#floor scale price

[agoraphxnics]

fem!afab!reader

wandering into a cave to seek shelter from the storm only to come across a slumbering dragon!price. he’s massive with radiant golden scales. you freeze, adrenaline shooting through your chest and piercing your ears. you slowly back away, trying not to wake the beast, when your back crashes into a thick wall of flesh. you look up to see another dragon!gaz blocking your exit.

“hmm, what do we have here?”

you face him, stepping backwards to make some distance. gaz isn’t as large as price, but his red scales still intimidate you to no end.

“i-i’m sorry, i didn’t know this cave was occupied. i was just cold and needed a place to hide! i-i can leave and never come back!”

a grumbling resounds from behind you. it shakes the ground you stand on, making you shake from more than just the frigidness. a third dragon!soap appears, picking you up in claws and bringing you to his piercing yellow eyes and green-scaled maw. “poor li’l sapphire. didnae know this was a dragon’s nest?”

you curl in on yourself. “n-no! i swear! please don’t eat me! i promise i meant no harm!”

gaz laughs, stomping forward to look at you closer. his maw is so close—just one sharp exhale, and you’d be a pile of ash. “trinket, we won’t hurt you. you’re too cute to eat.”

“ye. we only want tae play with you a bit,” soap adds, using his other paw to ‘gently’ pat your head. it jolts your whole body.

you sniffle. “what do you mean?”

“mating season.” from the darkness, a fourth dragon!ghost appears. he’s taller than the two, all black scales and authority. you gasp, eyes widening.

“si!” soap scolds.

at the same time, gaz says, “don’t scare her even more than she already is!”

the former huffs. “why waste time when we can get to the point?”

gaz pulls away slightly to give you space, but his gaze still holds yours with intensity. “look, trinket. we dragons mate in autumn, and you caught us at the right time. if you help us, we’ll reward you handsomely.”

“john has quite the hoard,” soap continues, “and he’d be willing to give ye whatever ye need to live comfortably for the rest of your life.”

“all we ask is that you let us breed you,” gaz finishes.

you gulp, the adrenaline now pooling somewhere else. somewhere wet and hot. the idea of four dragons fucking you makes you keen, thighs pressing together unconsciously.

“but how would this work?” you ask, looking over at ghost’s underbelly. from a slit on his abdomen, you can see two large cocks starting to poke out, and from the heads alone, they each look just as big as you.

the three chuckle, and soon a fourth voice joins in on the laugh. price finally makes a move, standing up and walking over to fully cage you in soap’s palm.

“oh, treasure,” he rumbles amusedly, “dragons can shapeshift. we wouldn’t want to break you, would we, boys?”

the three grunt in response.

you feel awed by their power, and when you don’t respond, price barks out an order. “kyle. simon. johnny. show my treasure what i mean.”

soap places you back on the rocky floor. suddenly, the sound of cracking and contorting echoes through the cave. and before you know it, three massive humanlike men stand before you. sharp horns protrude from their heads, human flesh surrounds random patched of scales, and their backs sport gigantic wings and a tail. most importantly, however, they are naked and proudly presenting two scaly cocks between their legs, tips weeping with seed.

in that moment, any doubts or reasoning went out the window. drool ran past your lips, and your tongue quickly followed to lap it up.

soap laughed, crouching in front of you to caress your face. “li’l sapphire likes what she sees.”

“does that mean we can ‘ave ‘er?” ghost grumbled, claws moving to fist his aching cocks.

gaz sneaks behind you and whispers in your ear, “it’s up to her.”

you take them in, lustful eyes raking over their faces, their bodies, their everything, desperate to find out what pleasure they’ll give you. craning your neck up to where price still towers over you all as a dragon, you call, “can i see you, too?”

a contented sound leaves price’s throat as he shifts into a burly man just as aching as his pack mates. he stalks to you, those eyes still gleaming like the apex predator he very much is, and he turns you to face him. “well? are you pleased with your mates?”

you nod.

the four of them purr, finally putting their hands on you.

“good treasure. now just sit there and look pretty for us. we’ll take good care of you.”

writing smút is hard >_< maybe i’ll continue this one day but for now enjoy dragons bc they hot asf

[syoddeye]

sliding scale

You're in need of a handyman. He has needs of his own. cw: discussion of kids/pregnancy, john price inserting himself into your life, heavily implied breeding kink, unsettling and smutless (my brand)

You win the jackpot. Okay. Not the jackpot, but you're hit by a respectable windfall. It's like a cheesy movie you'd watch around the holidays: A distant relative dies, you receive a very serious letter, and suddenly, your account isn't as sad as it once was.

So, you do the impossible. The unthinkable. You buy a house.

An old, well-loved house from an elderly couple.

The day you close, they tell you about raising their kids in the house and mention the names etched on the door frame. When you arrive home that evening, the empty house feels grand and hollow, but there they are, just where they said. Names climbing upward in uneven increments, faded with time, but legible. You trace your finger along the marks, imagining small hands and the measuring tape, the years slipping by. It makes you smile, despite yourself.

You've never wanted kids, not really, but the thought of this, people leaving bits of themselves behind—it makes you mushy. You figure, once the dust settles, you'll let rooms to friends, maybe friends of friends. Start a fun little commune of sorts, a collective of people coming and going.

The first night, you drink nonalcoholic wine straight from the bottle and lie on your mattress on the floor, staring up at the ceiling. There's no furniture yet, just your overnight bag and the smell of fresh paint from a patch you tested on the living room wall. You fall asleep smiling. The house needs a lot of work, but you're not worried. Some TLC and elbow grease can go a long way.

Over the next few weeks, you move in and start working. Anything is possible with the power of YouTube tutorials and the local tool library.

You start in the primary bedroom and bathroom, learning to tile, install flooring, and connect plumbing for the perfect vanity and sink you found at a thrift store. It feels good to learn how things fit together and see the fruits of your labor. At night, you sleep in one of the old kid's rooms. The wallpaper is covered in rockets and planets. A couple of glow-in-the-dark stars cling to the ceiling.

The bathroom comes together wonderfully, and you feel invincible.

But then you get to the kitchen.

After an outlet zaps you, you decide you may be in over your head. That there really is a limit to what one person can do on their own. You start looking up local contractors, but everything is out of your budget. You've been doing all the work yourself for a reason. Then, after digging for ages, you find a promising lead: John Price - Handyman - Sliding Scale.

On the phone, John seems normal. Charming. Funny. He tells you he's impressed you bought a house on your own. (You've heard that a lot lately, and while it feels patronizing, you let it go. You did jump up a band upon inheriting your chunk of Great Uncle Leroy's money.) He agrees to come by and see what he can do.

You have to admit he makes a good impression when he shows up. He's punctual, polite, and looks the part. Broad chest, thick arms, big hands resting on his hips as he surveys the kitchen. After only a few minutes, he says he'll take the job. No hesitation.

You explain your tight budget and that you'll work alongside him when you're not at your day job. You show him the money you've set aside, expecting him to back out, but he just shakes his head and nudges the folder back across the table.

"Said I'd do it. Don't you fret, darl."

You vet him afterward, just to be sure. His references check out. The reviews are solid. He appears to know a little about everything. You text him to confirm, formally offering the job, and he accepts.

On the first day, you let him in and immediately have to avert your eyes. You didn't realize a toolbelt could look like that on someone. His sleeves are rolled up, exposing his forearms, and the way he moves—confident, purposeful��makes you grateful you're heading out to work. You tell him when you'll be back and leave quickly, gripping the steering wheel tighter than usual thinking about the hunk of man in your house.

When you return, the kitchen looks different, unfinished, but vastly improved. John's already fixed things you didn't think could be fixed. Over lunch, he even scoped out other problems around the house: a crack in the basement wall, a loose board on the stairs, and spots where the flooring must be replaced. He gushes about the house, praising its character, the way it's held up over time.

John's face grows serious, and stares down his nose when he finally asks, "You're not gonna ask me to paint over the wood or rip out the built-in hutch, are ya?"

His relief over your answer is palpable: No. That's why you bought the house in the first place. You describe what you love about it: the glass doorknobs, the dining room archway, and transom windows above the doors. He nods. He knows exactly what you mean.

Before he leaves for the day, he stops at the doorframe and points to the tallest name etched into the wood. You explain it belonged to the previous owners, a family with seven kids.

"Seven," he repeats, eyebrows raised.

