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just-trying-to-fangirl-in-peace · 3 days

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Remade (Sauron x fem!Elf!reader)

-> in which you nurse Sauron back into his physical form, eager to be reunited with your great love once more

Warnings: I somehow managed to write fluff with goo!Sauron, I guess? You hold and kiss goo!Sauron. You suffer a minor injury by goo!Sauron. You get animals and one person killed to feed goo!Sauron. Heavy make out and implied smut (with non-goo!Sauron). Can you tell I love writing the words ‘goo!Sauron’?

Note: Yet another Sauron x evil!reader fic cause I can’t stop apparently. Can be read as a prequel to the others or as a stand alone.

“Oh, my love,” you breathe out, “what have they done to you?”

What have they done indeed. For you are speaking with the one that is your love, your husband, your very soul—but if he hears, or even understands, he cannot show it. What’s left of him has no mouth no speak, no arms to wrap around you at long last, after an eternity of separation. What your tearful eyes are looking at is a black, amorphous mass, no larger than the heart hammering within your chest, writhing helplessly on the ground.

But it is him. Of that, you are certain.

When you felt his presence again, it was so faint you thought you were dreaming it. Nothing but a glimmer of darkness in the back of your mind, weakly calling out in agony. But as you searched your feelings, reaching out with every sliver of power you could muster, you found that it was real.

You found him.

Long had you travelled since, guided by the unseen thread connecting you to him. Until at last, it had led you into the heart of a mountain where his presence was so strong, it felt as though his skin was beneath your fingertips.

And yet, he was nowhere to be seen. Not until a sharp squeal had caught your ear, and you had found the source of it to be a rat being devoured into the blackness of a small, but lethal predator. At once, you had understood, and nearly fallen into despair. But in the end, you reminded yourself—he has endured. You have been reunited. That is all that matters.

Slowly, you kneel at his side. The mass ripples like the surface of water under a light breeze, and it gives you hope that, somehow, your presence is known to him. A sole rivulet of him begins to slip towards you, painfully slow. No wonder he has been in this state for so long, helpless to nourish himself lest some unfortunate creature stumbles upon him in the dark.

“I am here,” you whisper as you reach out. “I am—”

The moment your fingertips touch his cold, viscous form, black tendrils of him latch onto your hand, greedily clawing at your wrist. You gasp at the unexpected force of it, the searing sting where the liquid-like matter solidifies to dig sharp needles into your skin. Beads of your blood emerge, and he swallows them into himself with hunger.

You stare in awe as he grows ever so slightly larger. A twisted part of you is elated to be the object of his craving once more, even if he is trying to devour you whole. Especially then.

Unfortunately, that would not do in the long-term.

You shush him gently, caressing him with your free hand as though he were a purring kitten. Instantly, a tendril of him latches to one of your fingers, but you give him a firm squeeze.

“Shh!” you say sharply, fingers sinking into the soft surface of him as you reach out with your mind as well, nudging at his. “Easy, love,” you coo. “Easy. You know this hand. You know me.”

His mind is a mess—mad with hunger, alight with rage, lost to despair. But you keep caressing it with yours, tenderly bringing to the surface his memories of you. His love. His wife.

His grip on you weakens then. He deflates, withdrawing himself from your wounds, and you are left with a soft, pliant mass, which you delicately scoop into the palm of your hands. He rocks slightly against your skin, almost as if caressing it—and through your bond, the ghost of his regret reaches out to you.

“Do not fret, my love,” you murmur, smiling gently. “All will be well now.”

And so you go to dwell in the forest. At first, you bring him small things, no larger than he is himself—insects and rats, the occasional snake. The venomous ones seem to be quite nourishing, aiding in his growth more visibly than the other animals you feed him. Still, the progress is slow, and could not be endured without a great deal of patience and love. Fortunately, you lack neither.

Days turn to weeks, perhaps months. You don’t keep count, nor do you miss the comforts of the Elven realm where you had dwelt for years, waiting on the day your husband might return. A tent and your skills are more than enough when you finally have your love by your side, even if he is... temporarily different. You always keep him close, cradling him protectively at night and speaking loving words to him throughout the day. And in his own way, with ripples of his form and distant echoes of his slowly recovering mind, he holds onto you.

Eventually, he grows large enough for you to embrace at night, and develops a certain manner of breathing that feels as though you’re resting your head upon his chest. Its rise and fall is odd, ragged and irregular, but it brings you great joy nonetheless. With time, you bring him larger game, watching with grim amazement as deers and wild boars are slowly devoured into the beloved black mass that still is your husband. After a time, he grows nearly limb-like extensions, allowing him to more easily crawl around or reach out, and you often wake to find yourself in the closest thing to an embrace he can manage in this state. It never fails to make your heart soar, and he shudders as you press loving kisses to the parts of his surface closest to you.

So the days pass, until it’s time. Between your own instinct and the shape of his thoughts, not quite spoken but slightly more focused through your bond, you know he’s strong enough to finally regain himself completely.

But for that, he will need something more than an animal.

It’s easy enough to stop the first wagon you see passing by, acting confused and lost and asking for direction. The woman at the reins, though half-drunk, is even gracious enough to offer that she give you a ride to the closest village. You decline, of course. Your purpose was never to climb into the wagon yourself.

It was to halt it long enough for your husband to slither inside from the back.

It’s barely a few seconds after the woman has bid you a good journey and gone on her way that the wagon halts yet again—this time, with a piercing scream from its occupant. The wagon shakes, its horse breaking loose and galloping away.

Then, silence settles. From your angle, you can’t see inside. Your feet are glued in place, your breath barely there as you watch and wait. You’ve been waiting so long that now, so close to the end of your suffering, each moment feels neverending.

Finally—finally—a man emerges from the back of the wagon. He takes his time putting one bare foot, then the other, down onto the snow-covered ground. He takes in his surroundings, as though opening his eyes to the world for the first time. Then his gaze lands on you, and his lips curl into a smile filled with relief.

And you know, you’ve always known, but it feels as though you only then realize that this is not a man. Or an Elf, or a Dwarf, or any other being of less than godly nature. It is him. Remade into a form with eyes, and hands, and flesh, same as your own.

