#ants on a rope

[paulpingminho]

[antvnger]

I’m trying to read the hunger games prequel the ballad of songbirds and snakes (fantastic book btw, great addition to the original trilogy) and even though it’s in the title I kind of thought it was a metaphor and I don’t like the number of nope ropes in it 😭 there are too many nope ropes. I know that’s probably disproportionate when I’m talking about a story where children are forced to 💀 each other for live tv entertainment … but there’s too many nope ropes I don’t like it

Ewwwww yikes. Nope nope nope. *quickly shakes head* I don’t like the sound of that at all. I’m sorry, Anon. I kinda thought it was a metaphor too.

Ohhhh that means the movie’s gonna have them too….

[figofswords]

I’m going fucking insane. do any of you watch to your eternity please there are like over 5k of you someone must watch it. todays episode I am losing my fucking mind someone talk to me about this

[raan-miir-tah]

There was a spider trying to live in the cutlery drawer and babygirl you are beautiful but you do realize how terrible this location is to raise your family, correct?? It moves. It’s dark and there’s no bugs to catch. There’s hands all the time. Big metal objects get shoved around in there. Sorry my love your ass is evicted please find a good place to live in the outside of the home

[firelitmoon]

I need you to need me like a knife needs a man

[thegrandharveyspecter]

Harvey: Tell me again why I agreed to put together a 2,000 piece puzzle with you?

Scott: For Quality Bonding Time™.

Harvey: You're the last person I want to bond with. 2,000 pieces is too much. They're too small to see what's on them.

Scott: Oh. -makes the pieces bigger- There, how's that?

Harvey: Better.

Scott: You're welcome.

Harvey: I didn't say thank you.

Scott: No, but that's probably the closest I'll get for now. Do you have more orange juice?

Harvey: Yeah, help yourself. You know where it is.

[yanderenightmare]

MORE TOJI! MORE JJK! MORE YANDERE! MORE KIDNAPPED DARLING! MORE SMUT!

Fushiguro Toji

TW: NSFW, dubcon/noncon

fem reader

He always mounts you with a cocky grin that has you feeling jumpy – loins weak, knees shaking under the threat of his big hands as he grabs your thighs and places himself between them. Cock bobbing proudly against the black ant trail running towards his navel, sturdy and veined just like much of the tough muscle lining his arms and chest. 

Your cunt’s tingly and wet just at sight – cheeks warm and mouth watery – a soundless gasp weak in your throat when you feel the bed sink, dipping beneath his weight as he shuffles close – skin to skin.

You’re on your back, belly-up and exposed, while he bears down on you like a big mouth of teeth tearing up prey. One hand cupping your breasts with a firmness you don’t know whether to excuse with horny curiosity or possessiveness – or just plain dominance. Maybe a mix of all three. All you know is that it feels good when he grabs into the soft flesh, rubbing the nipple between gritty fingers – making you whine.

His other hand holds you down by the neck – lips nipping your cheek with hot breaths – clammy where your thighs overlap each other as he bullies himself inside your taut heat slowly until he’s balls-deep. You suck in a breath at the sting, curling your toes, and he hisses at the tightness, setting the pace with a groan on every heavy thrust. 

Your hands, tied above you, reach before they clench and strain, with nails leaving crescent indents in your palms each time your hips buck in response – feeling him nudge right and tight against your womb, right there against your sweet spot – making your walls ripple and pulse around his thick shaft as your cunt swallows him up – puffy pussylips kissing his base with a wet lewd shlick on every deep stroke. It all drives him insane – goading him to try and go deeper.

You cry at the lounges, feeling stormed each time he takes a dive and robbed each time he pulls back – moaning with girlish squeals right at his ear where he bears a toothy smirk, knowing he’s driving you over the edge. 

You pant, dewy-faced and flushed from your head down to your toes as he lifts your legs up over his shoulders and folds you right in half – thighs pressed neatly against your chest. He lets out a pleased sigh at how tight you choke under the new weight – seizing up around his shaft like a clenched fist, desperately milking him.

He knows you’re trying to say something silly like slow down, but all he can hear is a pitiful whine of his name and it just sets him off like nothing else as he pounds into you – hips slapping against your ass – going deep and even deeper, running you through at a merciless pace you’re left with nothing but high-pitched squeals as you cum around his veined shaft and shake from the intensity while he continues like nothing’s happened, fucking you through it till you feel another one forming.

You’re breathless when he gathers your thighs tight and hugs them in his thick arms, your feet in the air as he lifts until only your back is against the bed. He’s so deep you think he’s rearranging organs to make space for himself – knocking ribs as he fucks your hole into a stretched-out dripping mess. Another knot tightens and snaps at the force, rushing your body – leaving you feeling numb and warm while he continues.

His face cuddles your calf, sweat dripping down his temple, giving the skin a soft bite after a sloppy kiss – slowing down only to drive in as far as he can to hold himself there – steady and deep. 

You moan at the warmth as he shoots thick ropes into your belly, and he releases a sigh while hugging your thighs a little tighter to finish with the last drops.

When he’s done, he rests his head on your breasts – raven hair sweaty and sticking to his forehead. 

He yawns and sucks the inside of his cheek – pleased, eyes watery with sleep before shortly beginning to snore. 

[whiteeyes-is-a-mad-scientist]

False volcano

The skywings have been claiming the mountain near them has become a volcano. Saying that the nightwing volcano must have woken it up... highly doubtful to me, but when the tremors began the rumor grew more widespread... Which is why im now in this cave.