"Right? Can you believe that? Seven!" You laugh. Frankly, anything more than two sounds insane. 

But John doesn't laugh. He stares at the names for a moment, his jaw tight. "Yeah. Difficult to imagine."

After he leaves, you scold yourself. You don't really know John. You've known him for all of a day. What if he came from a big family? Or what if he doesn't speak to his family anymore, if things are complicated with his parents? You feel awful, and the guilt channels itself into stress-baking.

The next morning, when he shows up, there's a platter of breakfast pasties waiting on the counter. He hesitates, looks almost bashful, until you insist. He takes a bite, then another, and looks at you with genuine astonishment. He says if you leave food like this every morning, he'll knock his rate down even further.

It makes sense, financially speaking, so you agree. You start making breakfast for two, and in return, he keeps the repairs affordable. The ritual becomes routine: John shows up every weekday morning, you eat together, he gets to work, and you leave. You look forward to seeing him. Hearing his voice rumble out good mornings and goodnights.

For two weeks, you come home to find steady progress on the kitchen. You help him out for an hour or two in the evenings, and by the time it's nearly finished, you've started discussing other parts of the house.

You mention the two smallest children's rooms aren't really usable for tenants. You show him your plans to knock down the wall between them and create a library or office space.

But this time, John doesn't agree.

"First I'm hearing of this," He leans back in his chair at your table. His arms cross over his chest, legs spreading wide. Even sitting, you see what he's doing. Trying to take a posture that carries authority, to cow you. "Tenants? What about a family?"

You try to steer the conversation back to your plans, to the picture you've sketched. "I'm not planning on having one. So, like I was saying—"

"Why buy a house this big, then? Why spend all this time fixin' it up if you're not planning to honor its legacy?"

The tone of his voice shifts completely, with no trace of the easy, flirty banter that's been your norm for weeks. His words drip with disdain. His brow knits together. Nostrils flaring. He looks genuinely upset. Mystified that you're not going to fill the house with your…your brood.

It's as if your refusal to have children is an affront to him personally. 

It sends a chill down your spine. Instantly, your image of him—this dependable, good-humored man—cracks apart. You glance past him, searching for the right words, and focus on the kitchen instead. The cabinets, the fixtures, the paint. All of it bears his mark now, and it leaves a sour taste in your mouth.

The realization settles like a stone in your stomach. You can't keep working with him. Not if your plans for the house, your house, are going to be a problem.

You tell him as much, as gently as possible.

His anger bleeds out of him quickly, melting into embarrassment and shame. His shoulders drop, and he folds into himself in a way that seems almost impossible for someone his size. "Don't know what came over me, darl."

He packs up his tools while apologizing again, both for his outburst and for the unfinished work, and gives you the spare key you lent to him for emergencies. Before he leaves, he asks you not to write a review, not even a positive one, and you agree. Things had been good until now. You don't want to ruin him over this. People have bad days.

With the kitchen functional and nothing too big left on your plate, you cut your losses and decide to finish the work alone.

Progress is slow on your own, of course. One pair of hands, only so many hours after work to chip away at the list after work. Still, time moves faster than you expect. You push through exhaustion, head often swimming, and work late into the evenings. One night, you finish patching the floor and tackle the basement's cracked wall. Only when you get down there, it's already done. Smoothed over perfectly.

You tell yourself John must've fixed it before everything went south. But then you notice other things. Several odd jobs from your list are already complete.

Squeaky door hinges turn silent. The dings and nail holes in the walls, spackled over. The second toilet that kept running starts working correctly. It's partly a relief, like the house is taking care of itself, but also deeply unsettling. You don't remember doing it, you've never sleepwalked or slept-repair in your life, even in your overtired state, and you're still too sore over your falling out to text John and ask if he did it all.

Instead, you decide to take a break. A few days off work, a proper rest. Let the house settle, let yourself breathe. Nothing happens. No floating tools. No ghosts. It's like the house is waiting for you to look away.

Paranoia sets in. You order cameras—indoor and outdoor, enough to cover every angle.

The day they arrive, you barely make it through the door before tearing open the box. But something stops you. Your eyes catch on a strange wooden box sitting on the dining table. It's a shadowbox.

Inside the box is the slat from the front doorframe, the one with the heights and names of the seven kids who grew up here. It's been cut out, perfectly, and framed like an artifact.

Your stomach drops. You scramble to the doorframe and run your hands over it, frantic. The patchwork is seamless, so clean it's like the names never existed.

Then you notice the boots. Tucked in and lined up next to your own pairs. The extra jacket hanging on the hooks.

A shadow falls over you.

You freeze, heart in your throat, and slowly turn with eyes the size of dinner plates. Towering above you, sleeves rolled to his elbows, fists planted on his hips, is John. Grinning.

"Work alright today?" He bends down and pulls you to your feet by your wrist, wrapping you up in an embrace and welcoming you home. He sways slightly with you, like you're dancing, his chest rising and falling against yours. He looks at you with a clear fondness and affection, but there's something off, like a splintering foundation. Stable until you look too close.

You try to push yourself away, palms flat against his chest, but he doesn't let go. "What are—What are you doing here? What are—Why did you do that?" You glance again toward where the measurements used to be.

He chuckles, soft and unbothered, a wistfulness threaded in his words. "Well, we're gonna need the room for our little ones, yeah? Oh, we'll have seven or more, dependin' on what takes. Sliding scale and all that."

At your stunned, horrified silence, he slots a hand into the back pocket of your jeans. He gives your cheek a little squeeze and starts steering you toward the kitchen. The one he built for you.

"C'mon. Lemme tell you all about my plans for us."

[quarterlifekitty]

I heard “medieval/fantasy” and came sprinting‼️

thoughts and feelings on DragonHybrid!Price? I’ve seen him in monster aus, all good and fun, but a fantasy setting scratches my brain just right. I’m personally imagining it as a sort of werewolf situation where he can pass as a normal mortal just fine, but is forced to retreat to a cave in the mountains for (x reason to transform) (bonus points on if you don’t necessarily know he’s a dragon hybrid)

maybe as his transformation draws closer he becomes more animalistic in nature and appearance. matte scales hidden beneath his shirt and trousers, suddenly he’s looking a little more bulky and running a touch hotter than normal. were his pupils always slightly slit-like? he’s suddenly buying shiny objects, buying you gold rings and necklaces, crystal jewelry. he keeps absentmindedly referring to your home as your ‘den’, trying to keep you in the house more often

I haven’t thought through all the nitty gritty details, but the overall idea drives me insane. hugs and kisses, mwah🎀✨

Ok so. I’m a HUGE fan of the trope of being offered as like a human sacrifice and then getting fucked by the monster lol.

So for Dragon!Price I’m thinking that no one knows the dragon can take human form, and John introduces himself as an emissary for the great dragon of the mountains. He sees all of the potential offerings, pretty girls all done up in white linen, and to your terror, you’re selected.

You try to suck it up for the good of your village— the dragon is the one that protects you from other monsters. His mountain brings your community good fortune and plentiful harvest. But that doesn’t mean people aren’t afraid of him— that there aren’t endless tales of horror about what happens to dragon brides.

John, despite his loyalty to the dragon, is good to you as he escorts you up the mountain. He keeps you fed and rested. When you arrive at the caves there’s a sort of antechamber with many human comforts. John dresses you in fine silks and jewels and gold from a seemingly endless selection. He tells you he has to leave— it’s time to meet your new master and husband. You cling to his arm for a moment, silently begging him to stay with you. He tells you not to worry. That the dragon is fond of you already.

When you’re beckoned further into the cave, you see none other than John— his blue eyes slitted, scales running down his bare back, horns protruding and tail swishing on the floor. Half-transformed— he thought it would be the kinder way to take you on your wedding night.

He caresses the skin of your throat, framed in gold chains, and quietly commends himself for his own good taste.

[milksuu]

ᴀ ʀᴜʟᴇ ᴏꜰ ᴀꜱʜ & ꜱᴛᴏʀᴍ ───── ♛ | 𝗣𝗧.𝗢1

pairing: dark!hiccup x f!mute!reader

wc: 1.7k

tw: yandere, implied kidnapping, obsessive/possessive behavior, mention of blood/violence, mention of death

synopsis: You regretted the day they left him for dead. And you’d regret the day you ever saw him again—he’d make sure of that.

A gleam of orange blazed in the bleakness of night.

