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okkotsuus · 6 months ago

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"YOU'RE AS BEAUTIFUL AS THE DAY I LOST YOU" (katsuki b.) !

features: katsuki bakugo

contents: fantasy au. angst. hurt/comfort/more hurt. mutual pining. barabrian!katsuki. fem!reader. childhood friends to lovers to strangers to lovers again. kidnapping. grief. crying. implied panic attack. major character death. no beta we die like men. 3.9k

notes: i've been yearning desperately to make bakugo say stoick's famous line from httyd2 (my second favorite movie)... if there's interest i'm considering continuing this into the canon verse with it being these two 'reincarnated'.

tagging: @saexy (for enabling and encouraging me in killing off characters) & @meristryker (for enabling me in the gc like a real one)

never in all his life did the great katsuki bakugo think that he would ever love someone enough that he could die. watching the loving smiles of his parents, the gentle caress of his father's hand to soothe his mother's unbridled anger: it made his stomach churn.

yet, at the tender age of seven, while on a trip to a nearby village to discuss the war shifting on the horizon, he finds himself absolutely smitten by their chieftain's daughter. wide e/c eyes peeking out from behind her mother's leg, hands clutching onto the hem of the long skirt.

katsuki finds himself enamoured in that instance, seeing sweet you, looking at the boy with such curious eyes. he stomps over to you: temper even fiery in his youth. his hand grabs onto yours as he hauls you out from behind the safety of your mother.

under the dim candlelight of the meeting room, flickering flames cast dancing rays across your skin. his chubby little face is scrunched into a scowl, tugging you out of the room and into the courtyard with a tenderness that betrayed his expression.

"i'm katsuki and you better not forget it!" his pitchy voice calls, still dragging you behind him. he looks over his shoulder, soft red eyes narrowed in what was an attempt to be intimidating.

but when he sees the relaxing of your eyelids, falling slightly in contentment, with a warm smile that rivals any feeling of victory: the mask of indifference slips in a blink of an eye. red dusts over the slops of his face, baby-fat painted the same carnelian as his eyes. his small hand grips tighter onto yours, as if he never would let you go.

your chubby little face stretches as your smile widens into a toothy grin, eyes crinkling at the corners. "got it, katsuki, i'm y/n!" he swears your voice is just like the lullaby his mother would hum while rocking him to sleep, bringing a rush of warmth through his chest.

that day, katsuki bakugou falls terribly in love with y/n l/n.

the two of you are deemed inseparable, hands always connecting like opposing poles of a magnet. pinkies intertwined stronger than any woven cloth. it's as pure and innocent as it can be.

if one were to see y/n, then it was irrevocably certain that katsuki was a few steps away. it sends rumors spiralling through the lands that there will be a union between the bakugo barbaricum and l/n dynasty. you're only eight when there's an attempt made for your hand.

the thought of two families as powerful as you and katsuki's joining was a fearful thing to many. it spelled doom for many weaker civilizations, those who had dug their own graves with their actions.

your family, blessed be you to have been born to loving parents in a world such as this, easily rejects the many proposals. the l/n dynasty is in a state of power where they are not forced to fend for their village: allowing you this freedom.

running through the streets of his stronghold, chasing each other for the sake of some game that was the farthest thing from either of your minds. katsuki feels whole when you are at his side. the world doesn't seem so ugly, he doesn't feel so angry, everything sings the hymns of the heavens.

he can't pull his ruby eyes off of your form by the age of fifteen. the katsuki you had known, baby-faced with a slight stutter, has began to fill out into a man. his shoulders broaden and begin to carry thick cords of muscle. the chubbiness of his cheeks begins to give rise to sharper angles. his whiny voice is pushed aside by a more gravelly tone. he shoots up like a sprout, hunching over slightly in faces that used to fit him so easily.

but he isn't the only one who is growing into his frame. your shoulders soften at the corners, collarbones visible with every slight movement. your baby fat begins to settle and collect on your hips, rounding them. those toothy grins of yours become framed by pretty lips, always looking soft as a pillow. clothes that used to drape over your like a sheet now feel tighter in certain places, stretching over curves that popped up overnight.

the two of you don't know what to do with yourselves, stolen looks when the other isn't looking. you still hook pinkies, but the touch sends flares of heat running up the back of your neck. it's like you were just meeting each other for the first time all over again.

katsuki feels like a damn sap with the way his heart thunders under his skin: threatening to burst out. he's too taken to notice the heat that was rising to your face whenever he was around, the way your hands nervously would grip onto the swaying fabric of your skirt. too blind to see that you were just as infatuated with him as he was with you.

hurried words, lingering touches, sneaking glances, the two of you had every hint of love right in front of your faces. yet, there's a hesitance that lingers in the back of young minds: afraid that falling in love would end up with no one catching them.

unsurprisingly, katsuki is the one who jumps first. it's a quiet night, the moon is high in the sky. his breath puffs out in front of him like smoke, winter beginning to show herself once more.

you looked too beautiful under the soft azure glow that the celestial sky casts upon you, he simply couldn't bear another moment without you known how much his very soul ached for you.

on the eve of his sixteenth birthday he whispers the words like a prayer, voice softened and gentle for once in his life. "y/n... you plague my every waking thought, i cannot let my heart beat any longer without it being yours."

e/c eyes widen as your head snaps to him, lips parting in shock. katsuki beats you to it, rough palms (once baby-soft) cupping your cheek with a tenderness he was unaware he possessed.

the stars illuminate the sunkissed slopes of his cheekbones, showing the fine lashes that fan out over his eyes. katsuki was ethereal, in every sense of the word, it catches your breath in a hitch. your mind stumbles through everything you could say right now, desperately trying to find the perfect response.

but when the pads of his thumbs drag over the apples of your cheeks, leaving a buzz in the wake of his touch, all rational thought leaves as you allow words to flow like a stream. "i have loved you longer than i have known you, katsuki." your voice is hushed, only filling the small space between the two of you: like a secret that only he and you would ever know.

it sends a trill up your spine when his eyes visibly soften, his face had been growing more and more sharp by the day but only when he was with you did the curve of his cheeks soften. he turns back into a boy around you, as you turn back into a girl when held so gently between his hands.

katsuki surges forwards, nose clumsily knocking against yours, teeth colliding with your own. he's inexperienced, never having kissed a girl, much less even though of kissing anyone but you. you both are a mess, giggling softly through messy pecks smearing over each other's faces. it feels like you're both those giddy kids once more, chasing the other through the cobbled streets of your village. he makes your heart sing.

it was even harder to be apart from him now, hands fully clasped together as you walk through the streets of either of your hometowns. yet, no one is surprised. neither of your parents nor his even bat an eye when you announce the courtship at a family dinner.

love is as natural as breathing for you and katsuki. inherently you have always known exactly what the other needs. he knows just how much you like the wildflowers that grow en-route between your homes. you know just how much he likes when you rise on your tiptoes and press a kiss against the corner of his lips.

it's young and dumb, a rush of big emotions and smiles that stretch your cheeks so far they ache. once you both are eighteen, katsuki turns the courtship into a betrothal. an elegant gold ring, with a garnet slotted right in the center, it sits pretty on your ring finger. his band is thicker, small e/c gemstones scattered along the surface. when in battle he loops it through a chain around his neck: pressing a kiss to the ring before charging forwards.

the world has known y/n l/n and katsuki bakugo have been in love for nearly twelve years, official for three, and betrothed for one. the bakugo barbaricum and the l/n dynasty have began making their plans to unify upon the wedding. it sparks a wave of unease in the badlands.

all it takes is an emissary sent from the dark forest for your world to crumble into shambles. a demon who seems to be the land's scourge reincarnated, hand that turn all to ash, pillages your beloved village. he comes in tow with a mimic and a fire mage. destruction rains as you are brought to the center as their singular demand is you.

your eyes lock with the demon's red eyes, a color that had made you feel so safe until now. the hair on the nape of your neck stands pin-straight as his hand extended towards you: palm up.

a flurry of emotions rush through you like a burst dam, memories of katsuki at the forefront. you want to be selfish, to damn him and his band of criminals to hell, to fight back despite the gravity of the situation. but he is bringing terror upon the people you swore to protect with your life.

so, you step forwards, soft hand sliding into his own. never had a rough palm felt like daggers against your skin, never had you so violently despised the way carmine shines in the light of blue flames.

to save your people, your family, the home you have known your entire life: you go. swept away in black mist. the last thing you see of that place is the bakugo horde rushing towards the gates, your eyes lock with katsuki's before the void claims you.

katsuki lets out a guttural scream as her charges head first into the miasma, falling onto the ground as the last wisp flows just through his fingers. his fist slams against the ground, hands gasping at the dirt you had just been on. he allows himself to cry in front of someone other than you, a wail echoing through the ruins of your village.

that day, you disappear off the face of the realm. no matter how many search parties are sent into the dark forests in the badlands, they all return empty-handed (if they return at all). katsuki keep his ring around his neck, so it beats against his bare chest with every movement: like a reminder of how it felt when his heart actually beat .

scars wind around his arms, around his biceps, over his forearms, across his shoulders. his face is hardened, permanent frown on the lips you used to kiss so tenderly. he's angrier than ever, fuse short as his attention span.

he is a shell of the man he had been, going through the motions of survival but never truly being alive.

this persists for a grueling two years. for seven-hundred and thirty days. for seventeen-thousand five-hundred twenty hours. he is separated from the only person that has ever felt like home, the woman he has loved longer than he knew how to read.

he masks it behind his ego, boisterous laugh to hide the ringing in is ears that hadn't been able to stop. he's more violent the field, less forgiving when in training with kirishima. the explosions that thunder from his palms produce a blackened smoke that lingers and settles in his lungs like a fog.

yearning hits him late at night when he lays alone in bed, a bed that you had once shared with him. silent tears pour, running down the sides of katsuki's face as he stares blankly up at the ceiling. his breath feels short as his chest heaves to get air in. the man's mind is clouded with the look on your face as those bastards took you. he can still remember every single little twitch of your expression when you finally saw him. he remembers the way your breath hitched. he remembers the tears that began to pool at the corners of your eyes.

but, most of all, he remembers not seeing you: for what feels like the first time in his life.

katsuki cannot recall when he finally fell asleep, or if he ever even truly did. his dreams are plagued with you anyways, so the line between memory and dream is thin as a tightrope.

he has a dream that he makes it in time to save you and wakes up alone. that one sticks with him for months, hanging over him like a shadow. if he was only a minute sooner, a stride faster, reacted quicker. maybe you would be in his arms right now instead of gods know where.

relief comes in a rumor that circles in a tavern that a woman with h/c hair and e/c eyes was spotted wondering through the dark forest. katsuki doesn't hesitate, he makes no effort to send out a scout party. he rides at dawn, horse hooves beating against the grass in a frenzied gallop as he makes his way into the badlands.

none of the rouges or thieves hope to stand a chance with him, the smart ones don't even try. he vanquishes the less fortunate with a single swing of his cutlass. the man doesn't stop to rest, only to water his horse and allow it to graze while he catches a brief nap.

his horse comes to a stop right outside the dark forests, whinnying in rejection to enter. katsuki doesn't blame the poor thing, this was the kind of place people went with no intention to come back from. he dismounts, not tying his horse off: it would return with a whistle.

the forest is eerie, yawning opening that is reminiscent of a gaping mouth. but he didn't fear. because at this point, he'd rather not come back if it meant he wasn't coming back with you.

footfalls crunching against leaves and sticks echo through the dim lit treeline. the canopy is so thick that it completely obscures the bright sunlight katsuki has just been under: the perfect place for criminals to hide. the trees creak and groan, as if the land itself was breathing and living.

only when he hears the snap of a twig does he stop, his head snaps around, a flash of h/c darting just out of the corner of his visions. the man's heart stops as he stumbles to pursue, not minding the whipping of low handing branches against his face. not when he could see you darting through the underbrush.

he finally sees you in the full when you run into a path dead-ended by brambles. it's really you. y/n, his y/n.

but you look over your shoulder with such a forlorn look it makes his heart ache in his chest. you don't believe that it's really him. "toga, this isn't funny, it's cruel to keep making me see him." your voice is rougher than he remembered, as if your throat had been worn. it makes his fists clench at his sides.

the mimic had been wearing his face, just to torment you?

just the thought of it sends a rage burning deep in his chest. he has no way of knowing what you have been through. katsuki couldn't protect you: like he always feared he would fail to do.

his steps toward you are hesitant, ruby red eyes softening the second he sees your face. his heart is pounding out of his ribs, it makes him wonder if you can hear it.

a rough hand reaches up to roughly tug the chain that held his engagement band around his neck, the links snapping and clattering to the ground. he doesn't even look at it. with a gentleness, he holds out the ring to you.

your eyes dart back between the metal and him, hands tentatively reaching for it. the thundering race of your heartbeat is all you can hear. your hands, once soft, now rough as his bush against his own as you roll the ring between your fingers.

katsuki's heart breaks when he feels the callouses on your fingertips. he lowers slowly to his knees in front of you, tears fighting their way to prick at the corners of his eyes. he looks up at you like you are the light in the world, a goddess before him. in a way, you are, because he had prayed to every deity to hold you again, even if it was only once more.

"you're as beautiful as the day i lost you." his words come out in a rasp. thick emotion coursing through his chest; nearly choking him.

he watched your eyes widen, tears pooling as you too crash onto the ground. your arms wrap tight around his neck, face pressed side-by-side with his own. strong arms encircle your waist in an instant, pressing you closer with an urgency.

"katsuki... oh gods, katsuki..." you don't even know what to say, just repeating his name like a desperate prayer. your cheeks are wet and your chest aches but you don't care, because he's finally here.

lips clash desperately, just as messy as the kiss the two of you first shared five years ago. it's a mess of teeth and tongue as your fingers tangle into ash-blonde hair, his hands finding the back of your head and your hip. he sucks the breath out of you, as if wanting to absorb you into his being.

and you'd let him if he asked.

carmine eyes search for e/c, his hands cupping your cheeks as he pulls back to study your face. it's like you never left. your eyes are tired, there's some grime on your cheeks, a soft scar above your eyebrow that you've had since you were thirteen.

the softest smile spreads on his face, forehead pressing against yours as his lashes flutter shut. katsuki lets out a deep sigh, one he had been holding for nearly two years now.

warmth blooms in your chest as everything finally settles back into place like puzzle pieces. your hearts beat in sync, you draw breath when he exhales, everything is right in the world once more.

but your heart skips a beat as your eyes open to see that cursed white hair with horns peeking out from below it. tomura shigaraki. a wicked smirk on his lips as he's leaned back against a tree, simply watching.

your hands grip tighter onto the back of the shawl draping over katsuki's shoulders, breathing turning shaky and ragged.

no. no. no. they couldn't take this from you. not again. not after how hard you fought to escape the league just at the fleeting chance of being able to see the man you love. this had to be some cruel joke, right? a trick of the light, maybe...

even you aren't naive enough to believe that, your eyes close as you lean against katsuki, head burying into the crook of his neck. your fiddle with his hands to slip the ring back onto it's rightful place on his third finger. a part of you had already resigned to being ripped away again.

after two years with the demon, you learned firsthand what shigaraki was capable of. and you were not going to allow katsuki to find it out as well.

your legs shook as you stood, a weak smile given at your lover's confused look. "i'll always love you, 'suki, you know that." his eyes widen as his head nods, brows furrowing.

"then let me keep you safe."

carnelian irises widen in realization as his head turns to look back, growl ripping from his chest at the sight of the scourge of the realm's protege. his hands immediately reach for the hilt of his sword, explosions popping in his palms.

but you're already beginning to approach. katsuki seizes you in one arm, hauling you away like the day you first met. he runs through the forest with you: knowing that shigaraki would not allow the both of you to leave.

he bounds over winding tree roots, holding you steady and tight against his chest. the impending sense of doom begins to crawl up the back of his neck, but he needs you to be safe.

with you in his arm, he stumbles out of the forest, shrill whistle leaving his lips as the sound of hooves grows closer. with ease he sets you up on the saddle, but he does not join. you realize immediately what is about to happen. "katsuki-"

"no. it's my turn to keep you safe, y/n. i've always loved you, and i always will. in every life i will find you, and in every life, i will protect you." his words bring tears to your eyes as you desperately stake your head, sobs bubbling past your lips.

shigaraki creeps out of the forest and he delivers a harsh smack to the horse's haunches, sending it galloping away. within a second later a hand is reaching through katsuki's chest, mocking laugh against his ear.

"how heroic. i'll make sure you die slow, barbarian."

never in all his life did the great katsuki bakugo think that he would ever love someone enough that he could die.

that was until he lay on the edge of the forest floor, lifeblood leaking from the gaping hole in the center of the chest. but he wasn't anguished: because he died for you, the only person who he would ever love.

okkotsuus 24

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homunculus-argument · 7 months ago

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I've got a book draft project that I call Book I Am Not Working On that I probably haven't touched for like four years now. I originally wrote the first draft of the first book like 10 years ago, didn't like the ending, and decided to write a Next Generation Reboot with the previous cast's offspring and niblings as the main characters. Skipping the world ahead 20 years, and having the new protagonists be Standard Fantasy Book Protagonist Aged, in their late teens and early 20s, they learn about the past book's events in glimpses, as almost mythical legends.

The new story's main protagonist is the niece of a character I originally wrote into the first book as a gag - a naive Farmboy Hero. In this one he's taken up the role of a Grim Mysterous Mentor, who tags along on the protagonist's misguided quest because he knows that he can't stop her, so the best he can do is help. And he mentions that there is this wise man that he used to know in his youth, who lived in this specific city - he is wise in the ways of the world, and if he is still alive, he should be able to help them.

The protagonist agrees to go find the man, and for the first quarter of the book, this Wise Man that Old Uncle Hiram Knew In His Youth is this grand and surely legendary Wonderful Wizard of Oz kind of a figure, who is surely all-powerful and could fix anything. After all, old uncle Hiram would trust him with his life, and uncle Hiram doesn't trust anybody.

And then they finally make it to The City, and find The Old Friend. Who is a completely normal-looking middle-aged guy in an apron, kind of fat and slightly balding, busy with five kids and a grandbaby. And he's just as surprised to see the protagonist and her uncle at his door.

So the protagonist's uncle and his friend retire into a more quiet room to discuss the problem at hand while the protagonist and the friend's eldest daughter head out to find new, additional problms, fully trusting that these Adultier Adults will know what to do.

Meanwhile, the two old friends sit down, and the Old Friend looks at the protagonist's uncle, just going "dude for fuck's sake. Twenty years and you haven't changed at all. All these years I thought you were dead and then you show up at my doorstep, plop a felony level problem on my lap like 'hey lol this wasn't even my problem before I decided to get involved, pls help lol' and expect me to fix it."

And Old Uncle Hiram, who in fact is only in his early 40s and suddenly doesn't seem all that old and wise at all, just shrugs like "yeah I kinda gambled my life (and my niece's life btw) on hoping that you wouldn't have changed at all, either. That you would agree to help us, while calling me a fucking idiot the whole time."

And the old friend goes "yeah no shit of course I'll fucking help. You fucking idiot."

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once-a-singlet-nevemore · 2 months ago

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Trans Feminism and the Human Domestication Guide

Wishing on a misogynistic star won't make your dreams come true

Thesis: A running theme in some parts of the HDG sphere is the unintentional chase and valorisation of misogynistic standards for women in the pursuit of validation.

“The most radical thing that any of us can do is to stop projecting our beliefs about gender onto other people's behaviours and bodies”

― Julia Serano, Whipping Girl: A Transsexual Woman on Sexism and the Scapegoating of Femininity

I would like to open by declaring my own identities, both as a shield against a particular kind of bad faith criticism, but also to demonstrate that I’m operating in good faith here. I’m a fat, hairy, physically disabled, transgender, butch dyke who writes within the HDG setting with great joy and greater love for the community. I’m also hot as fuck. That established, I’ll continue:

There is a particularly pernicious lie that revolves around the state of women's bodies; that there is a correct way to have one and that those who do not meet these standards are unfeminine or otherwise worthless. It must have a vagina, of course, but it must also be white, thin, able, hairless, youthful, fit but not strong and, of course, soft.

Trans feminism, and by that I direct my attention to feminist speech within trans and gender non-conformist spaces, has managed to, if not defeat, then at least combat one of the great evils of cis sexism, the necessity of the vagina. The ongoing and necessary validation of the girl cock as beautiful, as wonderful, as feminine is a wonderful, joyful thing. We (trans feminine people) exist as part of the spectrum of womanhood, and that means that our bodies also exist within and without that spectrum of womanhood as well.

However, trans feminism of a particular kind has - rather than continue the work done to uplift the gock - has embraced a particular kind of ugly lie we’re taught. In many cases - due to a perceived desire to be as close to flawlessly woman as we can be - the focus will instead fall on a particular kind of trans feminine person who manages to engage with and evoke those standards aside from the obvious. To paraphrase Julia Serano in illustrating this point:

“Whether unconscious or deliberate, the gatekeepers clearly sought to … ensure that most people who did transition would not be “gender-ambiguous” in any way”

― Julia Serano, Whipping Girl: A Transsexual Woman on Sexism and the Scapegoating of Femininity

One of the beauties of the class-G is that it allows the character to experience their body in an idealised form. I recognise and applaud this position, it is beautiful to see a writer able to imagine themselves completely idealised, completely transformed into something that doesn’t hurt. However, therein lies the rub; the ideal depicted displays some of that ugliness, some of the roots of misogyny that thread their ways through our brains like poison and make us into useful fools for its goals.

The thought that brought about this essay is a repeated phrasing that appears across several works within the HDG milieu; that to be hairless and soft is to be feminine. A character will have their body hair, all their body hair bar that on their head, removed and thus will be made ‘girly’. They, and other characters, may remark on how much more they feel like a woman, unconsciously or consciously linking womanhood to that hairlessness.

You may note that this directly plays into another cis-sexist standard of beauty; that to be feminine requires a certain girlishness, a pubescent budding that belies the possibility of cellulite or wrinkles or the consequences of living a life where one is not simply a doll.

What is my objection to that? Surely, every writer has the right to depict their own wish fulfilment fantasies. Certainly yes, but also… one must ask at which point we celebrate their dreams and at what point we ask people to engage with their biases and question what they consider to be true. Women, all kinda of women, are hairy. Women have pubic hair, arm hair, leg hair, chest hair, even facial hair. The seeming desire to be completely hairless is as ‘unnatural’ a goal as any other, as ‘unnatural’ as any expectation set for us by the white supremacist culture most of us are steeped in. To return to whipping girl:

“Rather than question our own value judgments or notice the ways that we treat people differently based on their size, beauty, or gender, most of us reflexively react to these situations in a way that reinforces class boundaries: We focus on the presumed “artificiality” of the transformation the subject has undergone.”

― Julia Serano, Whipping Girl: A Transsexual Woman on Sexism and the Scapegoating of Femininity

It must be noted that at least part of this problem is with what the reader brings to the table. When something goes unstated, we resort to the baseline of our biases and, due to the way society is structured, that baseline is generally white, thin and physically able. Beauty and femininity are racialised concepts, and I think we fall into traps headlong that white supremacy establishes for us. I am not the person to write an essay critiquing race in HDG, but I recognise the consequences of race and the expectations of white femininity on the work. Thus, then, we must consider the text, and the text is very often pretty clear about its characters.

How many protagonists of a human domestication guide story are textually fat? How many are stated in the text to be people of colour? How many of them are, if not stated to be, then implied through lack of mention, white, and thin? These questions ignore the many that are actively identified as those things. (I will pause here to note that Dog of War - notable as the most popular piece of work in the setting - features a protagonist who is both brown and fat, and I’m extremely happy to see it).

Collectively, as writers, we have seen a future where everyone is accepted and have created a world where the depictions of acceptance come with conformity to modern misogyny. We create a world without boundaries, where a person can be digitalised or made into a dog, and our characters are still aping their ancestors of five centuries prior in seeking validation of self. We are, I would argue (and borrowing heavily from Butler), ‘uncritically mimicking the strategy of the oppressor instead of offering a different set of terms.’

This is not, I would like to be clear, an attack on any particular story. You may recognise elements of several stories in this essay, and perhaps there are particular things I am drawing on, however, this essay does not charge the product of the writer's work with anything. That body of text can exist and be critiqued, but does not exist as a thoughtful, philosophical actor. Rather, I would charge us writers, all of us, with being more thoughtful as we engage with what femininity means to us and what is and is not feminine in a world where anything is possible.

Finally, a quote from Gender Outlaw that I direct at myself as much as anyone else:

“Let's stop pretending that we have all the answers, because when it comes to gender, none of us is fucking omniscient.”

― Kate Bornstein, Gender Outlaws: The Next Generation

#hdg #human domestication guide

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ctimenefic · 7 months ago

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Became obsessed by the idea of Alex getting his grubby mitts on George's nudes, had a breakdown, bon appetit.

positive negatives Rated Explicit Fandom F1 RPF Pairing Alexander Albon/George Russell 4,963 words

Summary: George doesn’t regret that shoot, exactly.

He had for a long time. After the first high of seeing the rushes wore off; after overhearing a murmured warning in general casting, days too late; after he woke up at three am to reread the release he’d blithely signed without thinking, and spent the next four hours staring at the ceiling hoping to wake up. He’d regretted it then.

For years after, the memory of it could hit like an ice cube sliding down his spine. Always, of course, at the most inconvenient moments. When he was working, or networking, when he needed his wits about him, couldn’t afford to stutter over his words. They’d put him in white silk, or offer him wine, or he’d walk into a room with slow, warm jazz playing, and the whole excruciating mess of it all would come back. He’d learnt how to smile through it, then how not to blink at all. (rest of the first chunk below the cut)

And when the pictures had finally leaked – first onto some old-school subscription gay porn site, then everywhere else a day later – he’d put his lessons to work. Keep smiling. Don’t blink.

It had been a surprise to look back, a month later, when the worst was over and his clients and his billboards and his agent were all still there, with an extra 400,000 followers on Instagram to boot, and think Was that it?

When he looks at the photographs now, it’s like that first time again, young and bloody-minded and startled to see he had a flesh-and-bone body under all those choking layers of denial. He looks good. He looks good at looking good, at ease with himself in a way that George-at-twenty-five knows he took years to relearn. And maybe the desire of the camera reads as lecherous now he can see the places where his youth shaved the fat from his hips, but George still remembers being that boy. He deserved, he thinks, to be wanted.

Still, he doesn’t mean to tell Alex about them. Alex doesn’t really get modelling, or the difference between George’s shoot for Calvin Klein, plastered up and down the Tube, and the accidental softcore porn he shot at 19. It’s been a long time since their karting days, and George’s career has taken quite a while to bring him back into the orbit of rich men driving even more expensive cars for a living.

Also Alex is his boss, technically. Or his client. Alex is going to put him in some very stupid clothes with far too many pandas and cats and horses on them, and George is going to sell the fuck out of them. (It won’t be a set to add to his portfolio, but it’s the least he can do for an old friend whose smile is just as bright and broad as it was ten years ago.) George doesn’t have a normal job, but he knows it’s probably a tad unprofessional to bring up why “...gay” “...2018 shoot” and “...dick” never leave the top ten Google autocompletes for his name.

But then he gets to the private members’ club in London where Alex is going to show him the final designs (and George is going to nod and smile like he’s never worn Versace) and Alex, already there waiting for him, looks tired. Worse than that – haggard.

“We can’t all be fucking supermodels, Georgie,” Alex retorts. It’s mild enough that George files away deliberately mixing up super-licence points and the other, better kind for a different, pettier occasion. Still, he slides his (prescriptionless, fashionable) glasses down his nose for a brief disappointed look.

George still follows F1 – he has the app, keeps Alex in his fantasy team but puts the double boost on Verstappen every race with just a twinge of guilt – so he knows the run to summer break hasn’t been kind. No position higher than 15th. No points.

He’s not seen Alex actually down about it before. He’s certainly never heard Alex talk about Red Bull, and the fiasco that happened there long before George met Lewis Hamilton at LFW and found himself waltzing back into a racing paddock. It presses at something tender in the depths of him, behind layers of poise and millimetre-perfect physical control.

The iPad propped against the bar has gone dark, fashion long forgotten. George would sit through a hundred abominable fish-print shirts if Alex would laugh again.

“Sometimes I feel like I fucked it right at the start, you know, and I’ll never get past it,” Alex tells his pint glass. He’d told George he was only allowed one, then looked pissed off and affectionate when George had held him to it. Like George didn’t understand a strict diet. “Do you ever- Nah. Course not.”

He can’t stand that, the way Alex’s eyes glide up and down him, a smooth surface. And that tender part wants to crack him open from the inside, press itself against Alex’s bruised under-eyes.

So George tells him about the shoot. The stifling heat of the studio. How the sheets had stiff spots that snagged against the hairs on his arms, and he hadn’t realised until later how they’d got that way. He’d been so thirsty, and so trusting that the water was shut off. The wine had been cheap and nasty and he’d not had the experience to know the difference.

He hadn’t known he’d made a mistake until the photographer had messaged days later, said he wanted a follow up of George freshly fucked out and offered to do the honours.

He tells it like it’s funny. It helps, he’s found, if he can make the jokes first. Alex laughs in the right places but nervously, like he’s not sure it’s allowed.

“-So, yeah, I understand, a bit. In the end it’s probably got me more jobs than it’s lost me, but if you want a bright side, no one’s put your Red Bull season on a porn site. Well, none of the mainstream ones at least.”

“I try not to think about what the admins won’t tell me,” Alex responds darkly, but his eyes cut back to George’s face with a hint of guilt behind them. “Jesus, Georgie. I didn’t know it was like that.” He hesitates. “Should I stop making the jokes about your shirts falling off?”

George laughs properly at that, loud enough people at the nearby tables turn their heads. He feels their glances lingering. It’s a sixth sense by now. “Nah, it’s become a crucial part of the brand. But show me the horse one again?”

This time, Alex smiles as he explains exactly why the ‘Horsey’ line is actually covered in cats.

The collection is fundamentally ugly. There’s no getting round that. But at the shoot itself, the snapper Alex has hired, a teasing chap with an accent that meanders between Dundee and Penzance, doesn’t mind when George pulls faces at each change. The clothes feel good at least – well-constructed, made by a women’s collective in Thailand that George’s agent had checked aligned with his ethics clause.

Alex isn’t there, off at a training camp. It doesn’t affect how George does his job – he’s a consummate professional – but, well. He’d been prepared to show off a little. He could’ve got away with fewer crunches that morning.

Still, he persuades the photographer to take at least one shot for each shirt with a very technical definition of ‘wearing.’ Inside joke, he promises.

It’s about a week later when he gets the email from Alex. Subject line: AA23 Pet Collection Edit. No body text. Attachment: GR_Photos.zip.

When he opens it up, he doesn’t blink. Just smiles.

Read the rest on AO3 or, like, bully me to post it here.

#my fic #galex #f1 rpf fic #model au #a truly insane place my brain went once and then insisted on going back to again and again and again

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conkreetmonkey · 3 months ago

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Shrek/Undertale

Deconstruction of a popular fantasy subgenre that uses archetypical "monsters" common to the genre as "the other," showing their point of view in a setup where they're experiencing unfair discrimination/dehumanization at the hands of those who typically serve as the heroes in the subgenre being deconstructed, swapping the roles of pro/antagonist and yet still following a traditional plotline for the genre in what feels like a loving, sincere exploration of the structure, with many nods to notable/important texts belonging to the subgenre.

A massive smash-hit cultural phenomenon that would influence the majority of works made in its medium for years afterwards. "Generation defining" in a way, and considered a nostalgic part of the western youth culture of its decade.

Iconic soundtracks that have been endlessly remixed, however with one song in particular being vastly more popular and well-known than the rest.

A fat, bald, wisecracking man who is a supernatural/mythological creature and has an iconic outfit who has become a huge meme, recognizeable even by those who have never interacted with the source material and strongly affiliated with the aforementioned most popular song on the soundtrack

The protagonist, to achieve their goal, must rescue a green-wearing princept from a terrible fate that has befallen them due to a curse. The curse remains, yet the conditions the royal finds themselves in change for the better, and they find true companionship in the protagonist.

Protagonist non-lethally defeats an enemy that would typically be killed in the genre, and is later rewarded by the enemy, now their ally, returning to aid them in the climactic final battle against the antagonist.

The protagonist must go on a long physical journey across a kingdom, travelling through a magical swamp, a garden of yellow flowers, a hellscape of lava and brimstone, an abandoned and crumbling stone castle, and, at the very end, the kingdom's current royal palace, which is inhabited by a king who is upset about not having a queen and attempts to kill the protaginist due to heavily related circumstances.

Protagonist obtains armour from the remains of those who died trying to accomplish their goal.

An entire "race" of fantasy creatures is imprisoned in an inhospitable environment by humanity, and are freed by the protagonist as a secondary effect of them achieving their unrelated ultimate goal.

These fantasy creatures include talking/anthropomorphic animals, humanoid mythological beings, and "spooky" supernatural creatures, all of which are typical to the subgenre the work is deconstructing.

More focused on narrative and characters than worldbuilding, but has a sequel that focuses more heavily on exploring the mechanics of the fantasy world the story takes place in. This sequel, however, takes place in an alternate "timeline" with different rules, yet still manages to shed light on elements of the "original" world of the first work in the franchise.

idk what conclusions could be drawn from this. You tell me.

#shrek #undertale #utdr #ut/dr #deltarune #shrek franchise #fantasy

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artificial-transmutations · 1 year ago

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Transformation Letter: Aster

Hello I'm Aster I'm a 26 year old Omega male that's 5'9 and on the heavier side, but I want to do something special for my boyfriend Moris who's a 21 year old Alpha male that's 6'1 and pretty skinny. I want to surprise Moris hoping you can help us get more into our roles as a 5'4 slender Omega and a 6'7 Alpha Daddy. Hope you can help me with this surprise. Oh and for physical description Aster is 5'9 large male with black medium length hair in half ponytail and Moris is 6'1 skinny male with long black hair pulled back into ponytail.

How sweet! You want to deepen your relationship with your sweatheart! Let's see how that goes.

What a pleasant surprise would that be if it really works! Sure, your boyfriend Moris has all the right mindset for being an Alpha, and while the two of you try to act out this fantasy in the bedroom a lot, his skinny build doesn't really fit his behavior.

So, without him knowing, you have sent that letter and hope that whoever is behind this Transformation Letter initiative can improve that aspect of your relationship.

It is your anniversary, some weeks later and you have come to the conclusion that, probably, the whole thing has been a scam. However, as you are preparing dinner for Moris, you suddenly feel a strange sense of vertigo. Looking down on the stove you notice that it seems to be somewhat farther away than before.

What is going on?! Is everything getting smaller or...? No! You are getting taller! But this is wrong! If anything, you wanted to get smaller, as it is fitting for your Omega role.

Still, the growth persists. You are slowly getting taller, centimeter by centimeter. As you look down on yourself, your clothes reveal that this is not the only change by far. Your clean and youthful skin matures before your very eyes, with more and more small black hairs breaking through.

Your somewhat heavy belly, however, seems to shrink away. No, that's not right. It doesn't *shrink* so much as it *redistributes* itself. Some of the fat is becoming muscle, while other layers stay fat but slowly flow from the singular point of your unfit belly all over your body.

You roll your shoulders. Your shirt is quickly getting uncomfortable. Not only is it not long enough to cover your upper body anymore, but it is also not wide enough to have room for your expanding shoulders and chest. With some difficulties, you discard the clothes, only to be amazed by what you find underneath: You are gaining a toned and well-built six-pack and pecs, both covered by a padding of fat and a layer of hair!

It is hard to tell, but you feel like your legs are changing as well. The skin has taken on a slightly darker shade, and your thighs and calves become more muscular.

Meanwhile, a nice coating of black body hair has spread all over your chest, shoulders, and arms. As you feel your face, it has also changed considerably. You are growing a thick, bushy beard that feels surprisingly soft to the touch.

With the changes to your face, it seems like the last thing that is happening to your head is a change in perspective. Why should Moris have all the fun being the Alpha Daddy? You feel new urges erupting in your mind that are hard to suppress: Your libido goes through the roof, and with it, a dominant side in you that you never knew awakes, like a wild animal, unable to be put back to sleep again.

The transformation continues, and suddenly, the front of your jeans explodes, as your cock and balls grow into an impressive piece of manhood. Your underwear doesn't even survive the process and disintegrates, leaving you naked and exposed in your new body.

You quickly get out of your jeans, mainly because it is getting really painful and marvel at the sight of your new cock and balls: It is a big, veiny, and uncut monster that hangs heavily between your legs, and your balls are two round, heavy orbs that are covered in the same dark and coarse hair as the rest of your body.

Finally, you seem to have reached a size that feels appropriate to you and a harness forms over your massive chest, and you begin to realize that the transformation is finished. Your fat cock is half-hard (as it will be more or less constantly from now on) and is dripping with precum. You can't wait for Moris to come home. Even though it isn't what you had in mind, you can hardly wait to dominate his twink ass that he surely has by now.

As if on cue, the apartment door opens. However, instead of Moris as you knew him or Moris as you expected him to be (a small and slender Omega, which is what you originally wanted to become yourself), you see an equally built giant of a man.

The two of you look at each other for a moment. It is not only that this man Moris has become is as big as you. He is also just as hairy, just as mature, and just as muscular. His hair color is just as black dotted with silver as yours. In fact, Moris is now a splitting mirror image of yourself. BOTH of you have become a huge hairy muscle daddy, with the dominant mind to go along with!

The moment is broken and the two of you begin to make out heavily, your fat cocks rubbing together in anticipation. It looks like you are going to need to find some Omega bitch boy to play with!

#TransformationLetter #male transformation #muscle transformation

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doc42 · 14 days ago

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King Dany

Ever since A Dance With Dragons was new the fandom has been whining about Daenerys' struggle to rule in Meereen and how it proves GRRM must've been trying to show Daenerys is unfit to rule through depicting those struggles. Yet it is playing on the motifs from the most ancient origin of fantasy and GRRM's pre-Tolkien Boyshit sword and sorcery influence, Conan the Barbarian and his very first story about how he became Conan the King. It is a fundamental part of the Conan mythology and chronology that, after ages of wandering, Conan becomes king in the west and, after making his kingdom prosperous, goes back to wandering the world once more.

"Prospero," said the man at the table, "these matters of statecraft weary me as all the fighting I have done never did." "All part of the game, Conan," answered the dark-eyed Poitainian. "You are king—you must play the part." "I wish I might ride with you to Nemedia," said Conan enviously. "It seems ages since I had a horse between my knees—but Publius says that affairs in the city require my presence. Curse him! "When I overthrew the old dynasty," he continued, speaking with the easy familiarity which existed only between the Poitainian and himself, "it was easy enough, though it seemed bitter hard at the time. Looking back now over the wild path I followed, all those days of toil, intrigue, slaughter and tribulation seem like a dream. "I did not dream far enough, Prospero. When King Numedides lay dead at my feet and I tore the crown from his gory head and set it on my own, I had reached the ultimate border of my dreams. I had prepared myself to take the crown, not to hold it. In the old free days all I wanted was a sharp sword and a straight path to my enemies. Now no paths are straight and my sword is useless. "When I overthrew Numedides, then I was the Liberator—now they spit at my shadow. They have put a statue of that swine in the temple of Mitra, and people go and wail before it, hailing it as the holy effigy of a saintly monarch who was done to death by a red-handed barbarian. When I led her armies to victory as a mercenary, Aquilonia overlooked the fact that I was a foreigner, but now she can not forgive me. "Now in Mitra's temple there come to burn incense to Numedides' memory, men whom his hangmen maimed and blinded, men whose sons died in his dungeons, whose wives and daughters were dragged into his seraglio. The fickle fools!" "Rinaldo is largely responsible," answered Prospero, drawing up his sword-belt another notch. "He sings songs that make men mad. Hang him in his jester's garb to the highest tower in the city. Let him make rimes for the vultures." Conan shook his lion head. "No, Prospero, he's beyond my reach. A great poet is greater than any king. His songs are mightier than my scepter; for he has near ripped the heart from my breast when he chose to sing for me. I shall die and be forgotten, but Rinaldo's songs will live for ever. "No, Prospero," the king continued, a somber look of doubt shadowing his eyes, "there is something hidden, some undercurrent of which we are not aware. I sense it as in my youth I sensed the tiger hidden in the tall grass. There is a nameless unrest throughout the kingdom. I am like a hunter who crouches by his small fire amid the forest, and hears stealthy feet padding in the darkness, and almost sees the glimmer of burning eyes. If I could but come to grips with something tangible, that I could cleave with my sword! I tell you, it's not by chance that the Picts have of late so fiercely assailed the frontiers, so that the Bossonians have called for aid to beat them back. I should have ridden with the troops."

"And Dion thinks that crown will be given to him?" "Yes. The fat fool claims it by reason of a trace of royal blood. Conan makes a bad mistake in letting men live who still boast descent from the old dynasty, from which he tore the crown of Aquilonia. "Volmana wishes to be reinstated in royal favor as he was under the old regime, so that he may lift his poverty-ridden estates to their former grandeur. Gromel hates Pallantides, commander of the Black Dragons, and desires the command of the whole army, with all the stubbornness of the Bossonian. Alone of us all, Rinaldo has no personal ambition. He sees in Conan a red-handed, rough-footed barbarian who came out of the north to plunder a civilized land. He idealizes the king whom Conan killed to get the crown, remembering only that he occasionally patronized the arts, and forgetting the evils of his reign, and he is making the people forget. Already they openly sing The Lament for the King in which Rinaldo lauds the sainted villain and denounces Conan as 'that black-hearted savage from the abyss'. Conan laughs, but the people snarl."

#Daenerys Targaryen #Conan the Barbarian #A Song of Ice and Fire #ASoIaF #GRRM

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pecanwriter · 11 months ago

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Not Big Enough (WG story)

Themes: fantasy-setting, body worship, fat-centric society

Words: 3053

Part: 1/1

Dainon was freezing to death. He managed to survive another night, huddled behind a smithy, where the furnace's heat radiated through walls, making even the nasty winter in Grothol survivable. His exhaustion was bone-deep. Soul-deep, even. So when he managed to sneak up behind the smithy without anyone noticing, he let himself fall into a deep sleep like a fool. Had he gotten up early, before the smiths started their day, he could squeeze in another few nights in this new hiding spot. But he didn’t get up, he didn’t even try, huddled up next to the warm wall and feeling like a baby in his mother’s womb, he slept on soundly until the very moment strong, calloused hands grabbed him by the rags he called clothes and kicked him out into the main street, where mud was ice.

He fell into a puddle, the water so unbelievably cold at first he thought it was boiling. Dainon scrambled back to his feet, already shivering. A gust of wind swept through the street, penetrating his rags completely. His trousers were more holes than they were trousers and the patchy shirt was missing one sleeve. Despite his meagre stature, the coat he was wearing was way too small for him, he suspected it might have been made for a youth. Stretching the too-small garment over himself was better than nothing in the dreadful cold, but he could feel the seams coming apart more and more every day, wind and chilled air seeping in and assaulting his malnourished body.

Dainon was the youngest son of a relatively wealthy merchant from a port town in the south of Grothol. His father was a strict and unyielding man. To his customers, to his workers, and to his children. Dainon’s sister left the house young, got married and had children of her own. His brother joined the army and that was the last time anyone saw him. And so his father’s ambitions about keeping the business in the family came full force down on Dainon. It wasn’t that he necessarily hated commerce, he would just much rather do anything else. When he suggested to his father that maybe he could get an apprenticeship as a kitchen boy to become a cook for a wealthy lord, his father beat the idea of out his head so forcefully that Dainon never dared to voice his opinions again.

When Dainon turned eighteen, his father decided he was ready to prove himself. He gave Dainon a horse and a cart of goods and sent him on his way to the Gothol’s lavish capital city. “Bring back three times the value of the goods, or don’t come back at all,” his father told him, and Dainon knew without a shadow of a doubt he meant it.

He made it to the capital, he even managed to make a few transactions that would make his father’s scorn soften. But then, just as he was warming up to his role, Dainon was robbed. They took everything; the goods, the card, the horse, even his shoes.

There was nothing left for him to sell to gain passage back home, but even if he did, he couldn’t go back. Through spring, summer and autumn he managed to scrape by somehow. There was a lot of commerce everywhere and labour workers who would slave away all day for a piece of bread and a tanker of piss-poor beer were always needed.

But then came the winter.

Dainon, dragging his feet, so cold he could barely walk, stumbled into one of the smaller streets where shameful business was conducted. There was a high chance one would get robbed, but he had nothing to be robbed of, and at least they wouldn’t shoo him away like the smiths. Unable to walk any further, so sick and cold he didn’t even know where the icy mud ended and he began, Dainon squeezed himself between two barrels and the side of a gambling house and waited. For death or for an opportunity to rob some drunk fool. Whichever came first.

Doors opened on the opposite side of the street and a group of people stumbled out in a cloud of perfume, smoke and ruckus laughter.

Dainon’s exhausted, nearly delirious brain made it seem as if the warm light pouring out of the door was pure gold. He stared at the people coming out.

It was a whore house and a good one from what he heard. The people that emerged appeared to be two whores sending their client on his way. The whores were barely wearing any clothes, seemingly unbothered by the cold. As if enchanted, Dainon stared at the whores. He stared at their plump bodies, round, blushy faces, their smiles and thick, lustrous hair. One was a woman, and one was a man, but he had tits almost as big as she did, resting on top of a big, fleshy belly swaying in front of him proudly. Their thighs jiggled and rubbed against each other as they walked, pushing the drunk client along the street to the stables where his horse presumably waited.

Dainon’s stomach was so empty he didn’t even remember how food tasted or how it was not to be hungry all the time. Even when he was asleep, he was still completely aware of the fact he was starving. The whores were coming back and Dainon looked at their enormous backsides jiggling, at their side rolls, at their arms so plump and soft their elbows were only dimples. He couldn’t imagine how amazingly rich and filling their meals had to be for them to be so big. Another wave of nauseating hunger and paralyzing cold rattled him so hard he had to close his eyes. When he opened them again the golden light of the brothel was no longer spilling into the street and the whores were gone. Dainon wept, his tears scorching hot on his freezing face.

The door opened again and the beautiful light spilt out. Another boy was escorting his client to the exit. He was even bigger than the first two; his tits spilling to the sides of his enormous belly and his thighs so thick and fleshy he waddled as he took the few steps to see the client out.

Dainon stared as the whore waddled back inside and he knew that if he couldn’t see that beautiful overfed body again he would simply die.

This really was a good brothel, he realised. To have so many well-fed whores? In Gothol fatness was the sign of good fortune and prosperity. The King was expected to go to war, so he was usually lean or muscular, but it was traditional for the King’s consort, be it a woman or a man, to be as fat as possible. The fatter the consort, the more prosperous Gorthol was. Two hundred years ago, there was a plague that nearly threatened to undo the whole country. At that time, the King’s consort was so thin he didn’t even have a belly. Nearly all portraits of him have been destroyed for fear of casting bad fortune over the land again. The upper classes followed this trend diligently, every Lord and Lady stuffed themselves to grow bigger and fatter than their rivals in court. Amongst the lower classes and peasants, it was very uncommon to see someone appropriately fleshy; they couldn’t afford it. The only truly fat, well-fed peasants were whores. The customers spent nearly as much on the services as they spent on the food they bought to keep their whore nice and plump. With a fat, well-fed whore every simple man could feel like a King for a day.

Driven by a desperate need to survive and with the memory of that golden light filling his heart, Dainon stumbled to the brothel doors.

A young, slim whore opened the door. His hair was long and orange like the sunset, he cocked a perfectly plucked eyebrow.

“Go away!” He barked “There’s nothing here for the kinds of you!”

“No, please!” Dainon rasped, his voice scratchy “I want to work. Please, I will do anything. Please.”

“Go away…” The man started saying again, but a hand with multiple golden rings on each finger ceased his arm and pulled him inside.

“Move away, Robin, don’t you have something to do?” A woman who was past being middle-aged, but diligently tried to keep up the appearance stood in the door. The rest of her was as richly adorned as her fingers, gold was hanging off her every body part and she seemed to float in a cloud of pipe smoke and perfume. She looked at Dainon with a shrewd, keen eye of a Madam.

“I want to work, please.” He repeated.

She looked him over, grabbed his chin, looked at his face from every angle, and then grabbed his arm, examining his skin, its deep umber colour stood out even more against her pinkish fingers.

“We have enough skinny boys.” She said with finality.

“I don’t have to be one of the skinny boys!” He blurted out, almost desperately. His merchant senses smelled an opportunity and he grabbed it immediately “You don’t have to pay me! I will work just for food until I’m big enough for you to start making good money on me.”

She gave him a steady look and Dainon forced himself to not break the eye contact. Her poker face was good, but he could see the change taking place deep inside her mind. The ring-clad hand wrapped around his arm and he was dragged inside, into the golden light.

“Robin, Cuckoo, wash him and help him get ready to work.” She pushed him towards a pair of whores, the red-haired one from before and another skinny one with ashen blonde hair and pale eyes. “From now on,” She said, giving him one last measuring look “Your name is Starling.”

And Starling let the young whores lead him deep inside the golden light and warmth of the warehouse. The smell and heat filled him so completely that he felt born anew.

General Forthros jumped off his horse and let out a juicy curse as his boot landed perfectly in a pool of mud.

“Hello, good sir, may I welcome you…” He tossed the reigns to the stable master along with a purse of silver coins. He was in no mood for talk. It’s been way too long and he was prickly with need. It crawled under his skin like slow-acting poison.

This brothel was way outside of the upper district, but Forthros heard stories. He heard they had whores here like nobody dreamed of; so soft and overfed, with their enormous rumps jiggling, their soft tits resting on top of round bellies, their faces with double chins and round rosy cheeks…

Just thinking about it made his cock stir, but he had to keep himself in check. The last brothel he heard similar stories about turned out to be ludicrously expensive and the young man they gave him didn’t even waddle.

None of them were big enough. Just not big enough.

He dreamed of flesh so soft and filled with fat he could sleep on it as on a pillow after he’d fucked its owner into a whimpering, needy mess. He wanted a whore who would laugh at the feast he brought with him and demanded more food. He needed a whore so fat two others would have to be called to help him stand up.

Forthros walked across the muddy street and opened the door, stepping out of the grey, dirty world and into a land of gold, potency and sweet smells.

“Welcome!” A woman appeared as if out of nowhere, her hands and wrist so completely covered by gold jewellery that her skin was visible only from elbows up. “We haven’t seen you before in my fantastic establishment, Lord.” She said, not able to keep the glint of greed out of her eyes as she eyed his expensive clothes and the massive basket filled to the brim with lavish, expensive foods only made in the upper city. “How can I serve you? I have everything you could wish for, every girl and every boy the absolute best quality!”

He gave her an unimpressed look. She rubbed her hands, visibly slightly worried, but not dropping her selling pitch. She pressed on:

“Will it be a girl or a boy you’d be wanting, my Lord?”

“I want a boy. The biggest one you have.” He said. “Money is no object.”

Her eyes were ablaze with opportunity.

“Of course, my Lord!” She bowed deeply. “Boy, fetch Swan.” She ordered the scrawny servant. He took off down the corridor.

Swan was appropriately named; he was tall and pale, with a long neck and rosy lips. He had a soft chest and a flabby belly, he was smiling coquettishly. Forthros stopped him with a hand.

“Not big enough.” He said.

The Madam shooed Swan away and he retreated with a pout.

“Bring me Blue Jay, boy!” She ordered the servant.

Blue Jay was likewise appropriately named; he had some Djinn blood in him which was evident by his bright blue skin and navy blue hair woven into two thick braids. He sauntered over, shaking his big, round gut and plushy thighs. Forthros was intrigued but he was just…

“Not big enough.” He repeated and the Madam tsked but shooed the Djinn’s bastard away.

“Bring Sparrow, be quick about it!” She snapped and the servant ran.

Sparrow was brown-skinned and brown-eyed. His tits were big and soft, falling on top of a prominent, soft belly that swayed in front of him as he walked. His legs were thick and swollen, and Forthros' dick hardened as he saw him waddle up. This one was beautiful, but…

“Not. Big. Enough.” He said, looking the Madam right in the eyes.

A sly, appreciative smile spread across her face. She slapped Sparrow’s jiggly ass, sending him away.

“I see you are a connoisseur.” She said, bowing in acknowledgement. “Follow me.”

He followed. They passed an open room full of whores killing time, waiting for clients. He spotted Sparrow sprawled on a mountain of pillows, idly popping sugar-coated grapes into his mouth. Forthros’ cock stirred again. If the Madam’s most priced possession didn’t prove to be satisfactory, he’d come back for Sparrow.

The madam stopped in front of a door and opened it with a flourish.

“This,” she said theatrically “is Starling. But he’s not cheap.”

Forthros had to rest a hand against the door to keep himself upright, almost dropping the feast in the basket to the floor. He put it down with reverence at his feet and fished a purse out from his inside pocket, tossing it blindly at the Madam, still unable to look away from the sight before him. There was more coin in the purse that she probably made off all her whores in a day and they both knew it.

“Enjoy, Lord.” She bowed deeply and closed the door behind herself.

The man on the bed, Starling, was a vision out of a dream. No, he was more beautiful than any dream Forthros ever had.

He had dark umber skin that seemed covered with scented oils and perfumes that floated around the room. His dark hair was curled and adorned with gold, and two enormous emeralds hung on his ears. He was so big his hips spanned almost the entire width of the bed. Forthros took in the beautiful flesh, overstuffed to the brim with fat and folding on itself in fascinating, enchanting ways. Starling’s legs were shapeless as if formed of hefty sacks of jiggly fat folding in on themselves with the swollen feet at the end that Forthros doubted touched the floor often. The beautiful legs were spread wide to accommodate the gargantuan mass of Starling’s belly, that pooled in front of him like a see of soft flesh. Forthros couldn’t see a belly button but he guessed it was buried deep underneath fat where the upper and lower fat fold of Starling’s belly met. His breasts were blubbery and saggy, pushed to the sides by the improbable accumulation of soft flesh on Starling’s midriff. The nipples were dark and stretched and Forthros could feel his entire body tingling. Starling’s robust arms rested at almost acute angles to his body, unable to land any lower for the numerous chunky fat folds pushing outwards at his sides. His shoulders and chest were so thoroughly encased in fat he almost had no neck. His face was round, with incredible, fleshy cheeks and multiple chins.

This was, without a doubt, the most beautiful man Forthros had ever seen, but what struck him most, was the man’s face. He was beautiful, of course, with a slightly hunched nose and wide-set dark eyes. But that wasn’t what it was, still. The striking thing was the expression on that angelic face. His plump lips were stretched into a smirk that seemed to hold all the secrets of the world in it and the dark eyes that stared at Forthros from underneath dark, heavy lashes were sharp like a fox’s. Quick wits and shrewdness were immediately apparent in that gaze. That, and immense satisfaction. Just his face alone seemed to be saying “I am everything you ever wanted and I know it.”

The biggest whore he had before this, many years ago, was somewhere between Sparrow’s and Starling’s size, he was beautiful but the food had dulled his mind. His eyes were always glazed over, sleepy, almost unresponsive; he saw this happen to some people when the food was too much for their bodies to handle and they seemed almost dim-witted. Although that man was beautiful, Forthros couldn’t bring himself to fuck him, he didn’t want to fuck someone who barely knew what was happening.

But Starling… Starling was perfect.

Forthros swallowed, his throat suddenly dry, his cock almost painfully hard.

“I’ve brought you a feast, beautiful.” He said, hauling the enormous basket overflowing with the greatest delicacies Grothol had to offer to the bed. “I hope such a feast is to your liking?”

Starling looked at the basket and then, looking straight into Forthros’ eyes with an almost devilish grin he said:

“Not big enough.”

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wishmaster · 1 year ago

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From Jock to Not

The young jock was beautiful, young and well built that was until the kids he used tom bully got a hold of him. They ganged up and kidnapped him. the tied him up and exacted their revenge.

First they stole his youth, which given his DNA added weight to him as he got older, though he managed to keep the rather large dick he had. But that was not enough, as they live streamed his changes the humiliation seemed to get him hard. You like that you fat fuck? one of the boys said, one that had gained his muscled body.

They decided to make him grow even larger, his once mighty cock shrink with every inch his body became fatter. You like that do you lard ass? the next transformation made his hair grow rapid.

Any clothes he'd try and wear from now on would never be able to cover the massive gut he now had. The once mighty jock, king of the high school was now easily in his late thirties.

The former stud watched as those he had once mocked returned the insults live on the internet strutting in their new, hotter bodies. While he was stuck old and fat now unable to even find his now tiny cock to get off on, neither of the boys realizing this was a sexual fantasy he had dreamed of forever. They had in fact created a monster who dedicated his life to worshipping the new studs his body helped create.

#male transformation #body transformation #revenge transformation #humiliated slave

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2-dsimp · 2 years ago

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Hi NightFlurry again!!

Thank you so much for loving my ideas. I'm an avid reader of your blog and love making my own stories; I always check if you have anything interesting to read or any cool art.

While I was reading your genshin yandere otome game, my brain started churning, and I thought to myself, 'If there's a yandere school au, why can't there be a yandere fantasy au as well' I'm so glad you love my work, I was afraid that it wasn't good enough...ToT Anyways, I'm trying to brainstorm some backgrounds for other characters, so far I'm working on Kazuha, Wanderer, Ei, Dainself, Diluc, Kaeya, and Zongli, but feel free to ask/request for any particular character!!

Also, I love it when people comment back on my work. It makes me feel so happy when I read each comment even if it's as lengthy as 4 paragraphs! So please feel free to comment! P.S. I'd also love to hear your opinions 2-dsimp!!

Bye NightFlurry!!

And thank you for blessing me with such good food o(≧v≦)o

I just came back from a jog so my mind is racing with ideas to share and add onto to the fantasy au from my pov! Firstly I’ll just list off the few possible candidates I can see vying for the readers hand in holy or unholy matrimony depending on what ending you get!

Itto the Terrible (He’s a dragon Oni )/Childe the Abyssal knight. but I’ll probably introduce them sometime later so for now I’ll officially announce…

Tyrant Prince! Scaramouche

He’s shunned by the royals and commoners alike. The royals find him to be unfit for succession of the queens throne simply because he was adopted by the shogun and to add insult to injury he had commoners blood running through his veins or so they thought.

As for the reason why the commoners held Tyrant prince! Scaramouche in such low regards was because of his crass and cold behavior towards them. Just imagine the look of fear, embarrassment, and shock the commoners had when he looked at them like they were mere ants, an insignificant existence that wasn’t befitting of his presence nor his attention. And treated them as such.

Although To be fair, Tyrant prince!Scaramouche wasn’t always that way. In his younger days of youth he used to be sociable and warm towards his subjects. But an incident which brought his downfall into the dark abyss of turmoil. That was done by the hands of one who he thought of as a true friend. Caused his heart to grow cruel and cold towards commoners and nobles as a whole.

To make matters worse his relationship with his mother was already strained to the point where only bitterness remained lingering on his tongue whenever he spoke of her.

Not only that he wasn’t the only one the shogun adopted being the meticulous woman she is she rounded up potential orphans that would carry on her legacy. The succession battle was nothing less then pretty since everyone who was an orphan knew the terrible conditions of those who lacked power. And so every son and daughter had the intention to kill anyone getting in there way.

With those factors Tyrant prince! Scaramouche made a promise to himself to never let anyone in as he was all he had left to salvage what remains of himself. Until he met you someone who reminded him so much of himself and yet the only difference was you were strong enough to try and free yourself from what chained you down. Instead of wallowing in self pity, hatred, and helplessness.

However, with your help he knows that the both of you could take over his kingdom via rebellion and claim revenge on the ones who wronged you both. While You deal with your shameless parents who’ve tried to sell you off into marriage with a fat old rich king from afar. Just for a quick buck to prevent the decline in their poor province.

He will execute any and all loose ends so he can truly be set free as his own person. With Tyrant prince! Scaramouche by your side it’s a guarantee that the two of you will govern his country with nobody to stand in the way of y’all’s powerful reign. All you have to do is accept that your his precious tyrant queen if not well he has his ways of convincing you otherwise. As he’s not the type to keep his hands clean…

“Isn’t the scenery beautiful my queen look at what we accomplished, now that we’re in power no one will be able to defy us nor deny us of our existence. Together we’re unstoppable— My dear why’re are you shedding your precious tears? Aren’t you happy that your family is dead, you wanted them alive you say? Haha you’re joking right? Well I suppose you’re not, I offer my utmost condolences my love but they were the ones who almost prevented us from being together. For that I couldn’t just exile them…No, for such a grave sin it ‘twas only natural that death was the only option available for them to truly repent for what they’ve done.

————/———————/———-

I might post doodles of him sometime later XD

#scaramouche x you #scaramouche imagines #yandere scaramouche #scaramouche x reader #scaramouche x y/n #genshin childe #ataraki itto #scaramouche scenarios #scaramouche x player #otome! yandere genshin impact #otome! yandere genshin #yandere fantasy addition #tyrant prince scaramouche #scaramouche drabble #genshin drabbles #yandere genshin imagines #yandere genshin x reader #yandere genshin x you #yandere genshin impact

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deada55 · 3 months ago

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Kloktober 2024 day 11: inspired by your culture

Getting gay with God. Yeehaw.

”I want us to go around this circle and say something we’re thanking God for today. Crystal, you first!”

A crowd of eleven was mighty big for a youth group at a Presbyterian chapel built for 120. They stood in a circle in the dirt/gravel parking lot as the day winnowed into a tangerine sunset. The shadows got longer. To William’s right was a boy two grades above him in school named Michael. Michael had blue eyes and sun-boldened hair and freckles on his shoulders. All his shirts were worn thin. He’d cut the sleeves off of this one, and it highlighted his biceps perfectly.

They held hands to pray, everyone did. But, when William was beside Michael, he felt dizzy when he closed his eyes. Sometimes, Michael squeezed his hand.

When they played kickball at the edge of the cemetery, William always watched Michael around the makeshift diamond. When he was kicking, it was all he could see. When he was in the outfield, he wished the ball would break. his nose so long as he would be that much closer to something Michael touched. He was perfect. Not scrawny, not bony, with an honest face, nothing cold and perfect. He made sense. Now that was the kind of man he wanted to get behind.

He looked at the fly of Michael’s pants when he wasn’t looking, and stared at his butt when he was in line for communion. As often as he prayed to be the perfect friend to Michael, he prayed for the lust of someone just like him. Exactly like him. Only, that fantasy always spoke a little meaner and had a slanted grin, and the sticky feeling of sweat stuck to the bottom of Michael’s stomach but never made it slick. It was harder to grip like that.

They went frog bogging on a perfectly balmy Saturday night with broken hoes sharpened with a belt sander until they were close kin to pikes. There was a cattle pond that was always joyfully overrun, and the sons were in the youth group, too. And, the young guy that drove the group around was the assistant to that family’s large animal vet. Free fried frog legs.

William had caught the first two frogs. After the second one, Michael smiled and clapped William on his bony arm. “Man, you’re really good at this.” His whole face glowed in the headlights of the youth pastor’s car. Then, Michael stood suspiciously close to William while everyone was bogging close together, close enough where their shoulders brushed a few times as they traversed the tall grasses. That was five more frogs ago. Michael hadn’t caught anything yet.

”Michael! There’s one right by your foot, man!”

Michael was looking off to his left, about six feet from where two other boys were talking.

“Hey, you gonna get that? Michael?” The plopping and the ripples dissipated, and William lowered his spear.

”Michael—

“Fuck, what!?” Michael whipped around, but his hair hadn’t stopped moving when

”Oh, there it goes!” William shoved his stick down into the dirt, in the dead center of that bullfrog and into some waterlogged leather boots. Michael screamed. He came to the Sunday school frog leg fry with a fat bandage around his foot and a tetanus vaccine, and throughout the fall stopped coming to youth group, and so did everyone else until William left, too. The party was over. William was too afraid Michael would be angry to try and speak to him, but now he didn’t have to worry about it. It was over, like it or not.

At night, under his pillow, he squeezed his hands and prayed.

#metalocalypse #william murderface #my writing #metalocalypse fanfic #kloktober2024

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mmmmalo · 10 months ago

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Here's an odd one: if Kanaya living in a oasis implies that the legions of undead stalking the sand dunes are associated with mummies, would it be possible that the desert-dwelling musclebeasts act as a misrepresentation of camels? People do drink camel milk, but I don't think this is about the udders of she-camels, necessarily -- I think camel's humps are being deliberately misinterpreted as boobs, and the fat within them as milk. Perhaps a similar situation to whales, whose blubber is feminized... Here's a line we get from Caliborn, complaining about being unappreciated:

I BUST MY CHERUB HUMP FOR YOU "PEOPLE". // DAY IN. AND DAY OUT. I BRING HOME THE FUCKING BACON.

The alteration of the phrase "bust my back" and move from "hump" to "bacon" invoke a camel's fat deposits. Earlier still:

WE MILK THIS FuCKER AND MAKE ITS TEAT OuR BITCH. IT WILL BE DELICIOuS.

With Caliborn assuming the language of a subjugated party in the first quotation, the second seems to evoke not only nursing, but riding atop the hump, here called a teat. And if the teat is understood as a place to ride, we also have the option to understand the "milk" as cum, making this a sort of gay bestiality scenario. Caliborn's apparent camel fixation is rendered somewhat ironic by his elsewhere calling Dirk a "horseporking twit". Projection, perhaps.

At this juncture I should be clear that this is a slurquest: the appellation "camel fucker" is a slur against various peoples of the Middle East, and I suspect that Equius's horse/musclebeast fixation is a means of rendering the rhetorical bestiality politically neutral, allowing the reader's disgust to resound unmitigated by any suspicion of disingenuous discourse. His milky-horse love isn't racist, just weird, one would think. Another instance of camel eroticization can be found in this titillated reaction to RED CHEEKS MAGAZINE:

Those burgeoning red humps… that mischievous little tail… the snug, welcoming cleft…

In the spirit of Spade's Slick's doggy porn, the heart-shape seems to do double-duty represent the ass and the humps of the camel. Boxcars' bestial inclinations are affirmed by Cans: he first punches Diamonds Droog into a grayscale grocery, in apparent imitation of Droog's grayscale fetish porn. In the wake of this, we can infer that Boxcars being punched into a Spirited Horse calendar is the fulfillment of a sexual fantasy. There is perhaps a double meaning to the horses being "a pain in the ass".

At a glance it's somewhat divorced from other Orientalist discourses, but the divergent usage of hearts (and Boxcars' seemingly unrelated affection for wax lips, which by dint of Slick's scotty dogs we can expect to complement Boxcars' fetish) calls our attention to Nepeta, who uses the twin humps of a heart to represent lips? But the only strong pun I see around her is in Seek the Highblood:

> Examine teapot. // Chameowmile. It smells so good.

The cat-in-a-teapot in Mom's lab hinted that she was drinking Jasper's paradox slime, wishing upon her mellified mummy lamp that she might be restored to youth. Diving into the fountain of youth, getting tipsy on nostalgia, all with an orientalist bent. In such a context, a strong whiff of "chameowmile" (camel) could become a Zoosmells joke? though the other tea-based cat puns offer no such tertiary reading

The language of Boxcar's porn also suggests that the space between the humps, the "cleft", is yet another camel signifier, which provides us a few other options.

"Prong of flesh bereft of home found solace twixt a cleft of foam" is not only about puppet ass eroticism, but about groin at ease between the humps of its camel. This effectively unites Dirk's eroticized interest in puppets and horses under the Orientalist banner of his anime affectations. Rose continuing on to "a painted pair of parted lips" seems to draw attention to the animals floppy mouth in the same manner as Boxcars' wax lips.

Likewise Candy!Gamzee's comment that Roxy is "globes deep in [John's] dank nook", ostensibly as sexualized expression of deep romantic interest, might suggest that Roxy is riding John like a camel. Alongside Roxy calling John "dummy" (as in puppet) and "bb" (as in baby), it fuels my sense that despite John's apprehensions about being the only real person, Roxy viewed herself as the driving force of the relationship

And Vriska saying that talking about Tavros has lodged a "beef grub" in her nook means that a "calf" (a leg instead of a baby cow) is metaphorically seated between her humps -- reinforcing the sense of compulsion lent by the base metaphor "bug in your ear" with the image of a camel driven by its rider

That's about as far as I've gotten. I have a few other suspicions but they don't have enough substance to warrant posting here.

#homestuck commentary #east mapping

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scurvyratt · 1 year ago

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I watched Precious (2009) a couple months ago and was under the impression that it was a comedy due to all the jokes that I've seen about it, I was shocked to find out that it was actually a drama. It disgusts me how a film that is about the continuous rape and abuse of a 16 year old girl was turned into a huge joke simply because the girl in question is fat and black. If Precious were a skinny conventionally attractive white girl the response to the film would be wayyy different. (Mind you, people would still mock the movie because women's suffering will always be funny to the general public, but y'know)

I'm actually not a big movie watcher but I was sooo engrossed in the film and it was all I could think about for days. It totally blew me away and made me emotional which is not very typical of me lol. I re watched it today and loved it even more. Unfortunately I made the mistake of going on to letterboxd to read others reviews... Most were from MEN, WHITE MEN, who kinda misunderstood the movie imo?

Some of the complaints were that "the mom is horrible" like... yes? Another was that the film doesn't go in depth enough into the education system/other systems that caused Precious to end up in her situation. But like,, imo the movie was mainly about Precious' relationship with her mom, her discovering herself, and her journey to a new beginning. If you wanted to watch media about institutional corruption go watch the Wire or something lol.

Many people were confused by the fantasy/day dream sequences as well. I think that not only were those a form of escapism for Precious, but to also show how she's just a teenage girl. Precious has been taking care of both of her parents since she was a child. Her father forced her into the position of wife/partner. He forced her to become a mother twice. Her father then left and her role as her mothers care taker was exacerbated.

Many black girls (children) are called "fast", as in developing sexually "too fast", which is a harmful stereotype that is imposed on them simply for existing/developing/growing up. This is how Precious' mother, and society (she was kicked out of school for being pregnant), view Precious. Precious' mother knows that she was raped (and even rapes her herself), but doesn't care.

Since everyone views Precious as an adult, these day dreams serve as a reminder of the fact that she's just a 16 year old girl who fantasizes about being loved (by her mother, by the world, and a boyfriend). And it day dreaming is a common trope for teen girls which is why this all matters lol.

I think her youth and naivety is also shown when she has an outburst in class and yells at Ms. Rain. She says: "You don't know what it's like to be me! I've never had a boyfriend! My daddy said that he wants to marry me, but how could he do that? That's illegal!". The first thing Precious brings up is that she's never had a boyfriend, although she has a million other worse problems in her life that she could be complaining about. The only problem she has with her father wanting to marry her is that it would be illegal, and not the thousand other things that are wrong with that lol. But anyways, Precious is just a teenage girl at the end of the day and her biggest problem in life (or what she wishes was her biggest problem) is her desire for a boyfriend.

Other things that people disliked were the filming style/soundtrack. I have nothing to say about those really lol. If people didn't like those then... idk.

Anyways... other things about Precious that I adored/noticed:

Mo'Nique 100% deserved that Oscar, she was truly astounding. Especially in that final scene where she becomes so emotional, but for HERSELF💀. Also her wearing foundation that was way too light to the welfare office... (colorism is also part of this movie!)

Precious' first baby being named "Mongoloid", presumably because Precious' mom named her that and Precious went along with it. You can tell that Precious does not like that name though since she calles her "Mongo" instead. Mongo was also born under the worst circumstances; on the kitchen floor while Precious' mom was kicking and berating her. Precious' second pregnancy occurred while she was starting her journey (of self-discovery/independence, etc.). She has hopes and dreams for this baby and for herself. Her son was born in the hospital with her friends surrounding her, her mother nowhere to be seen. She names him Abdul Jamal, which in Arabic means "servant of beauty". Anyways I thought that was so cute :(

I loved her relationship with her classmates too. They were so supportive and fun lol

There's probably other things but I can't think of them rn lolz

#Rats thoughts #Precious 2009 #Seriously cannot stress enough how astounding the acting is in this movie #me majoring in yapanese omg

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