Your feet carry you towards him blindly as you stare and stare, almost unable to believe that you are finally standing close enough to touch once more.

“I would not blame you,” he says, his unfamiliar voice rough from lack of use, “if it was you who failed to recognize me now.”

But you know it’s absurd. His appearance may not be as it used to—his hair is shorter, darker, his cheeks covered in stubble, his features nothing like the ones you knew—but there is no form he could take you would not recognize, not as long as your mind still served you. His had been broken, unamde, when he had begun to feed on you as he would any other stranger. None of that matters now.

“This is... different,” you murmur, greedily taking in every inch of him that isn’t covered by the rags he’s wearing. His chest is partially bared to your eyes, and both of your breaths shudder as you lay your hand over his new heart, the smattering of hair there delightfully rough beneath your fingertips. You gaze there for a moment, mesmerized by the sight, then lift your eyes to meet his. The curls that fall in his face are so endearing your chest aches as you brush one aside.

“I love it,” you breathe out. “I love you.”

A dam that had been built over years of longing shatters at your words, and your lips meet his furiously in a long-awaited kiss. His looks may have changed, but his taste is the same, and so is the desire that overwhelms you to the point of insanity. You’re falling into each other, clawing at each other, crumbling to the ground in an unceremonious tangle of limbs. The snow is cold against your back, but your husband is warm and solid above you, and your world becomes reduced to him and him alone.

You whimper when he suddenly pulls away, chest heaving as he gazes down at you with raw yearning.

“You came for me,” he says, breathless with elation.

“Of course I did,” you retort, nearly indignated. As if you would do anything but. He goes to kiss you again, but you wrap a hand around his throat and hold him back. Mischief dances in your eyes as he glares and you scold, “And in return, you nearly ate me.”

His eyes darken, and you almost moan at the sight alone.

“I still wish to,” he growls, prying your hand away from his neck and diving in to devour yours instead. “All those years I hungered...” he speaks between ravenous licks and bites of your skin, making you writhe and whimper beneath him, “to feel you once more... even when I could no longer remember... what it was I hungered for...” He lifts his head, wild eyes boring into yours as he lays his hand upon your chest, relishing your heartbeat as you had done his before. “My love,” he pleads, voice trembling with need, “join me in flesh. Let me feast upon yours. Devour mine. Remind me what it is... to feel.”

The last time you felt such unbridled joy was so long ago, you can’t even remember it. And either way, you doubt it held a candle to the bliss bursting within your soul in this moment. This is all you ever wanted. This makes every single moment of torment, past or future, worth it.

“Feel me, love,” you offer most sweetly, your lips brushing his with the last words you speak before you consume each other whole, “Feel everything.”

Next fic with same reader -> Jealousy

#halbrand x reader #sauron x reader #the rings of power

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gladiatorcunt · 1 day

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- ICEBREAKER / III.

i am the sun, you know you need me

cw: kinktober prompt (boot worship-ish), yandere behavior, confinement, mob boss!sunday, pet play without actually acting like a pet, canon typical controlling sunday, reader has a pussy, slight dehumanization, mean mean mean husband sunday but he loves you really, stockholm syndrome, pretend all the flowers & stuffed mentioned actually exist in hsr, sunday wins!au, one mention of halovian!reader

please do not repost, translate, or feed this work to ai

kinktober 2024

The invisible thread connecting you to Sunday has been spun into gold when you were not aware. You think you might’ve snuck in his cobblestone heart and done it in your sleep. It is an unspoken thing that festers within and eats you up from the inside until baby blue and white flower petals float down from your mouth, pleasantly aromatic bile becoming a fervent garden in your lungs. Overgrown but visually decadent and overwrought with confectionery and symbolism. Soul Glad spiked with an Aeon’s ichor.

Violets, baby’s breath, hydrangeas, forget-me-nots, sweet williams.

Not a single speck of dust is ever on him, and that includes his shoes. Dark brown leather and custom made, a gift he bought for himself that he was happy to say really came from you. A leader of a wealthy criminal organization could buy himself anything he wants, but it warms his icy heart to attach your name to it in his mind.

“You know I would never have you lick them if they were dirty, dove.” Sunday purrs, chin propped on his palm. “This isn’t to degrade you, you’d know what my vitriol would feel like. You’ve seen it directed towards less worthy patrons.”

He strokes a thumb down one of the wings on your head, fluffing the feathers and preening you as you “clean” his spotless shoe.

“Mmfh!” You slip your tongue in the grooves of his shoe, embracing the abrasions and coarse texture. “Yes, sir, I have.”

Interrogations, horrid screams, pleas for the gift of life and promises to pay back the money they owe, loud gunshots and his men dragging their bodies away. To be tossed over the edge of the dreamscape into the lilac depths. They’re always missing from the dream pools, a second death on the second day.

You’re slobbering now, your palms flat on your bare thighs as you work your mouth along the bottom of his left shoe.

Sunday chuckles and reaches out to wipe some of your drool away from the corner of your mouth, “Messy angel, you’re better than that.”

You’re not, the dampness seeping through your panties has you dead to rights. The wings on Sunday’s head flutter in amusement, nothing escapes his sight, he knows you down to the sparks of energy that make up your entire being. You’re the center of his eternal dream, his shining monument to what one would do for love.

“Teething on my shoes, you’re darling.” His even tone is basked in all the pleasure a man with the world at his feet (quite literally) could feel.

He nudges your jaw with the end of his right wing tip shoe, raising your head to make eye contact with you. You’re teary, but you still lap your tongue over the top of his left shoe, sucking it off like it’s a cock as you stay perfectly still. There’s always an unspoken test to see if you’ll give in to your baser urges and hump your slutty cunt against nothing.

But he does adore watching you squirm, his beloved pet rat in a golden maze of his own design.

You keep eye contact and lick a strip up the side of his shoe, tenderly kissing the tip before whining and moving your head after the one under your jaw.

“P-please, sir, let me finish my task before your next meeting. I don’t want you to be stressed.”

Sunday casts his gaze towards the oak doors, his wings tensing at the oncoming headache of his men surrounding him and awaiting his orders on how to further micromanage their territory. No matter, that’s the future, and he would much rather drift in the more pleasant present moment.

“The fish swim in the river however I tell them to. Take your time, my love.”

He can offer anything to you, whatever you want appearing before you in a flash, kept under lock and key at his extravagant manor. You never ask questions about what exactly he does or where he goes, but you don’t have to, he whispers it all to you freely. The truth holds no power over him when Sunday lives every day with the absence of lies.

You dot kisses on the leather toe of his right shoe, one your hands comes up to run your fingers in circles over his ankle. What makes this even better is that you ask for these sessions more than he orders them, an anxious little thing, being subservient helps quiet your racing thoughts and cabin fever.

Sunday feels generous, he taps his shoe against your cheek and takes it away, setting his foot firmly on the floor.

He beckons you with a come hither motion, “What would truly calm my nerves is to see my pet fall to pieces on my shoe. I’ll even let you get this pair messy with your spend, your scent would only make them my favorite.”

You hold in a happy squeal and eagerly straddle his foot, humping your panties down on the cool leather. The motion is slightly awkward, the friction brings you only a fraction of what you’re after. But the look in Sunday’s eyes as he watches you debase yourself for your husband, the thrill of doing such an act in a room that causes so much harm to everyone but you.

“That’s it, dove, dancing so beautifully for me.” He coos and keeps his foot still, content to be an audience member to the debauched show you’re putting on.

You whine, speeding up your movements and slicking up his shoe and the marbled floor beneath you. It’s not enough without him actively touching you, Sunday knows, so he shushes you and keeps patting your head rhythmically. Accompanying you on a fruitless journey towards an unsatisfying climax.

Sunday would never edge you, not when he could drown you and ply you with orgasm after orgasm. He would also never let you properly feel good without his touch. His lips quirk up as you whimper and come on the strip of skin where his ankle and foot disappears into his shoe. You keep pumping your hips, slipping and sliding with your come splattered on the leather and easing the glide.

If he takes them off after he sends you off to bed with a pat to your ass, and sniffs the soles, then that’s no one’s business but his. Another scene in the dream.

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immediatebreakfast · 2 days

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I'll be quiet, Doctor. Tell them to take off the strait-waistcoat. I have had a terrible dream, and it has left me so weak that I cannot move. What's wrong with my face? it feels all swollen, and it smarts dreadfully.

God, these are the first words that came out of Renfield's mouth after being brutally attacked by the Count to the point of unconsciousness, then seeing Seward first after being woken up. It speaks on so many unsaid things, and actions that came before the Count, before the Harkers, even before Jonathan set a single foot in Transylvania. How much has this old man suffered at the hands of the people supposed to care for him, who use his money then discards him without thoughts on his personhood, and the man who treated him like some kind of experiment until the very end.

I can't see any kind of righteous fury, nor even pity coming from Seward or Van when they began the surgery that would let Renfield talk one last time. Only Quincey, the man who has seen everything, calls for an explanation after seeing the mangled state of the poor old man, who sacrificed his life for the sole young woman (so young that she could be his daughter) who spoke to him like a human being in who knows how many years.

Renfield is a tragic character until the very end. The representation of the vulnerable, of the mentally disabled who receive no mercy from an uncaring system set up to fail them. Even the narrative itself cares less from his state, and his suffering once the groups gets all of the information they needed from him, leaving Renfield alone while agonizing; in the dark of what happened to Mina's salvation.

Utterly manipulated by the Count, dangling his freedom in front of him while feeding lies on eternal life. Never revealing anything, and being treated like a fool without a second moment to breathe. Is Renfield destined to always end up inside those four walls, will he ever be truly free, or seen like a person?

Go long old man, go long, right over the edge of the earth, and jump to a place where there is no pain nor suffering at the hands of your fellow human beings. Maybe Renfield will find a girl in a white nightgown, waiting for someone on the other side, and they will chat about frivolous things in a way that neither could when they were alive.

#He was murdered just like he lived: alone and imprisoned #Poor old man #dracula daily #dracula #renfield #r.m. renfield #cw ableism

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thecultoflove · 14 hours

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Colin is my favorite.. Can we see his design :O]

basically click the image for the notes but also SORRY i am not a colin expert by any means my design is all wacky and colin is a silly sweetheart in my story so goofy clothing choice it is.

#dhmis #dont hug me im scared #colin the computer #shrignold the butterfly #and others WHO I NEED TO DESIGN. i'm still brainstorming ideas for tracey at least since she's rather relevant in some writing lately #cupid's art box #don't seek me i'm trapped #aHFJDKGHKFHDGHFDKGHDFKGHFK sorry again MY DESIGNS ARE NOT THE BEST WHEN IT'S NOT CHARACTERS I FOCUS ON #hope this is okay though!!!!! i know a lot of people like colin and i've seen him a lot more often lately on my tumblr feed

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extra-stout-stories · 2 days

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First Date / Creepy Cookies

When a BHM in Florida decides to take the plunge on a long-distance relationship with a witchy SSBBW FFA in New England, their first IRL encounter goes even better than he expected. (BHM to USSBHM, magical rapid weight gain, SSBBW feeder. Romantic, but spicy and mildly explicit. Lots of sexy descriptions of food. CW: Immobility, mobility aids.)

My first contribution to Feedist Kinktober '24! Reblog if you like it, and thanks as always to the mighty @fatguarddog for blessing us with an inspirational list of prompts. Last year I bit off more than I could chew and ended up with a folder of half-finished story ideas, so this year I'm only writing the ones where I feel inspired enough to knock a full story out in one go. Here's a sexy supernatural mutual gaining tale.

His belly hang bounced against the steering wheel as he stepped with a grunt out of the rental car. A compact car wasn't exactly comfortable for a guy his size, but it was a chance to save a little bit of money on the trip. If this works out it's going to be expensive, he thought to himself. Long distance sucks.

He adjusted his jacket against the October breeze. New England was a lot different from Florida. He wasn't sure how he felt about the possibility of moving to somewhere he'd have to shovel snow in the winters, but he had to admit that at this time of year, the yellows and crimsons of the autumn foliage were beautiful like nothing he had ever seen.

And his date was like nobody he had ever met. It would be their first time meeting in person.

Dating as a 320 pound man was difficult enough, dating as a 320 pound man with a feeding fetish was more difficult still, and dating as a mutual gainer felt like the hardest thing of all. He was grateful that his last serious relationship had ended amicably; she was a Miami Beach gym bunny who loved the way her toned, tan body contrasted with his, and she had helped him break through a plateau at 300, but she grew increasingly frustrated that he couldn't reciprocate her attraction to him. Fortunately, they had managed to part without drama and stay friends, and he was happy to watch her pair off with a guy close to his size who was a much better fit for her. There was a text from her waiting when his plane touched down in Boston: "Good luck on your New England date! If she turns out to be a serial killer, text me and I'll come rescue you, k?"

But he wasn't too worried about that. Mostly he was worried that he wouldn't be as fat in person as his date expected. He was fat, of course, but he was also good at using camera angles to highlight his big belly and doughy double chin, making him look like a bigger SSBHM than he really was. And a part of him worried that the date would go too well. Plane tickets and a rental car weren't cheap, flying at his size was cramped and uncomfortable, and the drive north from Boston added another two and a half hours onto the trip. If things worked out, it wasn't going to be much fun trying to make a long-distance relationship work.

Still, it's worth a try. Nothing worth having in life comes easily. That's what he told himself as he took one last look at the scenery, the golden autumn colors mingling with evergreens this far north, the peak of Mount Washington in the distance already dusted with a layer of snow.

The Waterwheel Brewery was an old brick building at the edge of a ravine where a cold, clear waterfall splashed and foamed down a crack in the mountain granite. The rusty iron wheel that gave the brewpub its name was still there at the side of the ravine, a nineteenth century relic from a time when the building had been some kind of textile mill during the early years of America's industrial revolution. But that was a long time ago, and now the small factory town in the mountains was a self-consciously quaint destination catering to hikers, skiiers and leaf-peepers from Boston and New York City. The buildings on its main street had been transformed into upscale shops and farm-to-table restaurants, and the nineteenth century mill owner's stately Victorian mansion had been renovated as an expensive bed and breakfast. He had suggested to her that he book a room there for the night of their first date, but she had vetoed the idea. The Wilkes House is a tourist trap, she had messaged back. If dinner goes well, you'll stay at my place. She was nothing if not forward. He liked that about her.

Nervously, he entered the brewpub.

It was a busy Friday night. Middle-aged yuppies in fleece vests and college-aged hippies in hiking gear were clinking glasses. People really are skinnier up North, he thought to himself. It must be lonely being her size in a town like this. The Florida coast was full of tanned and toned beach bodies, of course, so he understood the struggle. Still, even in Florida, the South had its share of fat folks.

And he wasn't nearly as fat as she was.

Then a little voice in his mind seemed to whisper: Yet.

He shivered, his nervousness suddenly replaced by excitement. Don't get too far ahead of yourself, he thought. This is just a first date. She's cool online but you need to know if you vibe in person before you let her feed you for real. He glanced around the brewpub. When his eyes landed on her, there was no mistaking the woman he had come all this way to meet.

She was seated at the corner of the brewpub, on banquette seating behind a movable table. She seemed as wide as the table, fat shoulders in a loose white cardigan seeming to flow like lava into her breasts and belly rolls in a snug red cotton dress. An elegant antique necklace, a chunky Victorian brooch on a thick silver chain, drew his attention irresistably to her cleavage, then to the triple chins that seemed to rest directly on her chest and shoulders, her neck gone entirely, the chain disappearing beneath soft, pale folds. His attention wandered up her face just as she registered his presence and their eyes met. Her eyes seemed to flash with anticipation behind a pair of vintage eyeglass frames whose red matched the dress. Her fat cheeks dimpled as she smiled. Her chins quivered.

She was fatter in person.

Dinner went as well as he could have imagined. She was as clever as she was fat, a quick-witted conversationalist with a bright laugh and a keen sense of humor. They had spent so much time messaging back and forth that he already felt like he knew her, but she was even more charming in person. She had an endless supply of funny anecdotes from her job as an instructional librarian at the liberal arts college outside of town, the kind of school where rich kids spent four years as ski bums cultivating their weed habits. It wasn't where she had planned to end up, but her Ph.D. in anthropology from Miskatonic hadn't led to a tenure-track job, and she had grown to love the quiet beauty of the little mountain town.

The brewpub owners were graduates of the college, and the waitstaff all seemed to know her. They weren't fazed when she asked to see the menu for a second round of entrees, and while neither of them wanted to drink too much -- it would be another twenty minutes' drive up windy roads to her mountainside cottage, and besides, it was a first date -- the waitstaff were more than happy to pour small samples of the microbrews that the pub brewed on site. He told a few tall tales about life in Florida, exaggerating for dramatic effect. She knew he didn't really have to fend off wild alligator attacks on his way to work, of course, and she gave him a little coquettish smirk when he admitted: "…and besides, I'm too fat to outrun an alligator anyway."

It was all he could have asked for on a first date.

Still, it was hard to keep his mind from wandering to more primal urges, especially when she shrugged off the cardigan and he got a glimpse of her pillowy upper arms, as wide around as some people's waists, spilling like rolls of dough over her elbows, swaying irresistably every time she raised a fork or a glass to her mouth. Cool it, he told himself, biting his lower lip. This is a date, not a hookup. We're here to get to know each other, not just fuck. But the more he watched her stuff herself with gusto, polishing off a steak followed by a lobster roll and a series of appetizers that just seemed to keep coming, the more he found himself imagining what the mountainous rolls of her naked belly might look like beneath that red dress, how wide and soft her naked hips and ass would be when he wrapped his arms around her and squeezed her fat body against his.

"Distracted? They asked what you wanted for dessert." He blushed, suddenly realizing how far he had lost himself in the reverie. She gave him a wry smirk. "The bread pudding's good here. Get it with caramel."

The waitress looked at her, then at him, and didn't bother to ask him for confirmation. Soon he was tucking into the bread pudding. But by now, he thought to himself, the bill couldn't come soon enough.

He felt suddenly protective of her as she stood up from the table, reaching to steady herself on a stainless steel bariatric cane, face slightly flushed and breath slightly ragged from the effort of lifting her enormous body. He helped her slip the cardigan back on, and as he helped her navigate around the tables to the entrance of the brewpub, he found himself putting a hand on the small of her back to guide her, feeling her back rolls ripple with each step. She's really big, he thought to himself. But it wasn't his first time with an SSBBW, and he knew how to pace himself and help her feel comfortable, glancing and gesturing to signal to the other diners that they should pull their chairs in for a moment to clear a path. He caught one or two hostile stares from skinny couples eating salads, but when he glared back -- it helped that he was tall and stocky, muscular underneath his fat -- they looked away in embarrassment.

She smiled up at him as they reached the rental car. She was a few inches shorter than him, and the difference in height put just how fat she was into even sharper relief. "Think you can make it up the mountain?"

He laughed. "As long as you don't ask me to hike. That's what the car is for." He wrapped an arm around her waist and pulled her in close for a kiss, the fabric of his shirt whispering against the fabric of her dress as their bellies touched, a peck on the lips leading to a momentary touching of tongues before she withdrew.

"Good. Make sure you turn right at the covered bridge. Otherwise you'll end up in moose territory. They're even faster than alligators."

"Got it. I'll see you in a little bit." He smiled and lowered himself with a grunt into the rental car. Damn, he thought, exhaling suddenly as his belly hit the steering wheel and he reached down to scoot the seat back a little further. I'm really full.

Only the knowledge of how easy it would be to get lost in these woods on a wrong turn, and the thought that a tourist town like this would be full of speed traps, kept him from rushing even faster than he did up the road to her secluded cottage.

She had just gotten out of her own car when he pulled up, steadying herself on the cane as she reached into her purse for her keys. The cottage was picture-postcard cute, wood and stone, built (she had told him at dinner) by some now-forgotten artist who had moved up from Manhattan in the Fifties to get closer to nature. As the door swung open she saw that she'd had it fitted out with energy-efficient modern luxuries and rearranged to make space for her ample body, the open floor plan giving it a feeling that was simultaneously spacious and cozy. Through a wide picture window he could see the lights of the town and the college flickering down in the valley; he thought he could just barely make out the silhouette of the brewpub.

But what really enticed him was the smell of fresh cooking. She must have spent all day baking, he thought to himself. There were savory breads and sugary sweets, pies, cakes and turnovers, all mingling with the aroma of beef stew bubbling in a slow cooker and the scent of cinnamon from an enormous apple crumble.

He watched her enormous ass and thighs quiver as she slowly walked to the kitchen. All of a sudden all he could think about was sex.

She turned back to look at him, the folds of her chins quivering, her cheeks dimpling in that irresistable smile as she winked at him through her vintage glasses. "Hungry?"

He exhaled and patted his belly. It had been a lot of food at dinner.

He looked at her. She looked at him.

He smiled back.

"I could use a little something. That was a long trip up the mountain."

"Good boy." She ladled some beef stew into a dish, then reached to slip on an oven mitt and open the oven. He couldn't keep his eyes off of how her ass and back rolls jiggled as she bent slightly to reach past her belly, her breath quickening with the effort. She drew out a thick loaf of bread and cracked it open. Inside, it was still steaming.

Turning to face him, she locked eyes with him and smiled, setting half the loaf down and reaching for a knife and butter. Slowly, sensually, she buttered the bread. He watched the glistening fresh butter seep into the thick, soft dough. He watched her arms jiggle, her chins quiver, her belly ripple.

She dipped the bread in the beef stew and took a small nibble. "Try dipping it." She grinned and handed him the dish. "Go sit on the couch. I'll bring some desserts, too."

She rolled her own dish of beef stew in on a cart, accompanied by pumpkin pie, apple crumble, and a large tub of ice cream. She sat down next to him and began to eat. By the time they finished, he felt so full he could barely breathe.

Her belly seemed to engulf him as she rolled over to straddle him on the couch, slipping her arms around his shoulders and pinning him down with her bulk. He pulled her closer and slipped his tongue into her mouth. Soon she was unbuttoning his shirt.

They were naked by the time they headed to the bedroom. She had been teasing him underneath his belly, giving quick, eager strokes, first with the tips of her fat fingers and then with the tip of her tongue. But he gave as good as he got, his own fingers deftly exploring the sensitive undersides of her rolls, sinking in a fraction of an inch further every time he plunged them into the warmth where her thighs and belly met.

By now he was so motivated by desire that he barely bothered to glance around the living room as she led him to bed. If he noticed the shelves of books, the replica statues of paleolithic goddess figures acquired during her anthropology research, it was only as background decoration.

His eyes passed over it, but he didn't really see the altar. A circle of red candles, designs painted in luminous white on dark black velvet, a small stone figurine, this one not a replica. Fresh fruit and grain placed as an offering. Slices of each of the baked desserts she had made, another offering.

And by now he was so full of dessert that he really couldn't take any more. If his eyes glanced briefly over the plate of cookies at the center of the circle of candles, he would have registered them only as one more item in the blur of sweet tastes and textures, of a piece with the pies and the brownies and the turnover soaked in ice cream. He was so full.

He certainly wouldn't have thought to ask her why the cookies were still steaming as if freshly baked, even though they had been making out for over an hour and he hadn't seen her take them from the oven.

She guided him to her bedroom tenderly, but when she shoved him the last step into bed she was almost rough, her own lust evident now, her face flushed as she took off her glasses and unpinned her hair, long locks falling down past her breasts and the enormous rolls of her belly, moving slowly but deliberately, fat flesh pressing against fat flesh as she curled up next to him in bed and pulled him in for another kiss.

The sex was even better than he had fantasized. Both of them were crackling with lust, burning with desire, as if lightning was passing back forth through their skin everywhere their bodies touched.

There's nothing like the sensation of fat on fat.

He was dozing off to sleep, his arm wrapped around her shoulders, when he felt her stand up from the bed. He heard the clunk of her bariatric cane as she left the bedroom. After all the excitement, he was too sleepy to do much more than grunt.

"Still hungry, babe?"

He groaned. At any other time, those words from her lips would have been the most enticing come-on he had ever heard. But the plane flight and the drive had taken a lot out of him, the sex had drained the last of his energy, and he was still full.

"C'mon. Just a few bites." She was back at the bedside, lifting a cookie to his lips.

"Mmmph." The warm, fresh dough. The gooey chocolate. He let her feed him the entire cookie, then another, then another. Barely awake, his eyes closed, his inner eye was already seeing half-formed dream shapes.

"Good boy." She traced her hand across his belly. So full, so achingly full. This was the best night of his life.

"Just one more bite. You have to eat the whole plate." She watched him swallow the last of the cookie, reached across his chest to pinch a few stray crumbs between her fat fingers, stuck her fingers between his lips so he could lick them off.

He leaned his head back onto the pillow and was immediately asleep.

His dreams were as much sensations as visions. Sensations of warmth, softness. Heaviness. Candles and torchlight illuminating his body. Eating, eating, always eating. Heavy, so heavy. His belly swelling.

She was there, or was it one of the goddess figurines? Looming over him, lustful and loving. Hungry for him, hungry to feed him. The goddess was vastly bigger than him, impossibly bigger, filling the bedroom, filling a torchlit cave, filling the night sky until her rolls of fat obscured the stars.

But he was big too, so big. And getting bigger.

Gradually the sensations ended. The visions ended. He sunk into a deep, deep sleep with no more dreams.

It was a bright New England autumn morning. He could see clear blue sky and a riot of fall colors, the town in the valley below framed perfectly in the picture window of the bedroom.

He was hungry. He didn't want to get up. Surely she had left some food in the bedroom.

Yes. A blueberry pie. Fresh. He was suddenly aware that he was alone in bed. From the kitchen, he could hear the clatter of dishes and the thud of her cane.

He was suddenly seized by the urge to devour the pie with his bare hands. He was hungrier than he ever thought possible. He reached for it, and --

His arm was heavy. So heavy. Just lifting it was an effort. Rolls of fat cascading, heavy as gym weights, his arms never reaching quite so far that the spilling softness of his upper arms didn't still touch the equally soft and heavy rolls of his naked chest and belly.

My belly. He looked down. He could barely see past his moobs, and he couldn't see past his belly at all. He felt it against his --

Against his calves. His belly had become enormous.

He looked down. He reached, or tried to. He was as wide as the bed, his fat arms splayed wide against side rolls that were just an inch or two short of spilling over the sides.

He wriggled his hips, or tried to. He felt hundreds of pounds of fat -- how many pounds? -- quiver in soft ripples.

He didn't even bother trying to stand up.

He felt the rolls of his chins against his chest, the rolls of his chest against his belly, the rolls of his belly against his thighs. He felt his thighs meet to well past his knees.

He even felt his overstuffed fat toes.

And suddenly there was a hardness under all that softness. He gasped sharply, drawing in a deep breath, feeling himself quake with excitement. Feebly, he tried to buck his hips against his belly, full of desire now.

She was standing in the bedroom door, holding a cup of coffee in one hand and a plate of pastries in the other.

"Hungry?"

She grinned at him.

He could barely speak. "W-what happ…"

She wore nothing but a silk robe, open at the waist. Slowly, sashaying her enormous hips to make her massive belly sway from side to side, she waddled towards him and seated herself as best she could at the edge of the bed. She traced her fingertips down his belly.

"Magic. Don't ask too many questions. Do you want the croissants first, or the pie?"

"The pie." At least he had a ready answer to that one.

"Good boy." She began lifting forkfuls of the warm, fresh blueberry pie to his greedy lips. She stroked his hair and gave a mock pout. "I'm not sure you're going to fit on the plane back to Florida."

"Not unless it's a cargo plane." He smiled. "You didn't have to do this, you know. I would have stayed anyway."

Her mock pout deepened. "But it's so fun this way! You should have seen the look on your face when you woke up." She gave his belly a playful shove. "And I had to know you weren't one of those feedee fuckboys. Lots of guys online talk a big game but won't commit."

He lifted an arm as best he could to squeeze her thigh. "Come on. You knew I was serious."

"Mmmhmm." She leaned across him, her belly spreading over his. She was the skinny one now. "But I'm even more serious."

"Is that so?" He polished off the last bite of the pie, then let his voice get a little fierce. "More food. Now."

She blushed and giggled. "Okay, you're serious. That's what I like to see."

"I know it is." He sighed with contentment, wriggled his hips to get a little bit more comfortable, and let her lift the first of many chocolate-stuffed croissants to his lips. "Am I going to stay like this?"

She smiled. "Only if you want to. The spell is reversible." She paused, a smirk on her face. "But I think you want to."

"You're right. How do you know me so well?"

He smiled. Then he pulled her in for a kiss, grunting with the effort, the softness of his upper arm sliding against her naked back rolls.

An afternoon of eating. An evening of sex. A day passed. Maybe two or three.

He heard his phone vibrate, somewhere in the pile of clothes that were now much, much too small for him. "Could you pass me that?"

She stood up off the bed and reached down to pick up the phone, moving slowly. Slowly due to her bulk, slowly because she knew his mouth was watering at the sight of her enormous body in motion. She placed the vibrating phone on his belly, then left for the kitchen.

It was a text from his friend in Miami Beach. "You doing okay up there? Should I call the cops?"

He smiled. His fingers were so fat that it took him a minute to correct all the typos, but he texted back. "Even better than I hoped."

A moment later, the reply arrived. "That's great. Anything you need?"

He glanced over his gigantic belly at the stupendously fat woman who stood in the bedroom door, carrying a tray of fresh blueberry pancakes glistening with maple syrup. Through the door he could see into the living room, where an empty plate sat on an altar surrounded by the stubs of red candles. "Yeah. If I Venmo you the money, could you hire some movers to box my stuff up and send it here? I'm planning on staying in New England for a while."

He put the phone down and opened his mouth to take his first bite of the pancakes.

#feedist kinktober #mutual gaining #weight gain fiction #wg fiction #feedist fiction #mutual feeding #mutual gain #mutual gain fiction #mutual gainer #fat ffa #fat feeder #gaining weight on purpose #getting fat on purpose #spot the shout-outs to some classic New England horror writers

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nervocat · 2 days

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“How I Loath You so.” (descriptions of blood and some violence(?) - wc: 1k, fluff?/romantic, vampire!gn!reader)

Rook was his name — and oh how you hated how it rolled off your tongue. This deplorable human that had stumbled upon your residency. You hated him down to your very soul.

But Rook? He was absolutely enchanted by you, infatuated even. He had only heard tales told from relatives and friends and from conversations he had overheard about vampires.

They had all said they were wicked creatures, only seen at night to sneak up on you, taking your blood and leaving you as an empty husk.

You had almost done exactly that to Rook, he had stepped foot on your grounds. It surprised him how you were able to best him in the surprise element, which only made you more intriguing.

It was a bit of a fight to actually have him pinned down, but you now had him in your grasp. Oddly enough though, he didn't fight back anymore once pinned. It's was almost like he wanted this, or at least didn't mind it.

“Who are you?” you inquire, voice unkind and face twisted in anger. The blond smiles. It was a tad off-putting with how it curved upwards, his eyes creasing.

“I am Rook Hunt,” he replies. “I must ask though — are you the vampire people talk about?”

That charming off-putting smile of his really ticked you off, your brows furrowing and your eyes burning further with hatred.

“So, Rook,” you wanted to throw up. “What in the world could you be doing here in my territory?” ignoring his question, you dig your nails into his shoulders some, keeping him pinned down to the grass. Though you were suddenly thrown off and now you were pinned to the ground, with Rook looming over you.

Eyes wide, you start to squirm under him — and how he enjoyed it so.

“Never let your guard down, mon cœur,” seething, you stopped your attempt to free yourself of this wretched man. Your nose scrunches at the nickname, lip curling up and displaying your fangs. It made Rook smile more, only serving to madden you further.

“Your fangs look as sharp and beautiful as ever, mon chérie d'amour.” he poked one of your fangs, making you hiss and nip at his hand, which he had quickly pulled away from you.

“Will you get off of me?!” you yell. You knew you could easily throw him off on your own without too much effort, but you wanted to see what he'd do.

Rooks smile didn't falter, he himself was also looking for what you'd do. He seems to be playing the waiting game, but so are you. He's just wasting his precious mortal time playing that game with you, for you had all the time in the world that he didn't.

“I would get off you, but I don't know what you'd do if I did. Would you simply kill me, take my blood from me, or mercifully let me go?” Rook seemed to have been thinking more, but didn't add anything else. He was smart — you'd give him that much. “I also quite enjoy what we're doing right now.”

You've had enough of his stalling, his stupid remarks. Using your strength, you throw him off of you and again, try to pin him. Rook was more ready this time though — swiftly dodging your attempt.

“The element of surprise! Something quite essential for a hunt, don't you think?”

“Oh for fucks sake, just shut up already, will you?!” You shout, reaching to grab for him, and he.. let you?? No matter, you were hungry, and with his neck exposed to you, how could you not bite into it?

Without a care for what happened to Rook, you haphazardly bit into him, fangs sinking into his fragile neck skin. Stumbling into a tree, you start to taste the blood of his on spilling your tongue. It was absolutely amazing, like nothing you've tasted before.

You weren't paying attention to Rook, too focused on feeding, not leaving any left to drip away, but he enjoyed this — maybe too much. Usually, people would be thrashing about and screaming for help (no one would hear them of course) and begging for mercy as they only made their wounds worse.

Rook instead held your head to his neck, not caring if these were his final moments. Dying in the arms of a gorgeous vampire? He's dreaming! Someone pinch him awake (preferably not, though).

The blood that managed to slip past your hungry lips, dripping down your chin, your closed eyes, messy hair with blades of grass and dirt in it. Would you let him clean your hair, he wonders? Make it all pretty, make you all pretty (though you already were beyond his wildest imagination).

He couldn't deny it hurt, though. You didn't take the care to see where you bit him, even though it probably would've benefitted you to do so, silly vampire.. Rook started to feel dizzy; was he dying?

Coming back to reality with a pained groan from Rook, you open your eyes to look at him. Sighing at his pitiful state, you lick his wound and the blood from your chin, teeth still bloody with the red liquid still smudged about on your face. He falls into your arms soon after — rather gracefully for someone who just had their blood drained — and you stumble a bit at the sudden weight.

“Ugh, what a bother. You're too good of a food source to just die though..” after thinking for a second, you groan loudly and begrudgingly take him to your home, just dragging him along behind you.

Getting home, you toss him on a couch and leave to get the blood off of your chin and get your hair clean again. You stop in the doorway though, and you glance over at Rook.

He was an interesting man. An annoying one, but he had his own odd charm of his.. his strange choice of hair style, his over-the-top speech, it was all him.

Maybe you could get used to having him in your life, and maybe you'll find yourself (unfortunately) falling for those stupid charms of his.

[ † notes: THE FIC EVER!?? I'M SO PROUD OF THIS I LOVE IT SM. First post of my event too! Banger start the the event honestly. This was unbelievably fun to write. Embarrassed abt writing some of the scenes.... and maybe I could've done some things better but I'm rlly proud of the overall outcome :33 ]

#🗯️ — ⌗nervos works . ★#twisted wonderland #twst #twisted wonderland x gn reader #twisted wonderland x reader #twst x gn reader #twst x reader #rook hunt x gn reader #rook hunt x reader #rook x gn reader #rook x reader

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someverygaymoth · 23 hours

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I like to think about Horror nervously offering some of his food to Nightmare when he first arrives at the castle because Nightmare Isn't eating with Dust, Killer and himself. Nightmare looks at him like he's an utterly perplexing puzzle and says "I don't need that." And it makes Horror cry. (It's more of a dry sniffling and sobbing situation because his magic is too weak to make tears.)

Nightmare is shocked by this and looks to Killer and Dust like "what am I doing wrong?" And they're completely unhelpful, but what's new? Lol.

Nightmare sighs and asks why Horror is upset.

"ya don't got any..."

"don't have any food? Little mortal, I've no need for it. My body isn't like yours. I feed from anguish, not these things you do."

Horror frowns, "c'n ya eat?"

"physically, I could. I don't believe it would disbenefit me to do so."

"please?" Horror asks, offering him food again.

Sweet stars... how is he supposed to say no to that?

"fine, I will aquire some food of my own, I need not take from yours. There will be nothing but abundance here for you. You'll have no need to share from your own plate again."

Horror looks like he doesn't even know what to do with that. "I... Could I... Anyways?"

Nightmare frowns.

"s'rry..."

"no, it's quite alright. Yes, I suppose you could, if that would please you. If I eat from your plate, though, you will eat from mine."

"I don't need..."

"it isn't about what you need, it's about what I desire to give you. Now, allow me to make another plate. I'll be back in a moment."

Killer and Dust are incredibly entertained by this, they've never seen Nightmare eat... Like... Anything before.

#utmv #undertale au #ut au #undertale sans #ut aus #killer sans #dust sans #horror sans #horrortale sans #nightmare's gang #dreamtale nightmare sans #nightmare sans #dreamtale nightmare #nightmare sans' castle #bad sanses #bad sans trio #bad sans gang

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active-mind-15 · 2 days

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Headcanons for Akashi when he's angry? 😡

Been a hot min since I've done one of these long ass headcanon posts exploring different Akashi emotions/scenarios, so here I am again. Anger was per the suggestion of @japeneselunchtimerush, so shout out to Aura for once again feeding my Akashi brainrot. Let's get into it!

Usually, before I get into the headcanons, I talk about if there have been any examples of it happening in canon, and for anger, there have been! The most prominent example was during the Teiko arc, when Murasakibara was not listening to Akashi anymore and later confronted him, causing Akashi to switch for the first time. The anger I would argue is more apparent in the anime version, but it's still there in the manga, just as more of an undertone, though. Aside from that, though there aren't really many other instances I can think of apart from during the Winter Cup finals when Akashi realized his team was being overwhelmed and tried to make a comeback. Although, I'm debating classifying that purely as anger since he was clearly having a breakdown. But let's move on to the actual headcanons, I've rambled on this bullet point for long enough.

Firstly, what would make Akashi angry? Going off canon, we already know that one of these things is disobedience/belittling, especially when it comes to Akashi's own authority, but what else can we say makes him angry? I would say he's similar to Kuroko in the sense that he can't stand when he sees people being rude to others. I can imagine him seeing someone being the victim of harassment and bullying and he stands up for them, kinda like how everyone stood up for Kuroko in Extra/Last Game when Team Jabberwock attacked him. He's especially protective over his friends and would never let anyone say one bad word against them, lest they face his wrath.

(^^ As an extra thought to my previous point, I wonder if he ever had to reckon with being angry at himself for the scissors incident during the Winter Cup. I'm sure he's probably beaten himself up over it many times over.)

The examples I've given thus far are all serious things to get angry over, though. So, to lighten it up, I'm going to talk about situations in which I think Akashi would get mad for pettier reasons.

He'd for sure get mad at people disrespecting his height. Y'all saw how he dunked on Seirin in the WC finals just to show off and said "Did you think that was a move for tall people?" Technically he's above average height for his age, but when you put him next to his teammates, he looks so tiny since everyone else is freakishly tall. I'm sure his intimidating captain aura prevents most people from making jokes about his height anyway, but someone on an opposing team might be meanspirited enough to do it and he'd get pissed, like how Kuroko got pissed when Papa mistook him for a child.

Another petty reason I think he'd get mad is if someone isn't paying attention to him while he's speaking. I can especially imagine this happening with the Teiko gang because you know them mfs cannot collectively focus on something for more than five seconds. So imagine him talking about something serious only for him to turn around and almost nobody is paying attention. I've said once before that I think Akashi would be petty enough to pinch or kick somebody for something, so I think that this would be one of the times where this is applicable. He seems like an ear-puller to me, too. Just saying.

I'll give one more petty example for funsies, but I think he'd be mad if he didn't get what he wanted/things are not going his way. Not in the "I'm on the brink of defeat and the meaning of my existence is about to be nullified" type of way we've always seen for him, but in a "the cafe I frequent is out of my favorite drink and I'm about to make it everybody's problem" type of way. He just gets dramatic about minor inconveniences.

So now that we've talked about what could make Akashi angry, let's talk about what he would look like if he was angry. From what we've seen in the series, even when he's angry, he remains calm. He chooses his words carefully and is not the type to shout. The only time he's really raised his voice is when he was arguing with himself in his own headspace, but raising his voice at other people seems like a serious no-no for him. Even though he's calm while he's angry, the anger will still show on his face. The knitted brows, the deep disapproving scowl, anybody would be able to tell that Akashi is mad from a mile away. But if he's only mildly angry, I bet he'd look more pouty than actually mad, much to Mibuchi's delight because it makes Akashi look very adorable.

Come on. Look at that face. You're telling me you wouldn't pinch his cheeks?

How do other people react to him being mad, though? If he's seriously angry, it's like the air shifts. Nobody gets in his way when he's really angry. But when he's just mildly irritated, I think as time goes on, his friends will try and make him feel better, especially if the reason why he's mad is trivial and something that can easily be remedied. Like "Oh, Midorima's not free to play a game of online shogi with you right now? You can play shogi with me instead!" or "You forgot something in the gymnasium? I'll go get it for you!" I just like the idea of Akashi's friends, especially Rakuzan, going out of their way to do things for Akashi the way he does things for other people. It's what he deserves.

Overall, Akashi is a person who does not get angry often, and I feel like part of that reason is because he's always been taught to compose himself and not express emotions that can be perceived as negative. So, I can imagine what a struggle that must be for him, especially when he truly is angry but feels like he's not allowed to show it. So I would hope as time goes on that he feels more comfortable being open with that while still being able to show emotions in a healthy manner.

Alright, I've yapped enough, time to pack it up. Hope you guys enjoyed.

#it felt good to put out another one of these posts #havent done it in so long that i missed it #its also a nice exercise that helps me characterize him more accurately in my fics #anyway if anyone wants to add to this headcanon post feel free #kuroko no basket #knb headcanons #akashi seijuro

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