You watched from your hilltop window—the thatched roofs off the eastern slopes of Berk twisting and writhing in flames. Even from a distance, you heard the breaking moans of ceilings, the cracks and bends of collapsing wooden structures, and the piercing wails of scales met with sharp edges of iron. Despite The Red Death’s fall, dragon raids still plagued the lands.

Perhaps it was all a sign of retribution. 

You were told to stay within the safe confines of your home. Your father hadn’t wanted to risk your life, considering how precious you’d become. The next Seer in line after Gothi, gifted with spiritual wisdom, healing, and authority of officiating the next chief.

But the price to pay had been steep. 

The house was dark, not even the smallest candle lit. Nothing that would draw a glimmer of attention to the home. A creak ached the roof above, and you flitted your nose up to the rafters, drawing lines across the ceiling. Nothing but your shallow breaths filled the silent dark. 

The hearth then erupted with flame and spark, jolting you from back to neck bone. Had you any voice, a strangled scream would’ve ripped from your throat. Twisting, you had almost forgotten to breathe. A figure shrouded in shadow and leather stood beside the crackling firewood. Light and dark danced in an undulating battle across the strangers’ features.

Revealing a horrifying familiarity.

“Hope you don’t mind if I warm this place up a bit.” That voice, boy-ish in tone, lacked any hint of innocence or niceties. He stretched a gloved hand towards the licking flames, doing nothing to warm the ice coating his insides. “Couldn’t help but notice you looked a little cold and...alone.”

A snap of wood made you flinch; addressing him with quivering lips and dilated eyes. Your long-lost greeting didn’t forebode well.

Every piece of leather tightened around his body as he shifted. Turning to ensnare you within his talon like stare. When embers casted a sheen across his face, you braced against the sight. Soft features long since abandoned, reforged into a visage of cold iron. Carved and littered with scars and nicks across his furrowed brows, cheeks, and clenched jaw line.

“Well, this is kind of embarrassing. Wait, no. That’s not the word I was looking for. More like—disappointing. That sounds like a better fit. For you and everyone else here.” Hiccup stalked forward, a contraption of metal clanking and scratching against the splintering floors. Each step clanged through you, until he stood one heartbeat away. “After all these years, I’d thought you’d have a bit more to say. And you want to know something else? Every night, I dreamed about how this conversation would go. Just like how I dreamed things could be better than what they were. Funny how you can plan for things to go a certain way, but then…”

He pressed his hands at each side of your head, the glass window behind begging to crack from the pressure. His scent permeated, forcing you to swallow. Once smelling of spring honey and rolling glades, now sundered to singe your senses like bone ash and lightning storms. 

“Looks like I’m not the only one who’s a little different.” He placed a calloused finger into the dip of your clavicle. He dug and dug until your pained gasp fell deaf to his ears. Tilting his head, he curled the lip of his mouth. “So, just like Gothi, you gave up your voice. Good—great, actually. This works out better for me.” 

The smile that crept over his lips never made it up to his eyes. Not like before. Those vibrant meadows sullied into a sickly, muddled green. Thick and ichorous, and dared you stare long enough, you could never trudge your way out. Afraid of being stuck within them, your hand slipped silently into the pocket of your dress, where your fingers brushed against the hilt of a dagger. 

You drew it a mere inch before his hand captured yours, twisting until he pried it into his possession.

“Come on. We both know you were never good at fighting.” He chuckled, wagging the sharpest point between your trembling eyes. “I’ll admit it. I wasn’t either back then. That’s something we had in common…until I had to be. Guess that didn’t work out in anyone’s favor on this wet piece of rock. Now, did it?”

Your vision blurred. Screams of the village roared in your ears. Screeches of dragons pierced through the air, engulfed in smoke and fire. Having consumed so much in its wake, you felt the heat of chaos leech into the glass. Searing your back pressed against it.

“Woah. Hey, don’t cry. It’s fine. Don’t worry about it.” He swept a rough thumb over a fallen tear stain. “Not all of them will die tonight. I mean, just think about it for a second. Can’t be chief and rule over a bunch of burnt corpses. How counterintuitive would that be?” 

“As for you though…” he continued, and your heart stalled as he traced the cold metal down your flush cheek and neck, pausing just above your breastbone. “I’m only standing here, watching everything and everyone turn to ash around us, all because of you. And don't tell me you don't remember. When you mended my leg. Somehow kept me from bleeding out. Just before the entire village abandoned me.” His clouded eyes narrowed down. “Including you.”

Releasing you from his pinning weight, your legs wobbled. As if he hadn’t just snatched your foothold underneath. Terror kept your feet webbed in place, watching as he twirled your dagger in his fingers like a child's play thing. Crouching near the fire, he mindlessly poked and prodded at the stoking wood. He picked away a scrap of charred chipping, before plunging the blade into the flank of the burning log. You gazed at him, chest tight, aching. How he hadn’t flinched when the fire slicked around his hand like oil.

He dragged the smoldering stump from the hearth, creating a scorched line. When the licks of fire seeped into the house floors, he rose, one vertebra at a time. 

“If I’m being honest, I probably would’ve done the same thing.”

He unhooked a masked contraption from his belt buckle and tightened it over his face. The eye sockets were of yellow stained sea glass, and the mouth of it appeared like a muzzle of iron teeth.

“Leave something already weak, then crippled to survive on its own. Gambling on the high-stakes of death. So sure of the outcome, no one bothered to turn over a shoulder.” Hellfire rose and swelled in the reflection of his mask. “Maybe they should’ve.” 

The rapid hunger of the hearth fire blazed and curled across the floor of the home. Heat lapped towards your skin, drawing out sweat from your pores. Dense smoke began filling the wooden death chamber. You inhaled the black snowflakes, searing your lungs once they melted inside you. You slapped a hard hand over your mouth, coughing and shuddering against it. A pang of panic willed your body to move. You attempted to open the window behind you, but to your horror, it had been welded to the frame. 

Your eyes watered, hugging the wall as you traced it to the door. When the handle clattered against your pulls and tugs, a ghostly laugh floated around you. The metal was bolted shut from the outside. A bout of nausea cramped your stomach. Fear darted your eyes toward the stairs, where the flames hadn’t yet reached—but soon. Perhaps the window of your room hadn’t been tampered with. 

You darted towards the steps, and before you could place one foot up, a black beast stalked from the darkness of the second floor.

The floating embers danced hauntingly over the onyx scales, and gashes rippled in the firelight. Revealing wounds healed twice, perhaps three times over. That body of night perfectly reflected it's master’s outward appearance.

And as you drowned in those feral slits of pure abandon, it was apparent they also shared the same broken, unmendable soul. 

“Oh. You remember Toothless, don’t you?” Your face paled, backing slowly as the Nightfury slithered down the steps like black ink. A predatory growl rumbled above the snapping and collapsing wood around you. Hiccup sauntered to the dragon’s side, patting the thick of his neck, pulsing with power. Another laugh at your expense. “Looks like he remembers you.”

You fought the claw of unconsciousness raking over every part of you. Choking, straining against your hand pathetically covering your mouth.

“Since you did me a favor back then, I’m going to give you one last chance to make it up to me.” The mask muffled his voice, but the wickedness screamed, rattling your veins. “You can either choose to stay here and burn with the rest of Berk or…” he lifted a hand, hardly an invitation, but a devilish bargain. “You can choose me.”

In the thick of your pounding head and chest, you considered burning to death was the wiser option of the two. All that he was—what he’d inevitably become—held no promise of a life worth degrading yourself for. Nothing about you would be spared. And it wouldn’t be long till you dropped on hands and knees, begging for him to take your life. To end his drawn out game of torture. One he’d carefully crafted for years and years. 

Just for you, only for you.  

Still, you clung to life. A measly mortal thread. Your shaking hand lifted, painfully reaching for his fingertips. One step forward, and the world spun in wisps of red and black. Your lungs and heart throbbed, practically seizing. A calculated arm caught you, cradling you wholly, close as any lover would. 

“Good choice.” 

You heard the waning words of approval, and through the fading light of your vision, something fastened over your face. Your last conscious breath had been clean, airy—a pleasant contrast to the toxic fumes. 

Then, nothing.

part one | part two

[hometoursandotherstuff]

Two residences for sale as one- 1880 Church and Parsonage in Portland, OR, total of 7bds, 4ba, 9,175sqft. There are 4 separate units and the price is for all 4 of them- $2.548m.

The current owner transformed it into a showcase of museum quality Moroccan and world collections of doors, fixtures, finishes and treasures. The home was featured on HGTV's "Extreme Homes," which is surprising b/c it's not gray scale or white.

The molded lotus tin ceilings were sourced from an orphanage in OR in the 1900's.

The furniture is beautiful, but there's nothing about conveying. But, it does say that you can transform it into a glamorous restaurant, B&B, Airbnb, artist compound, communal or multigenerational living compound, an incredible coffee shop, art gallery/museum, or back into a church.

Douglas fir flooring from a local Portland Galleria. He really put in quality materials.

We're up in the choir loft, but thru the door, there's another loft.

See? This bedroom across the way is in a loft, too.

The tub kind of gives me the heebie jeebies. This is a 2-story bath- you can see the railing on the left.

Steps go up to the attic.

Where the primary bedroom is located.

It features a Juliet balcony.

This is another unit in the basement. It has a spacious living room area.

Plus a spacious, but compact, kitchen.

Nice bedroom and ensuite shower room.

The more modern unit must be in the parsonage.

It's one open space, like a giant studio apt.

The primary bedroom may be private, I think it has curtains or sliders, but they show it from a distance. Looks like there's a walk-in closet on the left.

The bath is large, but looks like a typical basement bath.

There's a beautiful deck with a covered seating area.

The grounds are gorgeous- look at the hippos.

Lovely patio.

There's even a fountain.

The treed lot is between 5,000 to 6,999sqft.

https://www.zillow.com/homedetails/3135-SE-Van-Waters-St-Portland-OR-97222/2073899982_zpid/

[wrestlingwithlife]

Chew Toy (COD MONSTER AU)

When you have a mouthy werewolf on the team it pays to have thick skin (or scales).

COD!Monster!AU x Male!Kaiju!Reader

——————————————————————————————————————

Y/n let his eyes follow Soap’s pacing figure as he practically stalked around the common room, obviously restless.

His clawed hand came up, scratching at the skin around his collar.

Price had argued against it, but the higher ups had insisted on the kaiju wearing some kind of “fail safe” of sorts, should he go rouge.

So they settled on a shock collar, much to the displeasure of the task force.

Price had been badgering Laswell to get the order revoked, and the human female was doing her best, but Y/n wasn’t going to complain.

This was a massive upgrade to what he was used to.

“Is it like this for every werewolf?”

Soap’s eyes honed in on the Kaiju, zoning back in to process his question.

His eyes were a much more vibrant shade of blue, atleast they seemed to Y/n.

The werewolf flopped onto the couch with a huff, the cushion dipping and making him accidentally lean closer to the warm body beside him.

Allegedly.

“It’s different for every wolf, but they all experience atleast something similar on full moons.” Soap shrugged, tail flicking back and forth.

Seemed like at least one part of his body insisted on being active.

“Do kaiju’s get anything like that?”

Y/n clicked his tongue, leaning his head back in thought.

He’d only ever met one other Kaiju in his life cycle, and she’d seemed nothing but perfectly calm and capable at any given moment.

“Not that I know of, nothing like this though.” He mused, nodding to Soap’s twitching. “There’s no set time for it, at the very least.”

Soap mulled over his words before his thoughts were cut off.

“How do you cope?”

His eyes flickered back to the kaiju, eyes locking on to the intense e/c hues.

He was honestly shocked, and quite pleased, at how much he was putting into the conversation.

“Depends, sometimes I’m just put in quarantine, most of the time guys come in and help me blow off some steam.”

He caught the way Y/n stopped, giving him a look out of the corner of his eye.

In his defense, coming out of Soap, you just never knew.

“Not like that.” The werewolf huffed, swatting at the larger hybrids arm, before giving him a grin. “But if you wanna…~”

“Down boy.” Y/n snorted, shrugging the wolf off him.

Soap barked out a laugh, tossing his head back, tail speeding up.

“We’ll see~”

・゜゜・．・゜゜・．・゜゜・．・゜゜・．・゜・

Y/n stood behind Ghost, watch over the wraiths shoulder through the one way glass into the padded training room.

Soap’s wolf prowled around, occasionally lunging at the few training dummies that had been left inside.

“Shouldn’t he have calmed down by now?” Gaz mused, leaning against one of the walls of the viewing room with his arms folded over his chest.

Price sighed, scratching his beard with a nod.

“Doesn’t normally take him this long. I’d say we go down, but he’s more mouthy than usual.”

“I can do it.”

All eyes turned onto the Kaiju, mostly out of surprise that he’d even spoken up at all.

“You sure? You’ve not gone through…” There was a loud rip as Soap tore the head off a dummy. “…this.”

Y/n shrugged, his heavy tail scraping the concrete floor behind him.

“My skins impenetrable, atleast to anything he can do, even like this.” He motioned to the wolf still throwing a fit below them.

Price mulled over it for a moment before reluctantly giving in.

“Fine, but if he gets to wild I’m pulling you out.”

Y/n made his way out of the viewing room and down towards the training room door.

Soap had honed in on him the second he’d heard the door click, posture ridged and ears forward.

His tail was wagging, and Y/n would have taken that as good sign, had he not immediately come barreling towards him.

Y/n braced, catching the wolf on his shoulder and stopping him in his tracks.

He heard the snapping of jaws, but even in the places they were able to connect, they couldn’t break the Kaiju’s skin.

Y/n managed to get his arms around the werewolf’s neck, trapping him in a headlock and dragging them both to the floor.

Soap’s tongue lolled out as they wrestled, blue eyes widening as Y/n’s arm came within reach, lunging for the exposed limb.

The s/c skin immediately changed black as it hardened protectively, the werewolves ivory teeth bouncing off uselessly.

Soap broke away, eyes wide as he stared, as if offended, at the slowly fading color of Y/n’s arm.

He huffed, curiosity seemingly taking over whatever fight he had left as he padded closer, sniffing at the skin of the arm.

The kaiju offered the arm to him for a closer look, happy to do this instead of wrestle.

Soap gave the skin a tentative lick, eyeing Y/n’s face before taking the arm back into his mouth and biting down again, softer this time.

Once again, the skin changed color, hardening where the teeth pressed.

He let out a rumble, the brown canine clearly unsure what to make of his new discovery.

The door to the room opened again, the rest of the force making their way in, but Soap hardly looked up from Y/n’s arm.

・゜゜・．・゜゜・．・゜゜・．・゜゜・．・゜・

“Got any threes?”

“Go fish.”

Gaz groaned, drawing a card from the pile, giving Y/n a skeptical look.

“You’re cheating.”

“Who cheats at ‘Go Fish’?”

His wings fluffed, almost hitting Price who was sitting behind him, watching over his shoulder.

Ghost was doing to the same to Y/n, leaning closer to peer over his cards.

“Nope, he’s got a clear conscience.”

Y/n gave a pleased hum, shifting a bit as Soap moved his tail once more.

The wolf was splayed out behind the group, the Kaiju’s black, scaled tail held between his two front paws as he gnawed on the end.

Y/n could hardly feel the pressure, and besides the wolf drool, there was no evidence of anything out of the ordinary when the wolf would pull back to look at his work.

“Got any fours?”

Gaz grumbled, but passed the card to Y/n who added the pair to his ever growing collection.

“Yer getting obliterated.” Price chuckled, dodging a wing slap from Gaz.

“I know that!”

The outburst drew Soap’s attention, the werewolf now keen on being apart of the circle.

Y/n felt his tail drop, looking back only to see the quickly approaching wall of fur and muscle.

Neither Y/n nor Ghost stood a chance as the werewolf came crashing down onto the them, pinning the two under his massive weight.

“Get off, ya mutt.” The wraith hissed, fighting to free atleast one of his limbs, shadows pulling and pushing on the canine to try and will him to move with no such luck.

Y/n groan as the air was forced out of his lungs, dodging playful licks to the face as best as he could.

The cards were scattered everywhere, Price and Gaz blinking in surprise at the turn.

“Does this mean I win?”

Soap whipped his head around, tongue lolling, giving Y/n a chance to catch his breath.

Soap reached out with a massive paw, hooking it around Gaz. Price, who’d been sitting to close, getting dragged in along with him in a mass of tangled wings and thrashing tails.

Price grunted, getting tucked right next to Y/n beneath the mass of fur.

“Come here often?”

Price rolled his eyes playfully at that, swatting the e/c eyed male with his tail.

“More often than not.”

“So this is normal?” Y/n nodded up at Soap, who was now giving Gaz the same treatment he’d give Y/n moments before.

“Eh, something along the lines of it. Never seen this before.” He mused, using his one free arm to gesture to the dog pile they were trapped in.

Y/n puffed before settling back, as if accepting his fate, and Price followed suite, head flopping back against the padded floor.

The dragon felt the scraping of other scales against his tail, finding that his tail had instinctively wrapped itself with the thicker tail of the Kaiju beside him.

He was about to apologize, to move his rouge appendage, when he felt the other’s tail tighten around his in return.

No words were said, they didn’t need to be, Price was already turning a pretty shade of pink.

—————————————————————————

Boom, only took me way to long to get this done haha

Sorry if the ending felt a bit abrupt, I wanted to end on something fluffy but obviously nothing romantic has been established in this story line and I didn’t want to have them acting to out of character.

So I still haven’t decided on a call sign yet, but I have narrowed it down to two choices for you guys to pick from below, so please let me know!

[gremlingottoosilly]

werebear!price getting extra adamant on feeding you as winter approaches. Gotta stock up before hibernation.

I bet he’d enjoy an extra sleepy pet if he went pet shopping

One of the main reasons he picked you in the human pet shop is because you proceeded to sleep through whatever he was doing. Price isn't the most subtle being in this building - he is heavy and imposing, even if his human form, and he by no means is trying to make himself smaller. It doesn't bother little sleepy you - not even when your cellmates are pushing and screaming, either trying to get away or as close to a possible ticket to freedom as possible. You were...sleepy. Always tired and exhausted, you're no match to his boys - especially to Soap's bursts of energy and Gaz's desire to hunt for his mate through the woods. They still adore you, obviously, they love to tease and to make you scared of them, but you eventually fall into this sleepy hazy state, and now you belong to your big bear. Fully. Price makes sure to bring you the best blankets he could find - he digs up scales and weight you before the hibernation starts because he is scared of you being starved back in the shop, that you need to take on a bit more kilos until you can be safely tucked away under his arm. He loves to just make you hang out in his office, you're chained to the floor on a warm, fuzzy carpet - you're so sleepy when you just lay next to his thigh, snoring softly, a warm blanket draped over your shoulders. He doesn't keep you on his lap because he wants to be able to go out of the room without disturbing sleepy little you - you're always so weak and pathetic after you wake up, your poor attempts at hiding from your new life aren't working because you wake up and it's the same people, all over again. You wake up and you're still his pet...so you just fall asleep again.

[0bticeo]

aemond targaryen | you owe a debt

summary:

you grit your teeth.

you’re a long way from dragonstone. with you plummeting towards the ground, leaving aemond above, you’ve bought yourself a few precious seconds ー not enough. far from enough. your dragon is the fastest alive, yes. with you alone on his back, he could outrun vaghar. but there’s two of you, a storm is raging and aemond is catching up.

you still.

he’s there.

wc. 1.6k

tw. unreseolved sexual tension, niece!reader (targcest), mild description of blood and gore, hubris, fix-it fic set in season one epsiode ten.

the rain is cold on your face, like tiny pinpricks of ice piercing your skin. raging wind blowing through your ears, you hear your dragon roar above the thunder. the force of it spreads through your bones. eyes half closed against the storm, fists clenched on the handles of your saddle, you curse. 

sending your younger brother alone, what was your mother thinking? 

he wants revenge. an eye for an eyeーa fair price. he could’ve asked for lucerys’ life. ( he must’ve been itching to do it, to draw his sword, sharp blade slicing your brother’s throat. to watch the blood pour out, spilling on the round hall’s floors.)

you see it, then. the dark mass before you, coming in closer and closer with each beat of your dragon’s wings. vaghar, largest, oldest dragon in the world. a massive, battle-hardened beast, with wrath etched in every inch of her being, begging to be unleashed, held tight behind her master’s iron will. (you think you hear him begging her to stop. )

high valyrian rolls off your tongue, scraping against your throat in a bark. 

faster.

visegar obliges, wings spread out against the storm. your breath hitches with how fast you’re going, strands of hair clinging to your face like you do to your reigns. 

you’re close enough to see arrax now, as small and young and terrified as his rider. 

close enough to hear aemond’s laughter. close enough to hear his tauntsー you owe a debt, boy . vaghar opens her gaping mouth, fangs gleaming under the pouring rainー

this will start a war. this will have your brother dying, torn up to pieces.

you will not let him die.

when you strike, it’s from below. lightning-fast, a blur of black scales, snatching your brother inches away from vaghar’s gaping maw. you feel her heated breath on your skin, the putrid scent of it – how many were left to rot there? 

you meet your uncle’s eye and he recognises you. 

you see it in how that mouth of his twists in a grin, tongue licking his lips in a slow drag. in how his eye traces your frame, sharpening upon noticing your stance.

“and what do you hope to do with that blade of yours?” there’s a flash of amusement in that coy grin of his. “surely, you can do better, niece .”

and he knows you can. he’s seen you in the training yard, wielding your mighty bow. he’s seen you grasping arrow after arrow, pulling them out of your quiver in an inhumanely fast gesture. he’s seen you hit target after target. he’s seen you run out of arrows and switch to the sword at your side, calling out for a sparring partner. 

(he’d been the one stepping forward, lip curling in that coy grin of his.)

now, your mouth is drying.

you’ve left your bow and arrows behind in your haste to get there. at this range, the sword is useless. 

you snarl, poison-laced words ready to strike because you yourself can’tー

your brother is screaming.

you look down and see arrax falling. with him, your brother. both of them, tumbling to the ground, spiralling down. arrax, almost torn in half, holding it together in a gory mess of viscera and torn up bones, wings beating erratically in a desperate attempt at stopping his fall. there’s so much red.

plunge.

plunge towards the ground at break-neck speed, visegar’s wings folding by his sides, almost brushing your arms. your shoulders are set ablaze. from the sheer strength it takes you to remain on your dragon’s back, or from your uncle’s heated gaze, you do not know.

soon you’re within arm’s reach. one look at arrax tells you trying to save them both is hopeless. 

“lucerys!”

he doesn’t look at you. he can’t, not with the wind roaring at his ears, not with arrax’s pain merging with his pure terror, not with the sea and its devouring waves below, they’re pulling him in, he’s going to dieー

you grab your brother’s arm and pull , high valyrian leaving your tongue in a bark. 

“visegar, up! ”

and so he obliges, your faithful dragon, leaving his brethren to crash in the hungry waves beneath. for a split second, you remain like that. floating in a never-ending storm, with your brother clinging to you, legs hanging in the void, hands in a vice grip around his flesh because you must not let him fall . 

so you pull and pull , muscles begging for you to stop, praying to gods old and new that your strength doesn’t fail you, that your uncle doesn’t catch up, not now .

then he’s on your saddle, and you press him against you, arms surrounding him, firmly pressing his hands on the saddle’s pommel for purchase. you do not let him see arrax’s fall. he’s safe. for now.

you grit your teeth. 

you’re a long way from dragonstone. with you plummeting towards the ground, leaving aemond above, you’ve bought yourself a few precious seconds ー not enough. far from enough. your dragon is the fastest alive, yes. with you alone on his back, he could outrun vaghar. but there’s two of you, a storm is raging and aemond is catching up.

you still. 

he’s there.

right behind you, hot on your tail. you do not need to turn to see the wide grin etched on his pale features. you hear it in the low baritone of his voice, in the venom of his words. 

give up, niece.

and you can only weigh the odds. you cannot fight him. not with your brother there, clinging to your forearm tighter than one would to a lifeline. not with this storm. not without your prized weapons. you’re bound to lose, and he knows it.

you feel lucerys shift, looking up at you. oh, brave, brave boy with terror in his eyes. 

“it’s me he wants.” he gulps. “if you hand me over to him, you might get awayー”

you bite your lip.

each beat of dragon wing drives you closer to dragonstone. you can get there. you have to. it’s not just a matter of ensuring your brother’s safety ー or yours for that matters. it’s that should the both of you die here by aemond’s hand, war would break out.

greens and blacks have daggers held at each other’s throats. the slightest mishap will draw blood. you will not let your death be the reason a fragile, relative peace is broken.

but you can’t kill aemond either, can you? 

“niece.”

your attention snaps back to him. you find him already watching, hungry gaze never leaving you. he’s waiting, this wretched, cunning beast of a man. waiting for your move.

your dragon is the fastest alive, yes. with you alone on his back, he could outrun vaghar. but there’s two of you on his back and a raging storm against his wings. 

but if there was only one rider…

you don’t have a choice. 

beneath you, visegar rises to attention. does he feel it, your fear? does he feel it, your unyielding resolve?

your hand closes around your brother’s shoulder, gently squeezing it. 

“whatever happens, fly home and do not stop .”

visegar moves. faster than all-mighty vaghar can see, faster than aemond can see, spiking above them both.

your brother is screaming.

you’re falling.

you’re falling, and there’s nothing to stop you. the gaping mouth of the sea will swallow you and leave nothing behind. you wonder if you’ll die upon hitting the water, bones shattering with the impact. you wonder if you’ll drown, if the fall doesn’t kill you. you wonder if you’ll taste arrax’s blood. 

you’re falling, and everything blurs before your eyes, storm grey and rain and a blue so dark it’s almost black. there’s lightning streaking the sky above, waves crashing down below ー and you do not know what’s up and what’s down anymore. the wind is merciless, splitting your ears with its force.

you’re falling, limbs spread out, gasping for air, and it feels like thousands and thousands of hands are pressing down on your heart and you can’t breathe ー

you think the wind roars your name. you think you see a great, black void coming from above, like the meteors the maesters weaved tales about for your entertainment. 

you feel as though you’re floating. you’re flying without a dragon. does that make you a god? you think you’re laughing.

you’re falling and it’s a gamble .

you’ve seen aemond’s stare. felt it burn like dragon fire on your skin, felt its pull down to your core as you fired arrow after arrow in the training yard. you’ve seen his signature half-smile widen just a tad bit as your swords clashed, felt the heat radiating off him as you pulled him closer, close enough for your dagger to brush against his jaw. 

(close enough to see his eye dart to your lips, pupil dilating for a brief second. close enough to feel his warm breath on your cheek. close enough to feel the lean muscles of his chest beneath the black leather of his clothes. close enough for him to bend down, lips brushing your ear in a low voice that left you with a hollow ache and clenching thighs.

“surely, you can do better, niece.”) 

you intrigue him, at the very least.

so when he comes, when he catches you mid-fall and cradles you against the warmth of him, with your name on his lips and what surely cannot be fear but is, you cannot help but smile. 

your grin flashes, as sharp as your blade.

“is that better, uncle?”

[alexanderwales]

Recommendations for societies with mixed halfling/human races follow. The average halfling is assumed, from demographic estimates, to weigh 30 pounds (14 kg) and stand approximately 3 feet (1 meter) tall.

All public places where people are expected to be seated need a mix of regular/small seating. Ideally, all chairs and tables will be adjustable, but this comes with cost considerations.

All doors must be accessible for people of all sizes. This presents a challenge for doorknobs and door handles, and the recommendation is a long vertical bar accessible for both, along with low "minimum force" levels for opening and closing. Problems with locking mechanisms remain, and while floor bolts are height-neutral, they're more suited to secondary locking mechanisms.

All restaurants, cafeterias, and vending machines should stock two differently sized portions. The average halfling consumes roughly a third the amount of food as a human. Because of various frictions (packaging, labor), prices are expected to be more than one third for a halfling portion. Because of this, it's best to have systems in place that allow splitting human-sized dishes, or bringing home leftovers, or making packages resealable.

Housing presents a serious problem. A single-family dwelling for a halfling family requires roughly one fifth the volume as for a single-family human dwelling, though costs do not scale down at the same rate. However, if built to halfling scale, the interior of the dwelling will only be accessible to halflings, which presents serious problems for e.g. police, firefighters, social workers, repairmen, or anyone else who might have cause to go into the interior of the home, to say nothing of friends and coworkers. Building for halfling scale is attractive for a variety of reasons, with cost being one of the biggest, but this might result in de facto segregation, and puts considerable strain on civic infrastructure and city markets due to duplication. Another social concern is that all interactions might, by default, take place inside human homes which have worse accommodations for halflings. Special note should also be made of mixed-species couples, who suffer extra burdens within the household. These problems are intractable, as some trade-off must always be made.

Tools, household goods, and clothing are naturally split into two markets. For clothing, near-complete segregation is expected. For everything else, partial segregation is expected: a halfling cannot effectively use many human tools due to differences in grip strength and grip circumference, to say nothing of brute strength. However, many consumables can suit both species, and it's expected that cost reduction efforts will inevitably result in a single offering for both in cases where that makes remotely makes sense. Purchases using refillable containers from bulk are encouraged, as each person can determine what's best to fulfill their own needs.

Due to lower costs (housing, food, clothing), halflings can in theory work for lower wages. For certain jobs, particularly those requiring physical strength, humans are more capable on average, and for others, particularly those requiring manual dexterity, halflings are more capable on average. For jobs which do not have significant differences, wage discrimination is recommended by contentious, and is an ongoing conversation.

There are a number of "segregationist forces" in society, driven by convenience, culture, and market forces. Once segregation has become, there is every expectation that it will snowball: a neighborhood which is inaccessible to humans will have businesses that cater only to halflings, and once halfling business is concentrated, any "mixed" business has less incentive to cater to halflings. Legislation can counterbalance these forces by requiring that all businesses be able to service both humans and halflings, and accommodate both human and halfling services, but this admittedly comes at enormous cost.

Overall, there are certain recommendations that are nearly costless and can be implemented as best practices immediately, and more complicated, costly reforms that will take significant political will and budgetary consideration. Beyond that, there are questions of social engineering and the level to which it is important or preferable that these things be done.

[synthetickitsune]

Merman!Jeonghan (SVT) | Net angst | 0.9k | gn!reader cw: injuries, mentions of merfolk trafficking -> mermay masterlist

The one fucking day you’re on the boat alone.

Just your luck.

“How did you get stuck? Aren’t you, like, supposed to be as smart as a human?” you grunt while trying (and failing) to make sense of the net currently wrapped and tied and tangled all around the vaguely human-shaped being flopping on the floor. He isn’t making it exactly easier.

“My friends pushed me there,” he growls back.

“Some nice friends you got there,” you roll your eyes. A pale arm flashes among the dark rope for a second before it disappears again into the mess of the netting - disappears somewhere you supposed his throat would be. Shit. You stop and straighten, staring at the impossible task in front of you.

“Are you choking?” you ask because at this point being anything but straightforward is a waste of time.

“Your net is trying to strangle me, yes,” he hisses. Yet he doesn’t stop struggling.

“Alright, so can you please stay still?” you sigh. Your hand wraps around the handle of the knife strapped to your hip. Then you shake your head. The net is too expensive for that. “I will help you but unwrapping you is impossible if you keep struggling.”

“I’m bleeding and choking, sorry I didn’t think to sit back and relax,” he snaps but at least he listens.

You kneel down and get to work. This wasn’t what you had in mind at all - the reason you decided to sail out alone in the first place, despite the dangers, was to work. Because you desperately needed money and it doesn’t grow on trees. But you won’t catch any fish if the net is occupied by a mouthy merman. Then again he could fetch a nice price. If you were willing to abandon your morals and principles, that is.

It’s a challenge but a manageable one when the creature finally stops trashing all over the place. You’d be willing to bet he wasn’t this badly tangled before he started panicking once you pulled him out of the water. The worst is the hair. First because it’s everywhere and it basically wound itself into the rope and second because, unsurprisingly, untangling it is going to hurt regardless of how careful you try to be.

He’s trying to stay silent but the rope burns and irritates his injuries and his scalp must be in hell. You’re trying to be gentle because you do have sympathy, there’s just not much you can actually do. You wince with every roughly pulled out scale that leaves a bleeding hole in his skin.

It takes much longer than you expected to free him. The sky's still blue but the sun is ready to start its descent. You heave a sigh and lean back against the ship’s side. Finally you take a proper look at the only thing you’ve caught the whole day. And it certainly is a catch.

It’s hardly an exaggeration to say he takes your breath away. You think if you were a different kind of person, you wouldn’t have to work another day in your life if you just sold him to the smugglers.

“Stop staring, it’s rude,” he clears his throat and looks away. Is he… shy? You quirk a brow.

“Where’s your sass now?” you smirk and hold his gaze when he glares at you.

“It’s the bloodloss,” he nods towards the many cuts on his skin and tail. Right. The cuts. Red bloody streaks all over the floor.

“Stay,” you point your finger at him and get up to grab the first aid kit.

Only when you sit next to him and properly look at him do you notice that he’s paler than he should be. His breathing is more laboured. The cuts, at least most of them, aren’t too deep but there’s plenty.

“What’s your name?” you ask while you dab around the first cut. He hisses and jerks at the burn but soon forces himself to sit still.

“Jeonghan,” he answers and simply nods when you introduce yourself in turn. You focus on cleaning his wounds. You have no idea if there’s any point to it but it makes you feel better. Even though you’re still not sure how responsible you should feel for his injuries.

“Thank you,” he says suddenly, almost too quiet for you to hear, “For freeing me. You didn’t have to do that.”

“Yeah, so find some better friends,” you huff. 

The cuts on his tail are particularly nasty. He doesn’t have the strength to hold back anymore and whimpers whenever you have to pull out the scales that got mangled by the net and embedded themselves into his flesh at painful angles.

“I usually manage to dodge at the last minute,” he pants out. You roll your eyes. 

By the time you’re finished, the sun is setting. The cuts stopped bleeding but Jeonghan can barely keep his eyes open so you let him rest while you start the slow return trip back to shore. 

Watching him sleep you realize how vulnerable he is. It could be an act of course, but the slow rise and fall of his chest makes something inside you hurt anyway.

You help him over the side of the ship before you get too close to civilization and watch his clumsy fall back into the ocean. You don’t expect to see him after he disappears under the surface so you jump when you hear his voice calling your name just as you step behind the rudder. 

“Come back here tomorrow around noon,” Jeonghan calls. He’s even more beautiful in water. “I’ll help you catch more than you ever did to make up for today.”

You smile.

“Sure,” you shrug and let your lips twist into a smirk, “If you don’t I’ll just catch you again.”

He grins. You consider your challenge accepted.

[corroded-hellfire]

Okay this is random but I work at a daycare and this little boy who’s about two years old looks exactly like his dad and their eyes are just so blue and distinctive but he has his mom’s hair and I was just wondering if you could write something like that with Eddie x reader, I just think it would be so cute to see their little mini me ! I love your work so sos much no pressure if you don’t want to of course:) 

Eddie as a father? If only I had some experience writing that 😜 I hope you enjoy your and Eddie’s little mini me!

Words: 900

“Can you believe it?”

“No. I mean, it’s been two years and no.”

Max and Dustin sit on the floor of your living room, watching your son rummage through the toy box on the other side of the deep brown coffee table until he finds something suitable to play with his babysitters.

Bret settles on his Fisher Price Rescue Hero action figures and tries to collect as many of them in his tiny arms as he can. A few curly strands of hair fall into his eyes which he shakes out of the way as well as he can manage in this position. Satisfied with the haul he’s gathered, he lugs himself out of the toy box and toddles back over to his favorite aunt and uncle. At least that’s what Max and Dustin tell themselves. 

“He’s like their clone,” Max speaks softly as Bret sits down and spreads the toys around his small body to get a better look. “Dad’s hair curls. Mom’s hair color.”

“Dad’s eye color, Mom’s skin tone. Jesus, I’d swear Eddie grew him in a lab if he knew the first thing about science.”

“Technically, Bret is here because of biology,” Max teases as the two-year-old in question hands the redhead a construction worker action figure.

“The one aspect of science Eddie’s willing to experiment with time and time again,” Dustin says. 

“Hmm?” the little boy asks Max, having heard her say his name.

“Huh?” Max asks, looking down at the youngest Munson. “Oh. Um, what game are we playing?”

“We playin’ heroes!” Bret announces, having the firefighting action figure he’s holding fly in an arc over his head. 

“Are they superheroes?” Dustin asks. He lays flat on his stomach to be more on an equal level with the toddler. Action figures of every occupation are spread out in front of him on the plush navy blue carpet. 

“Not all,” Bret says with a shrug, which is the spitting image of one of your usual quirks. 

“Which one do you want to be?” Max asks. 

Bret’s eyes scan the variety of toys laid out around him, his small tongue peeking out from between his lips as he thinks about it. Max can’t help but chuckle at the familiar image in front of her, just on a smaller scale. 

“I don’t know!” Bret pouts, his lower lip jutting out. He slumps down on the carpet, his head coming to rest on his Uncle Dusty’s shoulder. 

“Aw, come on, Mini Munson.” Dustin rolls onto his back and lifts Bret over his head. The two-year-old giggles wildly and starts to kick his feet as if he’s trying to swim away. The laughter is so loud and piercing that none of the three hear the front door opening.

“Careful,” Eddie says as he walks into the room, you trailing just behind him. “He had a few waffles for breakfast, and I don’t want to see them come back up over Uncle Dusty’s face.”

Bret giggles—slightly evilly—as if this would be hilarious.

You set your purse down and slip your shoes off, throwing Max a smile.

“How was the troublemaker?”

“The usual amount of trouble,” she tells you.

“So, nowhere near as much as his father. Got it.” 

Your husband walks towards Dustin, ready to scoop your son up out of his grip, but the little boy squeals and dodges his hands.

“Hey,” Eddie pouts, which only makes Bret giggle. “Bret Michael Munson. Are you trying to escape your old man?”

“Yeah!” he replies cheerfully, making Dustin laugh. 

Eddie softly kicks his best friend’s shoulder with his socked foot. 

Across the room, Max accepts the glass of water you hand her.

“How was your afternoon date?” she asks.

“It was fun. The weather’s really nice and I beat Eddie by three points because he couldn’t hit his ball through the little windmill,” you say with a giggle.

“You’re definitely going to have to be the one to teach Bret to play mini golf,” Max says. 

The two of you look over to your son, where he seems to be the object of a game of keep away between Eddie and Dustin. Bret giggles wildly, his face scrunching up in a way that makes the tip of his nose wiggle.

“It’s so crazy how much he looks like you when he scrunches his face like that,” Max says, shaking her head in amazement. 

Bret must’ve caught his aunt’s words because he looks over at the two of you, a tiny furrow between his brows.

“But Mommy’s a girl!” he protests. 

You blow him a kiss and he’s quickly sucked back into whatever game he’s playing with the guys. 

Once Bret is tuckered out from the roughhousing, he plops down on Dustin’s chest and Eddie makes his way over to you. He catches wind of your and Max’s conversation of how your son looks just like the two of you. When Max slips away to grab her things, Eddie places his hands on your hips from behind and rests his chin on your shoulder. 

“Wanna make another one and see if they look more like you or me?”

Just the thought sends a pleasant tingle down your spine.

“You’re on, Munson. Meet me in our room. Nap time.”

“Bret’s or mine?”

A snort of laughter bursts out of you, causing Eddie to smile and only hold onto you tighter. 

[donjuaninhell]

(I Will Soon Be Offering) Private Guitar Lessons

A few months ago one of my followers asked if I had ever thought about offering guitar lessons online via webcam. I replied that it was indeed something I had thought about but that I would need to give it more thought as to how I would approach teaching online, whether or not I had the proper equipment to provide a professional experience, how many students I could take on, and what exactly I could offer as a teacher. I also noted that I would have to create a suitable space in my apartment for hosting students. This last part took care of itself when my roommate moved out and I am presently converting his old bedroom into an office. As for the rest? Well I gave it some thought and I've hacked together reasonable solutions for most of those other issues, so I would like to announce that beginning later this winter/this spring I will be offering private one-on-one guitar lessons via webcam.

My Qualifications:

While I graduated with a degree in Classics and attended graduate school in that field, I was initially accepted into university as a music major on the basis of my guitar playing. It was only after a few years that I switched majors into Classics. In the end I still managed enough credits to claim a minor in music.

Before attending university I spent a year studying jazz theory/jazz improvisation at the college level.

Both prior to and concurrent with my college/university music education I studied classical guitar privately with a teacher for a little over a decade; through him I can claim teaching lineage back to Francisco Tárrega.

I have played in a few garage bands that never really went anywhere, performed with friends at house parties, jammed around as much as I could, and performed live as a solo guitarist.

I previously taught guitar while in university; this is not my first rodeo.

I have been playing guitar for a little over twenty three years.

What I Can Offer:

If you're a beginner I can happily guide your playing to a level where you would feel comfortable learning songs on your own, and we would start with learning basic chords, basic technique, and putting it all together into learning a few songs.

If you're past the beginner stage, I can take your playing to a level where you would be able to convincingly improvise a solo over a song, play more advanced songs, and sit in with a jam session.

If learning to read sheet music is a goal am able to assist with that.

If you're interested in beginner classical guitar I would feel comfortable teaching repertoire and technique to the level of Royal Conservatory of Music Grade Five examinations. Grade Five repertoire is typically the minimum requirement when auditioning on guitar for a university level music program in Canada. I have several guitar methods at my disposal for teaching technique, and access to a wide array of repertoire sheet music.

I am also able to teach theory as it pertains to playing the guitar and point you towards texts that from beginner levels up to basic harmonic analysis. I can teach you how chords are constructed, how they fit together into a progression, and the basic grammar of music.

Lessons, Pricing, What to Expect, What a Prospective Student Will Require:

The going rate for private music lessons is $40-$50 per hour and ranges up to well over $100 for some in demand teachers. My fee operates on a sliding scale with a floor of $20USD/$25CAD per hour. If you are comfortable paying the typical going rate, wonderful, if you are unable to afford that, we can work something out, no questions asked. Payment should be sent through PayPal or Interac e-transfer.

Due to chronic illness I can't take on more than five students a week. They needn't necessarily be the same five students every week; if a bi-weekly lesson schedule works better for a number of people, they can alternate. In the rare event that there is more demand than that mutuals and longtime followers will have priority.

What you need as a student: A guitar; a webcam; a microphone; a way of letting me hear your playing. This could mean having your microphone positioned so that I can hear your amplifier clearly, or by using a direct input. Feel free to shoot me a message if you want some recommendations for inexpensive DI-boxes and audio interfaces. Headphones would be a good idea too.

If you commit to more than one lesson the first will be free of charge. Your first lesson with me will look something like this: we'll talk about your goals and intentions i.e. what it is you hope to get out of taking guitar lessons and how far you want to take your playing. As we chat about that we can chart out a course to get you there, and then we'll just generally see where you're at. The rest of the lesson will be taken up with some pointers on properly caring for and tuning your instrument, and then we'll put some thought towards the way our bodies are posed, how we have the guitar positioned in relation to our bodies, exercising good hand ergonomics, and finding a playing position that is both comfortable and which allows for optimal freedom of movement.

I live in Toronto which is UTC -5 keep this in mind if you're interested in taking lessons and are located elsewhere.

I intend to do my best at being a trooper and toughing it out, and I will aim to not cancel lessons without fair warning, but the nature of my illness means that I may need to resort to this occasionally. You will need to be alright with this.

If you're interested, you can contact me here or at brendanpalangio@gmail.com. Hopefully I can get enough people interested that I can go about figuring out everyone's availability and drawing up a schedule.

[lethalchiralium]

Happiness [27]

Indigo. 4.8k. You're just trying to get a grip on reality, drowning in your mind with only yourself to save you. That is until a friend throws a life jacket, all while ignoring Simon as he flails too.

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The sheet and blanket were almost too hot for you as you rolled around in Mellie’s nursery, but you couldn’t find it in yourself to care. An old quilt from your aunt covered you, the pillow from your bed soft against your pounding head. 

You had yelled at Simon. You’ve never yelled at Simon. Never wanted to, never thought you had to - but it had been done. The worst part of it was thinking that it could have helped, but looking at his hurt expression only made you feel worse. 

You haven’t seen him since. Soap brought your dinner up to the temporary bed you fashioned, next to Mellie’s crib. Mellie’s little hand still poked out in your direction between the slats, even though she had fallen asleep hours ago. You’d spent a while just holding it between your fingers as a way to ground yourself. You were home, standing guard at the window they got into the house initially, just like you had the first few nights you had come home a month earlier. You almost rebroke your fingers when you slammed it closed, and kept hitting it until Price pulled you away. He was the only person who could. You would hit anyone who got close and crumble when your daughters were in sight. A wounded and rabid woman.

You were somewhat thankful the nightmares didn’t start until right before Mellie’s birthday. The small blessing left enough time to get her readjusted as best you could, enough time for your hands to lose the casts and stitches. It wasn’t long enough for you to push the swarm of howling monsters in your head. You were drowning with no lighthouse in sight. Sleep evaded you, a fickle friend that lured you in with promises of safety and comfort, only to wake up shrieking and having to be restrained before you redecorate the room with your blood. 

Forced separation was said to be good, give both of you some time to cool off and recuperate. Simon asleep in your bed, you laid on the nursery floor, unable to doze or relax. 

You kissed Mellie’s baby fingers. She snored in response as you raised to your feet and wrapped your blanket tightly around yourself. Finding sleep was not as feasible as you wanted it to be, so escaping to the snow outside felt like a new freedom. A new view through your broken lens. You took a deep breath as you entered the hallway, your gaze ended up on your bedroom door - it was shut, no outline of light underneath. Simon was asleep. A sigh escaped you and you sucked in another breath, attempting to follow your therapist’s advice. You descended the staircase while thinking of things that calm you.

The fish in your therapist’s office was a gentle thought, the blue light and shimmering scales as bubbles floated to the top. A distraction, one you used often to ignore topics you couldn’t speak on. You tried to envision the moonlight on your living room floor as the water, the shadows that danced as the fish, and you were the bubbles that led to the surface - outside.

The garden door creaked as you pushed it open, he only glanced at you before he tapped his cigar on the side of the ash tray and looked back at his phone.

“What’re you doin’ awake?”

The suffocating presence that was John Price made you shrink for just a moment, just as you slid by him to sit in the empty porch chair on the other side of the table. “I didn’t…I just wanna go outside for a second.”

Price glanced at you before he sighed and tucked his phone back into his coat. You were sure he was about to take you back upstairs but he moved the cigar back to his lips, his muscles as taut as stone.

“Heard your spat earlier.”

Constellations hung like garland above your heads. You only looked up at them for a moment. Grey clouds dotted the atmosphere, almost as dense as the fog in your head. The therapist - Marli, you think - says it’s normal. Post traumatic stress disorder comes in all sorts of ways. You can go through Monday with a smile and be completely normal; Tuesday, you’re locked in your closet and going through panic attacks, one right after the other. You had remarked that it was more like going from the slow to the fast lane in free for all traffic, everything passing by in colorful blurs. 

“Sorry.”

A tap to the ashtray and a chuckle that sounded more like a soft roar. Price murmured, “Don’t be. The boy needed a smack on the head and you needed to let some of that anger go.”

“I know.”

It’s all you know, truly. Empty images outlined with hazy feelings rot your brain until they develop into high resolution replays of every moment you spent in the basement. Routine was key - you washed your face to keep yourself awake, held Mellie every time they entered the basement, and quietly pulled at the loose bookshelf until it popped out, your only salvation. Routine kept you sane then, Simon’s voice guided you with knowledge he’d taught you long ago, and fear ran rampant like a rat in a cage. At least it felt more free than you do in your own house, your birdcage made of brick and mortar. Three operators worked in your basement to uncover the rest of Lloyd’s operation and God knows what else, meanwhile they assisted Simon in taking care of you. In the shadows loomed four guard dogs, jaws snapping and hackles raised but their bellies still shown to you.

“John?”

“Yes?”

Your thumb rolled your wedding ring around your ring finger, the (gold/silver) diamond ring spun several rotations as your eyes settled on the English Oak tree. Gaz had been practicing his throwing knives earlier before he got scolded by Simon. You didn’t care much, just rolled over on the couch and pretended you couldn’t hear him. You thanked your lucky stars he didn’t sound like Lloyd, but out of the corner of your eye, he might as well be his father’s spitting image.

Fuck him. Fuck him, fuck them, fuck everything.

“Lloyd’s dead, right?”

There was a moment of silence, but you could see the man beside you nod.  “Yes, he is. He’s long gone.”

“And none of his shitheads are alive?”

“We’re working on it.”

“Okay.” 

“I’ve got ya, Missus, we’ve got ya.” John turned his head, shouting, “I’ve got her!”

There was rushed Spanish from above, your eyes focused on the gray clouds above you once more. An inkling inside you wondered what they would feel like; nothing? Or little pin pricks against your skin? Maybe like the snow you’ve laid in for who knows how long. 

“Melody, