body turns into flames.
“Just one spot?” you murmur, and a wicked smirk crawls to his mouth.
That same thumb drops to glide the remaining icing over your chin.
“I fear it's a couple of spots, but don't worry. I'll get you cleaned up.” He tilts his chin. “I take care of my girl, remember?”
(As if you could ever forget.)
His words get your blood pumping. Pledges and wandering eyes be damned.
“What about the gingerbread house?” you murmur, entranced by the way he continues absently swiping icing over your jaw, chin, and cheeks.
(Marking a trail his lips will devour.)
“We can bring the icing upstairs,” Reiner suggests with an innocent shrug. You know it’s anything but. “I’ll finish that damn house eventually, but I have something sweeter to tend to.”
Before you can say another word, the blonde stands from his chair and gently takes your hand into his.
You easily stand with him, unable to stop giggling as he tugs you eagerly upstairs.
He’s determined to win, yes, but to him —
He’s already won.
He has you, after all.
.
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wri0thesley · 2 months
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cycle - lucas (yandere oc) x reader (4.3k)
it all comes back. again and again and again.
as before: if you would like a primer on lucas, reading this is probably the best thing to do!
cw: yandere, cannibalism, kidnapped reader, descriptions of gore, non-explicit mentions of past dub-con/non-con, physical violence against reader. reader is fem, referred to as 'good girl' and is implied to be chubby.
this was a commissioned work.
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You have gotten good at pretending. 
It is far easier for everyone if you pretend you have always lived here; that Lucas’s cabin, and the woods surrounding it, the chickens outside and the old dining table and the cosy decor are all you have ever known. 
When you had first come here, in those first few weeks, you had tried desperately to hold onto all of the vestiges of your old life. You had squeezed your eyes shut in the shower and tried to recall the scents of your own shower gels and shampoos and not the mixture of half-empty bottles that sat on shelves in Lucas’s bathroom. You had crawled beneath blankets and pillows and hugged yourself and tried to remember the feel of your own mattress and your own threadbare teddy bear. You had been terrified that they would slip away, and you would find yourself forgetting all of the things that made you yourself--
Now, you think it would be easier if they had. 
If you had been granted a blank slate, you wouldn’t have to worry about the things you’ve been given and the things that adorn the cabin and their provenance. When you pulled a blanket over yourself on the sofa, or laid the table with a new embroidered tablecloth, or looked through the shelf of curling old paperbacks, you wouldn’t need to think about how many other hands that they have passed through. 
So you pretend that you have it instead. 
Things are just things, after all; merely objects, not people, not memories themselves. Who is to say that when Lucas goes into town, he doesn’t take an hour or two to wander into thrift stores? That he doesn’t have a weakness for things that have already passed through many hands before his own? Out here, in such a solitary existence, perhaps he even enjoys the reminder that there are other people in the world--
Well. From what you’ve seen of Lucas, and heard him mutter beneath his breath on days where his eyes go dark and angry and his face sets into a scowl . . . from what you remember in flashes of the night that you and he crossed paths. . . You don’t think that’s it.
But it’s still a comforting lie to whisper to yourself when you find a pair of initials stitched into the napkin you delicately wipe your mouth with. 
Lucas himself is more than happy to help you lie to yourself, even if he doesn’t realise he’s doing it. He’s a man of few words already, but even fewer of those words ever seem to concern anyone aside from the two of you. To listen to him sometimes, you would think this cabin was the last place standing on earth - that you and he were the only two human beings who lived. 
He mentions, once or twice and only off-handed, a childhood. He says something about milking cows on the farm growing up; he mentions his mother’s apple pie when you make an attempt to bake one after finding a recipe in an old cookbook. 
(You do not mention the careful handwriting that occasionally interrupts the recipe; the crossed-out ‘half a tablespoon’ of cinnamon into ‘a tablespoon and a half’. The note to the writer, for future reference, that the oven is finicky and to give the pie crust an extra ten minutes. You convince yourself that those, too, are simply the echo of some secondhand store that Lucas picked the recipe book up in). 
So you know at least that he did not spring into being fully-formed, though the thought of this huge hulking man as anything other than scarred and gruff seems almost laughable, when you see him going out in the middle of the night with an axe swung over his shoulder.
(“Go t’bed, angel,” Lucas had said, without even turning around to see your form silhouetted in the doorway. “It’s late. I’m just checkin’ on things.” He had said it like a man who had said the exact same thing a hundred times before, though as far as you could remember this is the first time that it had happened to you.
Waking up in the bed and not feeling the solid, warm form of Lucas himself beside you had made you nervous; made you felt as if there was something missing. And, of course, there was a horrible kind of sickness in that feeling too; that you have become so comfortable with your kidnapper that you are more perturbed to find him not there. 
No. Easier to forget that. To whisper over and over to yourself that Lucas is not your kidnapper, he is simply your . . . Your lover? Your boyfriend? Your husband? You don’t let the thought get that far. He is simply Lucas.)
He does not seem to think much of nostalgia. A practical man through and through - though he smiles, a few months in, as one of the little plants outside of the windows sprouts into bloom. 
“Daffodils,” he says. “Your dress had them on, that first night.” 
You amend the mental note. He has nostalgia only for things that concern you--
You try not to think of it, but the thought floats to your mind unbidden anyway like a blight on a field of flowers. If Lucas has had others who he has professed his love to . . . has he remembered those things, too? One day, will you fade into the rest of them and Lucas will not be able to remember if you were daffodils on a dress, or larkspur behind an ear, or a daisy chain around a neck? 