Toad stuffed the scroll back in his bag as the mountain shook again. He managed to pin pont the exact mountain the tremors were comming from. So far it was just a boring old mountain.

"You hear that? She says youll be released soon." The voice shouted with a nervous chuckle. Toad hesitated before following the voice.

"I... I was so worried she wouldnt believe me and she'd have me killed..." The voice continued as Toad curled around the dark stone corners. His thick mudwing scales scraping against them, the heat was rising. "Imagine what we can do once your out... Like we can go flying and hunting and and you gotta see some of the festivals!" the dragon stopped falling into a coughing fit.

The cave opened up... suffocating smoke filled the belly of the mountain. Chains scattered the walls all connected to somthing in the middle. It would shift and send a chorus of clangs echoing off the walls. Claw marks of varying sizes lined the walls among charred bones and ash.

Toad crept further out trying to see what was behind the smoke.... A dragon... a giant one...

He struggled to hold himself up from the weight of the chains. Anywhere he places his talons melted, even the mountain itself. He shifted toward the ant like form of the other dragon, a wing flew over toads head sending smoke swirling past. Toad bit his tongue to prevent himself from coughing.

"I cant wait..." His voice hissed. his tongue flicked out running it over his teeth "I need to stretch my wings and get this rope off..." his neck and wings were squished into the mountain. To toad this cave was giant but to him it was a cramped cage. "revenge will be sweet I promise you that little brother..."

The dragon below gave a whimper "I wish you wouldnt think of revenge. Let them ruin themselves... the war certainly isnt going in her favor.." The large dragon reared up, he slammed his wings and talons into the mountain. The treamors... it was him...

"Dont you DARE tell me what to do." He roared, another tremor, his jaws struggled against the rope "Once im free I will do what ive been wanting to do for CENTURIES..." The small dragon whined and whimpered apologies under him. The large dragon gave a sigh, rolling his eyes "but I also wish to hang out with you...I have plans but I do wish to catch up on our lost dragonet years..."

Toad had many questions. How could a dragon of his size stay hidden. How was he burning so much? Why dont his ropes or chains burn? but he was also terrified... he needed to leave. now.

Toad turned to escape but the large dragon moved his wing, it slammed into toad. Toad heaved as the wind left his lungs, he stumbled to catch himself in the air. The two whipped around to face the eavsdropper. Toad froze. It was like starring into the sun.

"Who whos that?" The small one yelped

The large dragon opened their mouth as much as they could with a hiss "An unlucky visitor..."

[1800titz]

HI BESTIES. This is the first part of Shibari man/Shibari Asshole/Rigger!Harry x Rope bunny!Reader ((the one I teased here))

The one where Harry runs shibari classes and you think he should smile more

WC: 2.4K

This is part one of a patreon exclusive series; the rest will only be accessible through my patreon. You can already find part 2 up on my patreon (✿◠‿◠) 

When you were a little kid, your brother had an ant farm. 

An acrylic formicarium that’d started out as two boxes with a set of tubes. Over time, it morphed into a staggering, caged cityscape of twisting, pellucid hoses and burrows that spanned the entire length of the desk in his bedroom. 

You'd watch them scatter the tunnels as a little girl, lugging cracker crumbs and bits of fruit off your sticky fingers, weaving along the chutes connecting the boroughs of their curated city.

Your brother did what any nasty, older brother would do— those harvester ants were the torment of your childhood. You'd bicker, and he’d threaten to spill them into your bed when you were sleeping. Told you that the colony would eat her toes, that you'd wake up to wiggle nothing but grisly, little, ichor-soaked stumps.  

The gory intimidation tactic never really did much.

You'd still press your nose to the screen barring the insects and smudge your fingerprints over, fascinated as they congregated to the wet cotton ball in the depths of their home. 

You think it's a little like that now, wandering the swarming alcoves in the underbelly of New York. You're a little harvester ant (all exoskeleton to sheathe the pulpy anguish of a long day— ball it inside, keeping your face even and your mouth in a line), plodding through a network of crystalline, vinyl tubing. Swimming against the swathing current of the colony seeping past you in their beanies and their coats, deadpanned on their dog-eat-dog pursuit of errands. 

During the evening rush hour, it’s teeming under the city that never sleeps. It’s a stunning exhibit, maybe, for a tourist whose hometown flickers every porch light off by nine and has one tributary of a road that seeps away from the community, but it doesn’t help the headache thrumming behind your temples. Instead, it kindles the narked throb in your limbs until it feels like an itch in your bloodstream.

The day’s chewed you up with its sharp, ivory incisors and spit you out. Left something tired and empty. The dregs are grounds of a mucky ire, ready to be shed under the scalding spew of a showerhead. 

You mingle through the horde, slinking the gaps you can manage to squeeze past. Your nose burns. Anti-seize lubricant. Cherry cleaners and old concrete. Musk and brake dust. Ground up, heated steel from the wheels burning — metal on metal. Grease. It smells like asphalt and strife. 

The car is packed. A lumbering throng that weaves and scatters, either casting indignant looks over their shoulders when they’re nudged as you politely shoulder your way through, or soul-sucked into their phones altogether, scrolling in detachment. 

There’s one tawny seat, empty and tucked against the back wall. You inch for it on aching ankles, burning knees; the bits of a long day left sewn into your joints. It gnaws into your marrow, and nothing sounds better than hot water on naked skin. You twist—

Marimba blares from you bag. Someone casts an irrationally exasperated side-eye over their shoulder. You straighten out, and rummage through the contents. Find a battered lanyard. A spare stick of deodorant. A hair tie coated in lint and a sparse handful of change—

Drink water. You thumb the alarm off. 

When you sit back, it’s rigid. Firm and uneven. Warm, like a breathing furnace. It takes you all of a split second to recognize that you've managed to perch on a splayed thigh, clad in denim that’s shredded at the knees, rather than the grooved, ochre plastic of a hovering seat.  

You had thought there was little emotion you could have summoned beyond something drained and miffed. The day surprises you, yet, in its dying breaths. Like a mortified buoy, embarrassment bobs from the cesspool when you startle up and twist.

There’s a man in your seat. 

He looks oddly comfortable, almost as if he’d been there all along. As if you had just conjured a mirage of an empty seat. The only acknowledgement he gives you, blinking up from the phone cradled in his enormous, right hand, is a stoically disgruntled glance from behind the squared, pitch-framed lenses resting on the bridge of his nose. 

“Um. Excuse me—” you blink. Your brows crease, “I was sitting there.” 

He spares you a glance. There’s gems in his sockets. Emeralds. Dewy and dulled from the same, shitty day of skyscraper-morphed incisors gnawing. He looks away, and they coruscate in the near blinding glare of his LED, cast in a faint echo over his glasses.

“No, you weren’t.”

You blink again. He doesn’t even spare you a glance as he denies it. You're forced to stare at the part in his hair; the way a burnt umber curl sweeps over his temple. He scrolls over his screen, instead, with a neatly saffron-lacquered thumb. 

You swallow a flattering epithet that (his obvious disinterest) nearly wrests from your mouth. A flimsy facsimile of a smile sculpts over. Appalled. Nearly seeping into the beginnings of borderline deranged as your threadbare composure gets toyed at by a prick with a clandestine pair of scissors. Almost, almost, almost. 

“Well. I was going to.” 

“That’s unfortunate,” he murmurs, brows kinked, “because this seat is taken.”

A little noise clambers from the back of your throat. You swallow it down and scoff. “Are you serious?” 

“Deadly.” 

It’s dry, derisive, disinterested. The three D’s that are going to get his glasses plucked off and tossed to the floor to be crushed under someone’s heel. 

“Unbelievable.”

His eyes— mossy, reminiscent of the woods— sweep up. He’s quiet. Stony. For the first time, you really get a good look, and decide, instantly, that if he weren’t such an apparent dickhead, maybe his specs and his voguish jumper would make him look sophisticated. Handsome, with his even slope of a nose, full, pink lips, and the dusting of stubble along his cheeks and jawline. 

There’s a sharp contrast to him, like inverted colors. Patchwork of sutures that don’t fit. It’s off, his cozy sweater and his soft hair. He looks like a warm, barbed hug. 

Prickly— saguaro, in a Marc Jacobs pullover, with stinging spines sticking through the stitching. 

“What’s the matter with you?” It’s softer that you'd intended. 

You quiver— everything, all over. Your bottom lip wobbles, your mandible sets, your fingers wring at the strap of your tote. They twitch and stretch at your side with this provoked, goopy slurry of cortisol and adrenaline. It permeates your pericardium. Snakes the tubing with an incensed warmth— embers kindled.

“Do you realize how rude that is?” 

Asphalt and strife. Someone to your side glances over their shoulder and then turns back. The stranger blinks up at you from his phone with soft features chiseled apathetic. Vetiver and musk. 

“M’not sure what you mean.” 

“Are you joking? You stole my seat, dude,” you wave out with your hand. 

He blinks again. 

“I don’t think it ever belonged to you, to be fair—“ then, “Is your name on it?” 

It’s a childish retort to spall your argument into flinders. Your eyes narrow into anticipatory slits. 

“No—“

“Then I suppose it’s not your seat, is it?” he responds sharply— chiaroscuro to the lax, impassive shape that molds his face, “S’first come, first serve …dude.”

A stranger grazes your shoulder blade in passing— something you've become accustomed to. People finding walkways in strait gaps on a train that’s packed like a can of sardines. 

“Oh my God. You are such an asshole— I could be pregnant.” 

He raises his eyebrows. His eyes trail. A slow once-over, wry and disbelieving. Sage and owlish. A stray curl stemming from the forefront of his crown meddles to coil over his forehead. The corner of his otherwise indurated mouth twitches.

“Are you pregnant?” 

No.

“Yes,” you glower. 

It slinks from the back of your throat, unbidden— this lie. Rides up the back up of your tongue and slips through the cracks of your teeth. It’s curdled and twisted, miasmic pulp in tar— who the fuck lies about being pregnant for a subway seat?

You're never going to see him again. 

You're never, ever going to see him again. 

You cup your hand over the underside of your tummy. Sell it, now that you have to. All soft flesh under the button of your jeggings, shrouded under the boxy shaping of your fleece turtleneck— where a baby (that definitely doesn’t exist, last you checked), the size of a citrus limon, would curl up. You tuck your palm over the phantom at your underbelly. 

You've had a shitty day, and now you've been backed into a corner, offering the universe shitty manifestations with your hands cupped out. 

The seat stealer ogles. Meanders from your strategic hand placement to your ireful scowl. Back. His mouth purses. 

“So, it’s not that you could be,” he clarifies, slowly, “It’s that you are.”

Languid. Unrushed, like an overflowing, murky lake lapping at a berm. Someone brushes the back of your arm. 

“Yes.” 

“Are you lying?” 

You scoff. He’s fully transfixed on you now, the glow from his smartphone dimmed on its pending shut-off timer. 

“Are you kidding? Who—“ you hike your tote up, “lies about being pregnant for a subway seat?” 

He purses his lips again, ruddy pillows bordering the sharp chasm of his mouth where the tools to dissect her claims are stowed. Bobs his head. 

“How far along are you, then?” 

You grit out, teeth bared, “Thirteen weeks—“

And a stranger prods past with enough force to nudge you forward. Enough for your shin to brush against the bespectacled stranger's own. Enough to step into his space, nearly between his parted thighs. He frowns. 

He does another slow sweep with his gaze. Furrowed brows, glimmering viridian dancing from behind limped lenses. Gleaning pieces like cattail and twine for a nest. Deciding; are they worthy? A grip over your underbelly, the little frown on your lips that mirrors his own, the way you suddenly crowd his atoms. He’s unconvinced, almost. Apathetic. 

You fully expect him to tell you to fuck off, but then he nudges with his stubbly chin. You shuffle back as much as you can with about three, broad strangers at all sides. 

He bleeds out into you, for a moment, all heat, when he clambers up and steps in to make your cycle — this game of musical chairs to the tune of white noise, flitting on a screeching rail through a tunnel— smoother. He’s broad. Tapered. Thick in the shoulders, a carnegiea of a man towering when he nearly presses his firm chest to you, wrapped in french terry. He’s much softer to the touch than the spikes bristling from his mien implicate. Woodsy and clean, like smoke, and cedarwood, and soap. It flushes the miasmic undertone of grease the subway always has. 

He cocks his head. Sit down. 

“Congratulations,” he tells you when you slot into the nook, splaying your tote over your lap. 

He’s kept your seat warm. 

Whether the statement is in reference to your unborn pseudo-baby or your victory, you're unsure. 

-

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KNOTS resembles a yoga studio, with its clean, tall walls, its french oak flooring, and its bone-white bulbs, linearly tiled into the ceiling. It smells like an amalgam of grapefruit cleaning products and spritzes of an air freshener that vaguely echoes the lapping sea. 

Salt, an airy ozone, muguet. Something pretentious that doesn’t fit into the city. 

If it weren’t for the myriad of ropes, lubricants, and toy cleaners stacking the shelving units by the front, you would have felt as if you were here to attend a pilates class. Cycling, maybe. Something sweaty and less …abrasive.

You're late for your seven-to-nine open level, beginner’s course— two soporific hours of staring at rope and tying knots that you'll never get back.

(Slaphappy and fecklessly inept at knot-tying are two traits that don’t work well to take up shibari as a hobby.

“Please— she’s been begging for months and none of those online tutorials make any fucking sense.” 

“So— why don’t you take her with you?” 

“Because I want it to be a surprise,” Niall had opposed. Puffed his chest, “I wanna surprise her. Like a proper ropes guy, you know. And she’s so flexible, too, I could tie her in loads of positions—“

You'd raised your hand. “Spare me.” 

Niall’s always been a glass half-full. Crystalline, effervescent. A bright color.

You couldn’t bear to ruffle his plume when, two autumns ago, he spent a Wednesday afternoon standing outside a women’s handicapped stall in an auto shop for pure, courageous moral support as you took an actual pregnancy test— not even by his doing, and he still was a very good sport. Even if he’s absolute shit at knots beyond tying his own shoes.

You didn’t have the heart to tell him that if he struggled with twine and a palomar, it wasn’t going to matter how bendy his girlfriend was.)

You're fourteen minutes late. Eight-hundred-forty seconds and change for every two steps, by the time you find the right door in the balmy corridor of boundless doorways. The portly, alder ingress squeals on its hinges when you shuffle, as quietly as you can manage, into what vaguely resembles a dance studio. 

The attendees look the part, too, perched over their yoga mats in contemporary dancer garb, turning their chins over their shoulders at the disturbance. Dress casual and comfortable. There’s only about eight of them, and they coil in a piqued coterie ahead of the instructor, who has about six varying ropes, diverse in their tint and structure, and then he peers up—

It’s him. Saguaro, with the frames and the eyes like beds of flinty malachite. 

He’s holding a furled, plaited cord, the head of the class, and he pauses, blinking up. Briefly. He clears his throat—

”—Jute, on the other hand, has great knot stability. You can see here, the braided texture— that makes it less slippery.”

Compunction crinkles the valley of skin between your eyebrows as you trudge in alongside Niall— he’s much more amicable about it, mouthing apologies and raising his hand in friendly hello’s that don’t receive much beyond awkwardly indifferent glances. You sink to your knees toward the back, which isn’t all that far from the front, all things considered. It’s a small class. The wood burrows into your tailbone— were the yoga mats a complementary piece? Were you supposed to bring a yoga mat?

“It’s great for floor bondage, but it’s water sensitive. So if you want to work it into suspension, don’t wash it too often. Otherwise, you’re losing carrying capacity.”

The city of New York is a metaphorical hayrick. It’s a paradox, since the big apple is the furthest thing from watery mud, fir-constructed barns, and scythes sweeping through crops. 

Theoretically, though, you should have never seen this man again. 

He should have become swept into the mound of straw— got lost in it. Mortification strums at your muscles, tensing every sinew. It scars deep— scrapes at your cartilage. If you'd known this needle would prick your thumb again, maybe you wouldn’t have waged war for the seat on the subway. 

And yet, here he is.

[froody]

the ant infestation from my kitchen has moved into my room. my room has an ant infestation now. they’ve moved into my room. I’ve put down several different types of poison with no result. I am at the end of my rope. how much more can a human take

[thewosoway]

On my 18th birthday// Georgia stanway x reader

One thing about Georgia that you absolutely loved was her love for tattoos. She loved getting new tattoos so it was no surprise that when you were both officially 18 she took you to get your first tattoo.

Georgia had been giving herself stick’n’pokes for years before she could legally get tattoos. She had often tried to get you to do them too, jabbing you here and there just to give it a go. With Georgia being a year older than you she had to wait longer for you to turn 18 so she could get a tattoo with you.

“I don’t understand the obsession g but fine I’ll get one when I turn 18” she always asked and that was always the response.

When Georgia had turned 18 she took you hand in hand to the tattoo shop and made you sit with her to get her first official tattoo. It gave her some kind of thrill to get it done finally. You and Georgia had been inseparable since you were little,remembering georgias braided hair when she was younger and using that to your advantage when teasing her.

Since you were little being a bit smaller than Georgia you had adopted the nickname bug. Whenever Georgia wanted to find you she never called you your name it was always “where’s bug?” She was set on it and there was no changing her mind.

On your 18th birthday Georgia woke you up with a balloon in the shape of an ant that said 18, a card with bugs all over and a few presents. She told you there was a surprise for you when you got up.

You kind of knew what she was planning already but not wanting to ruin her plans you went along with it.

Going along with it meant that an hour later you were dressed and ready sat in georgias car outside of a tattoo shop. She was very happy with herself and announced to you that she had booked a matching tattoo session. The plan was that you were going to go in and sit with each other and get matching tattoos of her choice.

You went in and sat quietly thinking about what you had got yourself into, wondering if it was too early or too late to start teasing her about the braids before you got the tattoo as a way of her backing out. There was no chance.

Once the tattoo artist called you to their stations she was practically buzzing. She sat next to you holding your hand as the tattoo artist spoke to you about the process and aftercare and things like that. Georgia showed her the picture of what she had come up with and they decided on one that was perfect for you.

A surprise tattoo was not what you wanted for your first but knowing Georgia was there with you getting the same thing made you more comfortable.

About an hour later with both of you having had your tattoos done Georgia paid and you both walked to the car to look at the tattoos she had roped you into getting.

“Georgia Marie stanway. If you have made me look stupid with a tattoo I’m going to get your mama on you” Georgia’s mum had always been welcoming to you and made you feel like part of the family. Even if Georgia was slightly scared of her at points.

“I haven’t I promise your gonna love it. Just take the wrap off” she looked at you waiting for you to take it off.

Taking it off and looking at the tattoo you realised she had tried to be cute and funny with what she picked out. She took the wrap off hers and put your arms together. A pair of ants. “For my favourite bug” the grin that she wore was an absolute picture. She was so happy with herself for the decision.

“You’re gonna be the death of me Georgia. A bug. On my arm forever. Why do I let you make decisions” she just kept smiling “cause you love me” you nodded “I do love you Georgia I do”

So on your 18th birthday you got matching tattoos. Courtesy of your favourite person, Georgia stanway.

[ethereal-pie]

bullfrog head cannons

I have seen no fics of this beautiful French man so I have done it myself

just a ramble of my thoughts in bullet point form

he is an american bullfrog, he not only looks like one but also there are tons in France

He enjoys warmth and gets grumpy if he is too cold

I feel like he doesn’t touch you all that much but adores cuddling 

If given the opportunity he will burry himself in pillows and blankets ( bonus if they are weighted) especially during winter cuz of his hibernation instinct

He will insist you join him and promise it’s very comfortable 

He isn’t slimy like his real world counterpart but his skin feels very moisturized 

He gets cold super easy and shove himself under your shirt or jacket to soak up your natural body heat 

You also don’t have to worry about it being too hot to cuddle as he is cool to the touch 

He will insist you let him put his cold ass hands on your bare back to warm them up , he will pout if you don’t let him 

Letting him do this will more then likely result in him having his head under your shirt and his face pressed into your back and his hands on your upper stomach 

He usually avoids conventional touch based pda, the most normal pda you’ll get out of under normal circumstances is a peck on the cheek 

Instead the way he shows touch based pda is by sitting on your shoulders

Although if he is super cold he won’t care all that much

 And  Unless your in a situation where being partners with him would put you in danger, he will be  fairly vocaly affectionate

He will call you his beloved and other pet names 

As well as praise, flirt and compliment you

Some of His pet names  involve your name 

He seems like a darling, my dear, love type of person

He will jokingly call you stupid ones as well 

He has a lot of running jokes with you and will tease and joke around with you all the time, he just likes laughing with you in general 

Some of your jokes might take a second to land with him in the beginning but as your relationship continues he will pick up almost immediately 

He tries really hard to be cool cuz he wants to make friends but everyone being stuck on him being a frog annoys him a lil 

He will complain about this to you at least once 

He is trying to be cool and Poetic!

When he is mad he will begin to speak in a mix of French and English but he doesn’t really yell at all, he does talk faster tho 

He will bath for hours but doesn’t like to shower 

He cannot use certain soaps or he will get sick because he will absorb the chemicals through his skin 

He likes the look of bubble baths but if he sits in them he gets sick cuz of the soap In the water 

Given his accent I assume he speaks French but I think he can speak multiple European language, due to his job 

He is very adverse to the idea of eating bugs, he isn’t scared of them but if someone offers him a bug he will be grossed out.

He is the kind of person to not only catch and release bugs he finds inside but he will have little convos with them too

You’ll hear in the other room “hello there my miniature friend.’’ And as he takes them outside “ I’m very sorry but you cannot stay here.” 

His approach to flying bugs is far different, he will take NO PRISONERS

He is very efficient with a fly swatter and knows all the concoctions to lure and kill flys fruit or other wise 

He avoids using his hands cuz of the bug guts 

If you are afraid of bugs he will find it amusing but he won’t tease or torment you, he will just chuckle at how ridiculous you look up on the counter while he captures the invader.

He is very polite and kind to everyone he interacts with unless they have done something to warrant other wise 

He will use French sayings in English  instead of the English one because he is convinced that “ they are far superior” 

Pins and needles are now ants, it’s raining ropes not animals, forget apples and trees, dogs don’t make cats.

If you use the English versions he will argue the French version is better 

“ bolt of lightning explans the felling of it, love at first sight is so bland.’’

Please convert he will find it unendingly adorable every time 

He does get cuteness aggression and will randomly shove his face into your chest and aggressively nuzzle into you whist squeezing you and violently kicking his legs and making a happy humming 

He will be embarrassed the first few times he does this 

He will get cuteness aggression from your cuteness aggression 

If you bite him he will be very confused but won’t care all that much so long as you aren’t hurting him

You will probably be taller then him and honestly he likes it that way because when you hug him he feels like momentarily  he is a totally encased by you 

You can carry him but only certain ways

No toddler hold, with one arm and him on your hip 

Piggy backs, shoulder sitting and standing are encouraged 

You can only sling him over your shoulder in emergency’s 

Same with under your arm 

He doesn’t like princess carry’s cuz he can’t hold on to much and he wants to touch with  max surface area

Carrying him by his armpits away from you has the same problem, he will struggle 

He does enjoy if you hug carry him with both arms, either his face in on your chest or resting on your shoulder 

I have made a helpful diagram ( I can draw but it’s just stick me cuz I’m lazy)

He will randomly start monologueing if given the opportunity 

He will tell you about being an assassin but only if you ask 

I think he is more likely to be with Someone who has prior experience with fighting

He feels nauseous after producing bubbles 

He will lean on or try to be touching you while he recovers 

You cannot truly surprise him, he will know something is up the moment you even begin to plan 

He knows because you act slightly different 

And hiding  or sneaking something past him is also impossible 

He has to actively try to avoid finding out what your doing 

You’ve snuck something into the garage, I guess he isn’t going In There for a while 

Hiding something behind your back, he isn’t even gonna face your direction while you hide it 

You cannot sneak up on him either 

When you try he will scare you by suddenly turning around and grabbing you 

On the other hand he has  scared and surprised you accidentally many times 

hope you enjoy and this inspires more fic to be written of bullfrog

[antvnger]

*peeks over, revealing a little collar that reads "Kiwi"*

Hiss?

-Nope Rope (or Kiwi if you prefer now)

You have a collar? Your name’s Kiwi? Are you lost?

[tsukasalvr]

Sup! I saw that requests were open!! Hanako x reader who whenever Hanako makes a perverted joke they’ll respond with “ Damn didnt know you were into that I don’t judge though “

s/o responding to his perverted joke

Anime/fandom: Tbhk

Character: Hanako

Warnings: I don’t proofread

A/n: shout out to that one guy in my school that whenever he sees me he always calls me gorgeous and how gorgeous I am

Tbhk masterlist | Main masterlist

Hanako

Hanako is known to be pervert and make pervy comments to tease, and you were his favorite to tease

He anted to make you crack in a way, you were never bother by his comments and instead joked back which he absolutely loved but he also wanted to make you flustered and shy at least once

“Oh looky here [name]!” He said with a giggle as he held up some handcuffs and rope he picked up from a drawer while trying to find parts to make a body

Kou and Yashiro understood what he meant, Yashiro looked the other way while Kou called him a sicko with a red face

You smiled at hanako and laughed, “Oh wow Hanako! I didn’t know you were into that, I don’t judge though!” You said and it only made Hanako feel shy instead of you

He loves how you never get mad at his jokes and if you ever make a perverted joke, he falls so hard

You were sitting down on the bathroom floor, you were stuck on a question for physics. It was only you and Hanako in the girls bathroom and Hanako leaned over to see what you were doing and giggled

"You're stuck on a question? Come on! It doesn't even look that hard!" he remarked with a laugh and pressing his finger into your cheek to annoy you

You huffed and waved his finger away "If you're so confident then why don't you help me solve it and I'll consider giving you a treat after." you winked at him after, making him look at you in awe and red cheeks.

Hanako immediately got to work and instructed you how to solve it, hoping that you stay true to your word and give him a prize after. He can feel himself get all giddy and red at the thought of it

[novaursa]

Hello, could I order a Targaryen Dareon x Reader Velaryon They are ex lovers She did not speak to him again after Lucerys' death. She even married Jacerys without loving him, but she did so for his dever. But Dareon still Loves her but he can't just give up. Reader is a warrior personally trained by Raenys and has Canival, a dragon that should never have been tamed, capable of hurting the enemy Vhegar. He would probably be able to kill her if she didn't retreat. reader invades his thoughts he misses her his kisses his hands his body He knows that even if she gets hurt, she will put duty over love. how to stop someone like that who is not afraid to give his life for what he believes

Scorched Hearts

- Summary: You meet Daeron after years of silence.

- Paring: velaryon!reader/Daeron Targaryen

- Note: The reader is only daughter of Rhaenyra and Laenor and is bonded with Cannibal. For more of my works, visit my blog. The list is pinned to the top. I hope this was what you had in mind. 🙂

- Rating: Mature 16+

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff

The air is filled with smoke and the acrid stench of blood. The shrill cries of the dying echo through the battlefield as you soar above it all, atop Cannibal, the ferocious black dragon, your bond with him forged in fire and fury. You look down at the chaos below, your eyes cold and hardened from years of war. This is no longer the realm of nobles and courtiers; this is the battlefield, where only the strong survive.

Tumbleton is aflame. It’s a trap, you know it. The Greens had been waiting for you, baiting you with fire and screams to draw you into this mess. They knew you’d come—knew you could never resist the call of battle, the call of vengeance. Cannibal growls beneath you, his enormous wings cutting through the air, his rage mirroring your own. You tighten your grip on the reins, your jaw clenched in grim determination.

The army swells below, but you're not afraid. You've faced worse odds. You’ve trained with your grandmother, Princess Rhaenys, herself a warrior and dragonrider. You’ve battled Aemond and Vhagar, forced them to retreat. But the past weighs heavily on you, the wounds that have never quite healed. Lucerys... The memory of your brother’s broken body flashes through your mind like lightning. His death had been a turning point for you, the moment you had truly hardened, cutting ties with the part of you that dared to love.

Including Daeron.

The thought of him stirs something deep within you, a flicker of something long-buried. Daeron Targaryen. The ex-lover who still haunted your dreams despite all the years of silence. You never spoke to him after Luke’s death. You couldn’t. Not after everything.

But there’s no time to think of him now. Not when you have a battle to win.

Cannibal lets out a roar that shakes the very air around you as you dive, flames scorching the earth beneath you. Enemy soldiers scatter, their green banners fluttering in the chaos. The Greens are like ants beneath you, but you see it too late—the trap.

Spears launch from the ground, ropes suddenly tangling around Cannibal’s wings, pulling taut. The dragon roars in fury, thrashing, but it’s no use. You feel the jerk as the nets tighten, dragging Cannibal down. You curse under your breath, feeling the inevitable pull of gravity. You’ve been caught, the Greens had planned this.

Before you can react, Cannibal crashes to the ground, shaking the earth beneath you. You’re thrown from his back, landing hard on the ground, your sword clattering from your grasp. Groaning, you try to push yourself up, but rough hands grab you, dragging you across the battlefield. You struggle, kicking, but the soldiers are many, and your body is bruised from the fall. You can feel the cold steel of chains being brought toward you, hear the laughter of your captors.

And then, suddenly, everything changes.

The ground trembles beneath you, a shadow sweeping over the battlefield as another dragon descends. You know that dragon—Tessarion. You don’t have to see him to know it’s him. The blue scales gleam in the dim light, and your heart clenches in your chest.

Daeron.

You look up, breath catching in your throat as he lands in front of you, dismounting with swift grace. His white hair is tousled from the wind, his violet eyes blazing with fury. He shouts, barking orders at the soldiers dragging you. 

"Let her go!" His voice is a whip crack, commanding, cold.

The soldiers hesitate for a moment, unsure, but his gaze burns into them. They release you, backing away as if they’ve been scorched. You scramble to your feet, breathing heavily, staring at him—this man who you once loved, this man who still makes your heart ache despite everything.

Daeron steps toward you, his face a mask of fury. "What in the Seven Hells do you think you’re doing, treating her like this?" His voice is low, dangerous, as he turns his wrath on the soldiers. "If any of you ever touch her again, I will feed you to Tessarion myself."

They scurry away, leaving the two of you alone on the blood-soaked battlefield.

You meet his gaze, your heart hammering in your chest. It’s the first time in years you’ve been this close to him, and the air between you is thick with all the things left unsaid. His eyes, those familiar eyes, search your face, and for a moment, he looks like the man you once knew. The one you had loved so fiercely.

"Y/N," he murmurs, and his voice is softer now, almost pleading. He steps closer, reaching out as if to touch you, but then he stops, his hand dropping to his side. "I thought you were dead."

You don’t know what to say. Your throat feels tight, and for a moment, all the pain and anger you’ve buried threatens to rise to the surface. You try to shove it down, try to remind yourself of why you left him behind. Why you married your brother Jaehaerys out of duty, not love. Why you chose to forget the way Daeron’s kisses felt, the way his hands moved over your skin, the intimate moments you shared beneath the stars.

But standing here, facing him now, all of that seems impossible to forget.

"You shouldn’t have come," you say, your voice rough with emotion. "You should’ve let them chain me."

He shakes his head, a bitter laugh escaping him. "Do you think I could stand by and let them hurt you? After everything?" His eyes lock onto yours, filled with something raw and unspoken. "I never stopped loving you, Y/N. Not for a single day."

The words hit you like a physical blow, and you take a step back, your chest tightening. You want to deny it, to tell him that it doesn’t matter anymore, that too much has happened. But the truth is, you feel it too—the pull, the undeniable connection between you.

"You should have stopped," you say quietly, your voice trembling. "We’re on opposite sides of this war now, Daeron. There's no place for what we were."

He steps closer, his voice a whisper now, filled with longing and regret. "We could’ve been more, Y/N. We were more once. And I would’ve given anything to have you back."

You shake your head, your throat tight. "Lucerys is dead. My brother is dead, and I can’t—" Your voice breaks, and you turn your head away, unable to look at him. The weight of everything—the war, the loss, the love that never died—presses down on you, threatening to crush you.

Daeron’s hand finds your arm, gently turning you back to face him. "I know," he whispers, his breath warm against your skin. "But I’m still here. And I still love you."

The world seems to fall away, the sounds of the battle fading into the background as you look at him. His face, etched with years of pain and longing, is so achingly familiar. You remember his touch, the way his lips felt against yours. You remember the nights spent in each other’s arms, before the war tore everything apart.

For the first time in years, you feel the urge to close the distance between you, to let yourself remember what it felt like to love him.

But you can’t. Not now. Not here.

"I can’t," you whisper, stepping away from him, the weight of duty pulling you back. "I’m not yours anymore, Daeron."

His eyes darken with sorrow, but he doesn’t move to stop you. Instead, he watches as you turn away, his heart breaking all over again. 

And as you mount Cannibal, his roar filling the sky, you feel the ache of what could have been, of a love lost to time and war.

[itsabouttimex2]

Since ROTTMNT are allowed, how about some headcanons of the turtles with a reader who’s very reckless? They’re always throwing themselves into danger whenever the team is fighting, and reader just insists they’re trying to help.

also love your writing ❤️❤️

Turtles with a Reckless Y/N

(Thank you so much💗 I’ve been watching season two, and I’ve got a lot of thoughts!)

No. No, no, no. Raphael does not tolerate your shenanigans. He’s worried sick about you every time you try something new, you hear him? Expect lots of gruff lectures about how ‘You need to learn to work with me and the others as a team, or you’re staying home with Splinter!’

This is not an empty threat. Keep pushing and getting reckless, Y/N. Realizing that he’s going to have to teach you a lesson the hard way, Raph sneaks up behind you as you try to sneak out, wrapping you into his arms.

“Sorry, Y/N- but I did warn you,” he says, carefully binding you up in sloppy knots. After he’s got your wrists and legs tied, he wraps a blanket around you. Then, another round of rope. Raph plops you onto Splinter’s chair, grabbing the remote and turning on a safety awareness video he (with the help of everyone in the Turtlefam) made for you.

This isn’t necessarily going to be a one time thing, though. The ante is upped every time you make another boneheaded decision, another grounding, another lecture, another video. He’ll get through to you.

Eventually.

Leo can be arrogant and overconfident himself, so he’ll relate to the things you do and say. It’s easy to want to prop you up and encourage you. He’s suffering from an inferiority complex, trying to make up for his self-perceived shortcomings by acting like he’s better and stronger than the people around him.

And he wonders if maybe you’re going through the same thing with the way you insist that “I’m just trying to help, Leo,” and “I don’t need you to baby me!”

And then Leo starts to think that telling you off for the way might only make things worse. For all he knows, you’ll decide that getting even more reckless will be the way that you finally ‘prove yourself’, making the same boneheaded approval-seeking decisions that he does.

In the end, he decides to settle things by subtly sabotaging your efforts to join fights. Leo “accidentally” locks doors before you can run through, sneaks your gear into dark corners where you’ll take too long to find it, taking extra risks to try and end fights before you can join.

It’s for your own good. Please believe him when he says that.

With poor communication skills and a potential developmental disorder that only muddles his understanding of others further (same, bud), ‘talking it out’ is not an option for Donnie.

So he turns to the one thing he knows best- tech. A tracker first. Then two. Then three. Eventually he’s got a dozen tracking devices in all different shapes and sizes, each one snapped into a different device or gadget.

It’s not that he wants to hurt you, of course not.

But if an electrical shock or painful squeeze can “convince” you to keep out of danger and think things through before you hurtle headfirst into an enemy’s unmerciful hands… fine. Fine.

Donnie will snap a bulky metal cuff around one of your wrists, sighing as he does. Does this make him the “bad guy”? Probably. But he’s fine with that, because being “bad” is better than being at a funeral. He’ll muster up a half-hearted apology, sighing as he locks the metal around you.

“Enough with the reckless stunts, Y/N. You’re keeping this on until I know you’ve grown a functioning brain.”

Big-hearted and equipped with a somewhat gentle demeanor, Mikey decides to try talking things through first. It’s very possible that this problem is some kind of misunderstanding that could just be unraveled with a little bit of one-on-one time!

Sure, he probably doesn’t have to cuddle up to you and wrap you both in blankets with hot drinks, but he does anyway! (Because he wants to steal you away for a moment to have all to himself, under the guise of ‘helping you’.

There’s an admitted half-effort from Mikey to talk you through whatever it is that’s causing you trouble, at least. It’s just that he’s more focused on the ‘therapy’ approach, hoping that he can grow closer to you while keeping you content and out of danger for the moment.

Though, if you really insist on such reckless behavior, Mikey always has his kusari-fundō to wrap you up head to toe. Given his status as the ‘baby’ of the family, no one is going to take his behavior all too seriously.

You’re stuck tight, helpless against his loving, brotherly whims.