You turn away from the flowers and force yourself to smile at him; to let him wrap his arm around your waist and pull you against him and press his mouth against yours in a motion that you convince yourself is fine. 
Time passes. Lucas trusts you more; lets you wander about the cabin at will. Lets you into the kitchen without him despite the sharp knives - and, in return, trusts you to give in to him whenever he wants you. You let him kiss you and hold you and murmur sweet nothings and take you to bed, as you continue to chant to yourself that this is right, this is fine, this is how it is supposed to be--
There are no ghosts hovering above your heads. 
As it turns out, the ghost is hovering in the spare room, inside the drawer of a desk with an old typewriter sitting on it. 
Lucas has gone into town for supplies; you’re running out of milk, and you had gone to him, flushed and awkward, and asked if maybe he could try and pick up some body wash in your favourite scent; you had said ‘please’ and looked at him hopefully and Lucas had barely even needed you to finish before he’d been smiling at you and kissing the top of your head and adoringly telling you that he’d get you anything you wanted, so take a think about it for ten minutes and bring him back a list.
(You hadn’t pushed your luck too far, but you’d made a modest little list anyway - a fantasy book, if he could, because so many of his books were crimes and thrillers. A bar of chocolate or two. The aforementioned shower gel. Lucas had even smiled at you and told you what a sweetheart you were, how he’d keep an eye out for a surprise--)
But you were allowed in here, now, so you hadn’t felt bad about looking for something to do. You can only bake so many pies and cakes; Lucas had mentioned that there was probably stuff in here for drawing, if you wanted, or even sewing or embroidery, a jigsaw puzzle or two . . . You’d picked up a few options and discarded them (neatly) before you’d even gone near the desk. If you hadn’t - if you’d decided, actually, you would sit and do this cross-stitch kit of ‘home sweet home’ instead - perhaps things would have turned out differently.
But you don’t. You open the first drawer and disregard safety pins and discarded post-it notes (one of them has ‘help’ scrawled over it in black ink, over and over and over - you definitely disregard that one). You rifle vaguely through stubs of pencils and a manual for a sewing machine before you open the second.
The second drawer contains only one medium sized sketchbook; the spiral-bound kind with a wooden kraft cover that people like to draw straight onto. This cover, though, is totally free of any stickers or drawings or even a name - so you assume that it’s empty and fish it out of the drawer, wondering if maybe taking up drawing to pass the time might help (you see plenty of wildlife and fauna through the windows, after all). You even sit down at the desk before you open it and get one of those stubby little pencils, just to draw some circles and exercise the wrist before you become unavoidably disillusioned by your inability to draw even the simplest blob of a bird or flower.
And then you open it, and you feel your heart plummet directly into your stomach. 
It is so much easier when the ghosts that haunt the cabin are faceless; when you can pretend. But whoever had this book before you and floated about this cabin before you and had your side of Lucas’s bed . . . they were using it like a scrapbook, and you’re faced with a Polaroid picture smiling directly up at you, the backdrop very obviously the sofa of the cabin. 
(Lucas holding the camera, then).
You shouldn’t look at her. You should close the book and forget this ever happened and go back to pretending - but some kind of roiling fear in your stomach means you cannot do that. You stare, instead, directly into her eyes - and you’re struck by how much she looks like you. How even her body language is similar to yours. She has the same shade hair, the same figure-with-a-little-too-much on it. 
(Lucas has a type, then). 
She has a name, written there plain as day. You read that too, and wish you hadn’t. 
Once you have opened the flood-gates, you can’t stop yourself. You flip to the next page - it’s some kind of scrapbook-come-diary, and the date (six years, three months earlier) is written neatly in the corner. A drawing of a robin, in a shaky but careful hand - a pressed flower that the note says Lucas picked for her, with a smiling face. You can’t breathe.
The next page details a day spent baking. The next one, excitement that Lucas had let her go with him to see if the chickens had laid. The days aren’t one after another, but they’re close together - and they’re sickeningly similar to the days you spend with him, trying to fill the stretches of time without going mad. There are even direct references to things that you’ve seen and touched and handled - the sewing machine was bought for her, it was her hand that embroidered the napkins, the half-empty bottle of the rose scent perfume that you hadn’t liked had once been hers. 
There’s a pause in days. A few empty pages, where she’s half-heartedly tried to draw a chicken pecking at her feed, a snowy landscape. 
The ninth of September. 
“It would have been my dad’s birthday today. I wonder if he’s thinking about me? I wonder if he’s looking for me. I tried to ask Lucas if I could at least send a card.”
She does not bother recording Lucas’s answer. 
The twenty first of September. 
“It’s like being a dog on a leash. I asked him if I could go for a walk into the woods; I promised him I’d come back, but he broke the glass he was holding and I didn’t ask again.” 
He’d have the same reaction to you asking, you know it. Your stomach writhes, bile rising in your throat. There are no more drawings on the pages now; weeks between entries, her handwriting getting looser and wider, like she’s writing in a rush afraid of being caught. 
There’s frustration and anger and sorrow bubbling in her words. She talks about being trapped. She mentions the blood on his clothes, the sharpness of his axe, that she knows exactly what it is she’s eating when he brings her meat from his freezer. 
The eighth of November. 
“I think he’s getting tired of me. I think I pushed him too far. I think I’ve been bad; I think I’m not what he wants. He still says he loves me but . . . maybe he loved the others too.”
She mentions the pyjamas in the drawers; the different sizes. She asks the notebook who else has lived in these walls and who else has wanted to run. It makes your heart ache. 
The twenty-seventh of November.
“i want to go home i want to go home i want to go home i want to go home’
Here, you recognise the handwriting and you know that it was her hand that had scrawled ‘help’ so many times, and you can no longer disregard it like you wanted to. 
The eighteenth of December. 
“He’s going into town. Before he gets back . . . I’m going to do it. It’s snowing. It will cover my tracks. I’m going to do it. I’m going to go home.”
There are no other entries. 
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It gets harder to pretend. 
Snippets from that scrapbook float to the front of your mind unbidden, at the most inopportune of times. Lucas notices you’re shivering and insists he’ll make you a steaming hot cup of tea, and as you raise it to your lips you can’t help wondering if she drank from this cup. How many other mouths have lingered on this rim, how many other hands have cradled this porcelain? 
Lucas tells you that he loves you, his eyes tender and the smallest smile pulling at the corners of his mouth, and you wonder how many others have heard the same three words; the same inflections, stood in the same place? 
He brings a present out, the week after his trip into town, that he tells you he was saving for you - another book. Ordinarily, you’d be thrilled to have something to fill the time - but instead, as he passes it to you and smiles and waits for you to thank him, you can’t stop thinking about all of the other things that he’s bought as presents for people who are not you, that still sit here unused in this graveyard of a home. 
He never even mentions them.
Maybe if he did, that would be better. 
But Lucas treats you like the two have you always coexisted; like neither of you had too much of a life before this. Oh, he doesn’t mind hearing about your far-off childhood - but you have the distinct impression that if you mentioned your job (the one you have not returned to for months), the man you were having the briefest flirtation with, the wedding of your cousin that you missed because you were kidnapped by a murderer in the woods . . . that would not go down so well. 
The thoughts won’t stop coming; the reminder that Lucas is, for all of his gentle kisses and low voice when he speaks to you and his careful touches so he doesn’t hurt you, more monster than he is man. That you are eating people, when you take a bite from the end of a fork that has surely been in other hands. 
(How long does human meat last, you wonder. The ones who did not make him happy . . . do they end up in the freezer? Are you eating someone who once laid their head upon your pillows?)
And if he has done it before . . .
Who is to say that he won’t grow tired of you, too? That one day you will say the wrong thing, and the cycle will begin anew? You have never thought of yourself as ‘special’ before - you have always been secure in the knowledge and comfort of your own ordinary existence. So what is it that Lucas sees in you, that makes you any better than the rest of them? 
(The thought of other people wearing the things Lucas has picked out for you, of someone else rifling through your fantasy paperbacks or lathering their hair up in your shampoo haunts you at night). 
You think about asking Lucas. 
He never misses a chance to compliment you; he tells you how beautiful you are, how much he adores you, how he would kill for you and protect you with his last breath. So perhaps, if you worded it well enough, he would explain to you why you have not yet found yourself sizzling in a frying pan or bleeding out in the woods--
No. You can’t.
You are walking a fragile tightrope already. Your spine stiffens whenever you say something to Lucas, in case you say the wrong thing - you lie awake in bed next to him, his arms wrapped around you as tight as a vice. You stumble over yourself to please him, just in case--
You feel the way that you’re running yourself ragged. The ache in your bones, in your head - the dark circles beneath your eyes, the way your hair dulls as you begin to forget what any other setting other than ‘stressed’ feels like. You hope that Lucas doesn’t notice. 
Your hopes are dashed. 
It’s before bed, one night. Lucas has pulled you into his arms and peppered your face with kisses, has insisted that you let him brush your hair (the monogram on the brush shines in the light of the bedside lamp; it is not your initial). And he says to you, turning you to face him, his voice very soft and cajoling and just a little awkward;
“Darlin’? Y’mind if I ask you a question?”
Your heart races; hammers against your chest, tries to crawl into your throat.
“N-no,” you manage to squeak out. “Of course not.” 
“I ain’t trying to offend you,” he says to you, his voice still awkwardly gruff. “But . . . sweetheart, you ain’t been looking well recently.”
“I--”
You grasp wildly for a way to respond. 
“If you need anythin’ . . . You ain’t been sleepin very well, have you? You need a hot water bottle? Some . . . pillow mist, or somethin’? Onea those fancy drinks you have before bed to get you to sleep? You name it, sweetheart, I’ll get it from somewhere--” 
He sounds so concerned.
Had he sounded like that to all of the other people? Had he noticed that their nerves were fraying and tried to soothe them, like he actually cared? How much of the concern that leaks into that warm Southern grit is real; how much of it is an attempt to hide that he’s mad at you, that he’s getting sick of you, that he’s already wondering what you’d taste like? 
It tumbles out of your mouth before you can stop it; a bitter little bite of a question. 
“How many others have there been?” 
You regret it before you’ve finished the last syllable.
The air changes between you; a charged fizz that tells you just how dangerous the ground you’re treading on is. Lucas’s eyes narrow; his mouth sets. 
“Others?” He asks you, and you know that you can’t get out of this now. Sometimes, when you’ve said something that has set his senses on high alert, you’ve managed to apologise and backtrack enough that he’s calmed. But now, his eyes are like keen green searchlights, and there is no way to avoid the question. 
You swallow. 
“How many other . . . people?” You say, lamely, not sure how to word it. “How many other people have lived here?”
His own voice is clipped, too. He doesn’t like this subject.
“Why does it matter, sweetheart?”
There’s a barb to the pet name that makes you feel sick, but now you’ve opened the floodgates of your own paranoia.
“How many others have you loved?”
There’s a barely perceptible twitch of his mouth. His words are infuriatingly even. Usually, his temper flares at the smallest things; you don’t understand how he isn’t hacking you into pieces. 
“None of ‘em who deserved it, except you.” 
Your breath begins to shorten; you can hear that you’re panting, when you next speak. Your chest is heaving. 
“A-and what if you decide I don’t deserve it any more? What are you going to do to me?”
“Angel--”
“I’m not - there’s nothing special about me! What if you decide that you’re sick of me and you . . . you killed them, didn’t you? What if one day you kill me? What if you--”
“Darlin’.”
This one is more forceful; it’s clearly intended to stop your panicking diatribe where it’s already going off the rails. But you are too far gone to be stopped now. Your voice just keeps going, the words like a flood, your entire vision blurring at the corners with the tears that you hadn’t even realised you were crying. 
“What if you kill me and eat me and you get someone else and they live here and wonder about me--”
If nothing else makes him kill you, it will be this; outright telling him that you know what the meat is, and what it is he’s doing when he goes out in the evenings with an axe glinting in both his hand and his eye. 
He reaches out for you and you try to slap his hand away, your movements erratic and awkward. You’re flailing and more nonsense is falling out of your mouth, the world around you a blur. Lucas is reaching out still, undeterred by the way you’re trying to push him away as you helplessly wriggle and struggle.
“You’re gonna hurt yourself,” he says, and there’s a note of panic in his voice. His brow pinches. “Poor baby, angel, you’re cryin’ - shit, you’re gonna make yourself ill carrying on like this--”
There’s that fake comfort. You are so far gone that you forget the thing that makes Lucas feel softest at all; you, helpless. You forget that he likes the crying and the sniffling, that he likes to protect and coddle and care - because all you can think about is what it would feel like for an axe to slam through your ribcage so your innards are strewn out on the floor. 
“Please, calm down-- breathe, sweetheart, don’t hurt yourself--” He’s still talking to you all soft and sweet, and you’re still utterly lost in your own sleep-addled anxiety induced spiral as he tries to restrain you; he reaches for your arms, to pin you down so that your thrashing doesn’t impact you--
One of your flailing arms catches him, right across the face. 
There’s a sickening noise; the slap of flesh on flesh, the hard noise of a bone meeting another bone. You don’t think it’s hard enough to really hurt him, but it’s like a trigger has been pulled in Lucas’s mind and the air changes again. The fizz deadens where it was hovering; and instead, a heaviness settles over you.
You stop thrashing. You stop jabbering out nonsense. Lucas has you on the bed, pinned beneath him, and his face when he looks down at you is like thunder. You think it must be the same face that his victims see, before they die. 
You’re about to be added to their number, you think. You wish you’d left something as tangible as that scrapbook behind. A guide to survival, perhaps. Advice on how to try and break the cycle.
“Oh,” Lucas says, and that one syllable practically quakes. “Darlin’. You shouldn’t have done that.” 
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Lucas tells you, afterwards, that you’re lucky he didn’t lose his temper.
He’d been infuriatingly calm, even though every movement blistered with unspoken anger, as he’d dragged you up and off the bed and you had trembled and quaked and waited for death. He’d been infuriatingly calm as his work-roughened, calloused palms had slid over your bare forearm, the soft inner flesh of your elbow, to grip your upper arm with both hands.
“You can scream,” he’d said, with that terrifying flat-and-angry-and-calm all at once tone again. “It’s goin’ to hurt. It’ll be clean. I know what I’m doin’. But it’s gonna hurt anyway.” 
And he’d twisted his wrists and he’d snapped.
Your humerus, he’d told you, afterwards. A break that won’t need surgery; that you’ll be able to recover from in the cabin. A sling and someone to take care of you is all that you’ll need, he’d said, and then he’d said;
“It’s for your own good, angel. It’s a warnin’.” 
He tells you that he’ll cut up your food for you, carry on brushing your hair, and help you in the shower. He lists off all of these things calmly - all of the things you’d once earned the ability to do for yourself, because you’d been so good and he’d loved you so much and wanted you to be happy.
You fucked that up, didn’t you? 
“It’ll hurt for the rest of your life,” he tells you. “It’ll remind you.” 
You wonder just how long ‘the rest of your life’ is. 
“Hey,” Lucas tells you, after you’ve stopped sobbing and whimpering and screaming. “C’mere, sweetheart. Let me see that pretty face.” 
Your eyes are puffed up and swollen; your nose is dripping, your throat feels raw. But Lucas still looks at you like you’re unbelievably beautiful. Like he’d kill for you. There’s a steel in his eye that hasn’t been there for some time, but . . . He gives you a small smile.
“Ain’t you beautiful.” He wipes an errant tear from your cheek with his thumb. “Be a good girl for me now, okay? You’re lucky I didn’t lose my temper.” 
It’s almost bizarre enough to frighten a laugh out of you.
You wonder how many others were given this kind of warning; broken ankles? Broken wrists? Broken fingers? Is it possible that you’re an echo of them down to Lucas’s violence? 
If this is him not losing his temper . . .
You dread to think what will happen - what has already happened - when he really loses control.
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ddejavvu · 2 years
Note
Pls pls can you do friends to lovers with Derek Morgan!! Maybe he's madly in love with you, been madly in love with you since you were kids but you're just clueless and giggly and have no idea how you have this giant hulk of a man wrapped around your fingers
you're an angel ily <333
"He talks about you constantly," JJ rolls her eyes, her smile brightening at your giggle all while she ignores the glare that Derek shot her from across the table, "When he opens his mouth there's about an 80% chance he's gonna bring you up at least once."
"Hey, hey! Don't embarrass me!" Derek plays into her teasing, rolling his eyes as he glances over at you, "Y/N, she's kidding."
"No she's not." Aaron shook his head, shooting you an amused glance at Derek's indignant, 'Hey!'.
"Don't listen to 'em sweetpea." He teasingly covers your ears, smiling sweetly at you, "They're just trying to ruin my reputation."
"What reputation?" Spencer quips through a mouthful of chicken, his cheek bulging, "Since we got here you've tripped three times over your own feet."
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afterimages-again · 2 months
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in which tim sees things.
what with the amount of things the Drakes bring home from their digs, it shouldn’t have surprised anyone that the manor itself - and the boy - would eventually become cursed.
(This is going to be pretty long.)
FACES IN THE PLATES When Tim was nine he broke a plate because he’d dropped it when it started talking to him. Janet was spooked by his sudden scream, but when she ran into the kitchen the plate, if not broken in half, looked perfectly normal. Tim swore there was a human face in the plate. The next time the Drakes left in another trip, Tim opened the kitchen cabinet to see every single plate bearing a human face, talking to him.
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2. ROTATING CHANDELIERS Tim looks over his father’s shoulder sometimes and sees the chandelier spinning, lazily, like a ceiling fan. It makes clinking noises sometimes; no one else mentions it. They can’t seem to hear or see it rotate.
3. ANIMALS RUNNING IN THE HALLS (based on this fantastic art by @/dappermouth) When the night is dark enough and Tim is alone he can hear various large animals roam around the house. On one memorable occasion there was a gigantic stag walking past the sitting room he was in. It didn’t notice him, unlike another more unfortunate time he looked out of his bedroom and made eye contact with a leopard, which promptly sprinted towards his open doorway. Thank god he slammed the door shut fast enough.
3. SNAKE-HEAD PORTRAITS The photographs and painting on the walls began looking odd the first time Tim picked up a camera. When he glanced at his grandmother’s portrait the woman in the picture had an ugly snake’s head, jaws wide open and very decidedly not his grandmother. He panicked and called his mother but the call wouldn’t connect. When the Drakes returned home the next day the portrait had returned to normal.
4. CHILDREN IN THE LAUNDRY ROOM they become more common an appearance when Tim turns fifteen, walking into the laundry room to pick up his uniform when out of the washing machine spills a blonde giggling little girl. In retrospect she sort of looks like Steph. After he helps her up and turns to close the door of the machine, he looks back and she’s gone, just like every other giggling child he finds in Drake Manor’s laundry room.
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5. THE VULTURE a bearded vulture appeared on Tim’s desk when he woke up one day. And then it never really left. Sometimes Tim would talk to it when he got bored and the vulture would talk back. At some point the bearded vulture managed to convince Tim to try eating a chicken bone, like it did (if Tim forgot to feed the bird it would disappear for the night and come back hours later cracking bones into swallowable bits) - the splintered bone parts were too sharp, and when he swallowed they scratched the inside of his throat. He never ate bones after that, but he still talked to the vulture.
7. THE SECRETARY BIRD Oddly enough, one night after a secretary bird appeared for the first time in Drake Manor’s hallways, it kept coming back, unlike the other animals that roamed the house when only Tim was home. It followed him around the house but said nothing. Sometimes the vulture would talk to it but it wouldn’t respond. When Janet came into Tim’s room she didn’t seem to notice the silent secretary bird standing beside her son’s bed, but she did notice the feather she’d stepped on; after Tim swore he didn’t know where the feather had come from she just… left. Suspicious, but unable to prove anything. No one ever mentioned the vulture or the secretary bird yet but they definitely noticed the feathers.
8. DEATH this hulking, robed creature that only appeared in his reflections. Oftentimes seconds after seeing the creature he’d hear a scream, more often than not see someone die, whether from falling from a building, getting shot, overdosing, or getting run over, etc.
Sometimes Death speaks to him directly. Sometimes it looks at someone’s (Stephanie’s. Bruce’s) corpse and says, they are not dead. Tim takes it with a grain of salt.
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9. RADIO TALKS TO YOU AND ONLY YOU the radio that Tim bought in order to listen to GCPD broadcasts began talking directly to him most of the time, after a while. Memorable lines included “Hi, Tim, has anyone come to check on you yet?” And “Hi, Tim, the flip Robin did last week was oddly familiar. You should listen to whatever your brain is telling you.” While he couldn’t interact with the radio like he could with the vulture, sometimes he turned it on just to listen to something talk to him - he doesn’t know who the radio voice talking to him is. It’s never changed throughout the years.
9. STONE STATUES When he visited Jason’s grave a week after the boy’s death, the mourning stone angel in front of the grave turned its head towards him and started crying blood.
10. THE BREATHING HALLWAY If he wastes enough energy to listen closely, he can hear a kind of overwhelming, rattling breathing going on in the air of particular hallways in both Drake and Wayne Manor. If he squints he can see the way the walls pull taut against each other and loosen as well, like it’s actively inhaling and exhaling.
11. BLOOD IN YOUR CUP He’s working on a case with a cup of whatever abomination he’s taken to drinking lately when he looks down, absently, and sees the dark, thick liquid sloshing around in his cup.
12. MARBLES ON THE FLOOR sometimes in the early morning (we’re talking 4am) he’d get up and find the floor of his bedroom and the adjoining hallway littered with marbles. They always clattered too loudly when he used his foot to nudge them out of the way. One time Damian saw him kicking the marbles away and asked, scornfully, why he was kicking air. Tim just stared at him and shrugged.
13. DOLLS THAT MOVE Near a crime scene that stumps nearly all the detectives on site, Tim, if he’s lucky, can see a group of porcelain dolls reenacting the crime scene in a corner - no one else seems to be able to. Sometimes it’s a doll with a painted smiling face convulsing on the ground as another doll mimes sawing it into half. Other times there’s some convoluted role playing going on and Tim has to switch between watching the dolls carefully and responding to the people around him, because Dick has expressed concern for his “spacing out” more than once. The dolls are, if he can decipher their acting accurately, always correct, and on occasion are crucial in solving the crime - even if Tim’s deduction is then waved off as baseless or a lucky guess.
(He’s sort of like god’s little lab rat.)
basically Tim’s still Robin (and eventually Red Robin) but with all these… not-hallucinations going on, and while he interacts with them he freaks out everyone else around him. Plus it gives him mad advantages and disadvantages in investigations. Please feel absolutely free to ask me about this au. The dreams I’ve been having are becoming too vivid, so now I’m throwing Tim into them. <3
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valleyof-goldenlilies · 9 months
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Love and The Lack of Ass (modern!Aegon Targaryen x Reader)
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Summary: Aegon expresses his feelings over your very apparent thirst for Miguel O’Hara in the most Aegon way possible: sulking. 
Warnings: Nothing of note, except for excessive thirsting over Miguel O’Hara 
Word Count: 1.6K 
Disclaimer: I do not own any of the House of The Dragon/Fire and Blood characters. All credit for the characters goes to George RR Martin and the showrunners of HOTD. The GIF above is also not mine, original credit to the creator is stated above. Go check them out! 
A/N: You guys deserve something fluffy after my last Aemond one shot 💗 also, I’m thinking of writing some HOTD one shots based off different Barbie movies. Would anyone be up for that? 
The sound of footsteps on tiles and laughter echoed throughout the otherwise silent apartment block. “Okay, I gotta admit,” Aegon said, while teetering under the weight of two Hawaiian pizza boxes, a few boxes of chicken wings and fries, and some bottles of beer they bought from the convenience store, as you fumbled for the keys in your bag. “That it was a pretty kick ass movie. Although I still prefer the other Spiderman movies.” 
You gasp, kicking open the door to your apartment, “Aegon I don’t know what your middle name is Targaryen, you take that back right now.” 
“Middle name is Sexyman, gorgeous,” Aegon winked, although he shrieked and quickly ran inside the apartment the both of you shared when you began whacking him with your bag. “This is assault, and I’m calling my lawyer!” Aegon called across his shoulder as he sat down the bags that he was carrying on your dining table. 
“Well, I’m telling your lawyer you deserved it,” you declared, crossing your arms as you gave him a vicious glare. Sunfyre, Aegon’s large goldendoodle, sniffed eagerly at the delicious smell emanating from the pizza and chicken wings, but Aegon shooed him away. “How dare you say that Tom Holland’s Spiderman movies are better than the Spiderverse movies? I ought to break up with you.” 
“Hey, I have a man crush on Jake Gyllenhaal, alright? Can you not shame me for my sexual preferences?” Aegon huffed, but he backed away squealing when you tried to jab him in the ribs. Sunfyre barked excitedly and leaped at Aegon, seeming to think it was a new game. “Woman! Now you’ve turned my dog against me too?! What kind of world is this?” 
 “A very fair one,” you said smugly, reaching to scratch Sunfyre behind the ears. “You see, even your dog is telling you you have bad taste.” 
“Hey, don’t act like you didn’t like this movie solely because of Miguel O’Hara,” Aegon protested, backing away to their bedroom for safety purposes. “Who are you to judge me for my man crush?” 
“That’s because Jake Gyllenhaal is an awful piece of trash who groomed Taylor Swift,” you huffed. “And can you blame me? Miguel O’Hara is so-” you mimed swooning from all the hotness as Aegon rolled his eyes. “Like goddamn, take one look at his strong, hulking build and tell me you don’t feel things!” you demanded. Aegon rolled his eyes again, with such strength it was a wonder they didn’t tumble to another dimension. “Sorry, love, I’m not into muscles.” 
“Well, I am,” you declared, hands on your hips. “And don’t even get me started on his asscheeks. Boy if I could-” 
“LA LA LA LA CAN’T HEAR YOU!” Aegon yelled, stuffing his fingers into his ears as he made a swift retreat to your bedroom. Sighing in relief as he shut the door to your bedroom, he quickly changed out of his leather jacket and white shirt into a white t-shirt and grey sweatpants. He caught sight of himself in the mirror and flexed, smirking at his own reflection. Damn, I’m hot, he thought to himself, turning to get a glimpse of his side angle. But his smirk faded into a frown as he examined his reflection to look at his own…well, rather flat, behind. Remembering your earlier comments about liking men with muscles, he tried flexing his arms, but they seemed quite pathetic in comparison to Miguel O’Hara’s. 
He felt annoyance beginning to rise in him, ‘Damn it, I’m Aegon Targaryen, the hottest guy in King’s Landing University! Every single guy wishes they could be me! How am I getting insecure over some 2D character?’ But then he heard you squealing from the living room while being on a phonecall, no doubt with one of your friends, “I KNOW RIGHT! Miguel is LITERALLY my dream man. I mean, take one look at those muscles and that ass and my god did you see his fangs-” 
Unable to hear anymore, Aegon flung open the door to your bedroom, dramatically stomping to your living room, and curled up on the couch, pouting as he turned on the TV. You frowned a little as you moved around your kitchen, laying out your dinner while you reheated the pizza in the oven. Your best friend, Baela, was still babbling in your ear about the Spiderverse movie, specifically about some very explicit things she would like to do to Miguel O’Hara and Spider-Gwen, but you were no longer paying attention. 
“Baela, babe, I’ve gotta go. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.” You hung up, just as the oven emitted a ‘ping!’, signalling that the pizza was done. But that could wait. You made your way to your couch, catching sight of Aegon curling up on the couch, a cushion in his arms and a pout on his face as he browsed through the selections on your streaming channel. You nearly giggled at how adorable he was. Was he bothered by your earlier thirsty comments about Miguel? You knew how sensitive your boyfriend could be at times. Suddenly, a lightbulb shone in your head, and you grinned maliciously to yourself as a plan began to hatch in your brain. 
Aegon yelped when a figure leaped onto him, dropping the remote on the floor with a loud clatter. Sunfyre came up to the couch, barking excitedly, as Aegon tried kicking at his girlfriend, though in vain. “Woman! What are you doing?!” 
“Showering you with my love, of course,” you declared, as you planted loud kisses on Aegon’s face. Laughing and somewhat screaming, Aegon tried to wrestle back control so he was on top again, but you weren’t letting that happen, not on your watch. “Are you upset about my earlier comments about Miguel?” Aegon immediately stopped struggling, instead pushing his girlfriend away and scooching to the far end of the couch, resuming his despondent pouting. You wanted to let out an “awww” at how cute your boyfriend was acting, but you knew now was not the time. 
Aegon felt arms wrap around him and soft kisses on his neck, but he didn’t budge as he continued to turn his head away and pout. “Why don’t you go and find muscular Miguel instead? He would be better to cuddle with than me,” Aegon grumbled. You couldn’t help but burst out laughing at Aegon’s blatant display of jealousy. “Oh, my love, you know that it was all just talk right? You’re still the one I love most,” you teased, running a hand through his gorgeous white blonde hair. “It doesn’t really seem like it,” Aegon grouched. 
You were about to make a snarky comment, but you caught the faintest hint of hurt in his voice, and your expression softened. Aegon might seem childish, but after being his girlfriend for nearly two years, you were sensitive to his every mood change, and how insecure he could be despite his cocky, confident front. You knew Aegon had a rocky childhood and struggled with the concept of commitment and love, and his fears of you leaving him when you decided you had enough of him one day. Biting your bottom softly, you moved to embrace him, resting your head on his shoulder as you spoke sweetly, “Aegon…you know you’ll forever be the only one for me right? Even though I behave like a horny, thirsty teenager sometimes, I want you to know, I love you the way you are. And Miguel O’Hara’s muscles will never get in the way of that.” 
Aegon was quiet for a while, and you were worried that he was really hurt this time, but then he mumbled, “...even if I don’t have any asscheeks?” You laughed, tilting his head to face yours again, and your heart melted at the sight of his soulful purple eyes. “Yes, even if you don’t have any asscheeks. I’m not that fond of big butts anyway, yours is just nice.” 
Aegon brightened immediately, abruptly leaning in to kiss you. The both of you made out on your couch for a while, tangling your hands in each other’s hair and moaning quietly. You were interrupted however, by Sunfyre’s bark and him scrambling on the couch to get it on the “group cuddle”. 
“Damn, can’t a man not be cockblocked by his pooch for a moment?” Aegon grumbled as you both broke away from your kiss, grinning breathlessly at each other. Sunfyre stood on his hind paws to try and climb over you to Aegon’s lap, and you chuckled, “Apparently not. I think he’s telling us he’s hungry.” 
“Yes, for my attention,” Aegon said smugly as Sunfyre successfully managed to clamber over you and into Aegon’s lap. He scratched Sunfyre behind his ears and smiled, forgetting why he was even upset in the first place. “Looks like you’re not that unhappy anymore,” you noted with a smile. Aegon immediately tried to look pouty again, though since his heart was not in it anymore it just made him look impish instead of mournful. “Noooo that’s not true, I’m still in need of comfort. And a kiss,” he tried to move in for a kiss again, but you flicked him on the forehead. “Hey!” he cried out indignantly, but you soothed his complaints by leaning in to plant a quick peck on his cheek. “Let’s have dinner first, then you can have all the kisses you want in bed later.” Aegon grinned, and moved to shove Sunfyre off his lap, ignoring the large dog’s whine. “I’ll hold you to that, my love!” he called out as he bounded over to the kitchen to take the pizza out of the oven. 
You chuckled as you followed after him, Sunfyre begging at your feet for scraps. Screw Miguel and his muscles, who needs him when you have your own loveable little dork right here?
can someone tell me what level of thirst is considered unhealthy because i don’t think me and my friends know anymore. 
as always, let me know how you thought of this one shot in the comments and through reblogs! if you wish to be added to an aegon taglist, or any taglist for other HOTD characters, do comment down below! thank you for reading! 💗
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yffrit · 1 year
Text
Special Spins
This caption is for @bigwishes​. He has made a request to become extremely muscular. Now, you all know me... I like to play a bit with requests. Let's see what fate has in store for our friend. I'll be generous and give him 5 spins.
1.     Muscle Mass: big Lucky you! Apparently, the magical wheel of fate has given you what you want. You will notice a pulsating feeling in your arms and legs. A sudden warmth spreads through your veins, and your body starts to swell. First your biceps, then your shoulders and traps. Slowly but surely, the fibers of these muscles are stretched, broken down and built up. The growth travels further, filling up your pecs and abs. After a while, your body is unrecognizable. It has changed from your old skinny frame to a hulking machine!
2.     Tattoo lv.: 2/5
Admiring your new body, you notice some small black dots appearing on your bicep. They appear on your shoulders too! More and more dots appear on your skin, forming intricate tattoos. Now both of your arms are decorated with some moderate inking. Noting too much, but enough to look intimidating.
3.     Muscle Mass: massive
Huh, two times muscle mass? This barely happens! A similar heat fills your body again. Your triceps become bigger, and so does your neck. You already were big, now you will be massive. Jolts of pain go through your body as your muscles strain and stretch. When the changes stop, the tension under your skin is almost painful. Your clothes are shreds laying on the ground. You flex your bicep, but it is almost impossible to fully move: your muscles limit the way you move!
4.     BO lv.: 5/5
Do you smell that? A strong musky odour hangs in the air. This air is no normal oxygen. When it enters your nostrils the air seems thicker. Heavier. You see the smell lingering in the air, like hot metal that shimmers on a hot summer day. The smell is not just bad, it is awful! Comparing it to a locker room would be an understatement. After some time you figure out the source of the smell. Your body is steaming out musk! The heavy air comes from your pores and fills your room. Showering will have no use now. It will only make the water dirty...
5.     Appetite: infinite
This large new body needs to be fueled. But luckily you will always be hungry. No matter how much you have eaten, or how full your gut is, there will always be space for more. You see that photo you took? That was after a full pot of pasta and 2 chickens! And you don’t even seem that bloated. I think this big guy needs one mega protein shake to fuel his new body! Does someone have a recipe for an 8000 kcal shake?
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ghotifishreads · 4 months
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Ma’am, ever since we hoe spiraled about shy!Curtis the other day, I can’t help but wonder, what would these two guys be like if they were on the shyer side?! 🥹
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Gonna give you the bad news first, I truly can’t envision shy!Ransom. My brain just turns to TV static when I try to conjure him. This is because I think Ransom is shy in his own way, ie fanon Ransom masks any sign of real emotions with an insouciance and even meanness. So I think Ransom being chicken about a crush is him being canon Ransom, ie a pig-tail pulling meanie lol. 
Ari though?! This Poseidon Greek God as the shy guy?! Fucking swoon. OK—
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PS I know fuck all about storing diving equipment and I’m not gonna learn.
PPS This is sappy AF, idek. 
Ari is the shy stoic diving instructor. He’s effusive when he’s instructing, or laying praise on when people do well in his class. But otherwise he’s enigmatic and pretty quiet. The attention he pays you feels special, though. If Ari were any other guy you’d think maybe he likes you, but clearly this Greek god wouldn’t be paying anyone THAT much attention without making a move. So you reason that his easily blooming smiles and extra assistance are simply because you need more help than anyone else in the class. He doesn’t want you to fall behind. 
One day, everyone else heads out for a drink, but you wave off, feeling tired but gloriously loose limbed ache of accomplishment, looking forward to a long soak in the bath and your sofa. You offer to stay behind in lieu of your classmates to help Ari pack up. 
His hulking figure beside you seems to radiate heat even beyond the glow of the setting sun. You are hyper-aware of each deft movement of his hand strapping down kit and putting everything in its precise place, thanking you quietly when you pass him something to stow away. 
The companionable silence kills you a bit. You long to say something witty and sparkling to make Ari laugh, or to properly express your appreciation for the extra help and attention he’s giving you. Your confidence isn’t its best—doesn’t matter it’s practically the only thing Ari’s ever seen you wearing, it’s hard to feel your sexiest in a wet suit.
You reach for a tank that Ari’s returned but not strapped in. At the same moment Ari does. And his fingers tangle over yours on the buckle. 
“Oh!” you both exclaim and chuckle. Neither of you moves your hands, but you look up at his deep blue eyes, warm and crystalline as the sea you’ve just been in. 
“Sorry. I just-” you start at the same time as he says, “Sorry, sweetheart, I wasn’t trying to hold your hand.” Your heart sinks. Not into you, abundantly clear. You look down and where you’re touching. But he’s still not removed his hand from over yours. You’re stuck. 
Then his hand squeezes yours.
You startle because Ari has turned his hand under yours, and lifted it off the tank, leaving its strap dangling and abandoned.
“Would’ve been more definite if I was. Like this.” You look up at Ari, gaping at his stupid-handsome face as his cheeks start to pink under his freckles and beard.
“Can I–is this OK?”
You feel your smile crack your face and heart open so wide as Ari ducks his head and looks at you from under long, still-wet eyelashes, seeking your approach for his new move.
He’s holding your hand but it’s a bit awkwardly, so you draw his knuckles to your lips and kiss him. 
“Yeah, Ari. More than OK. ”
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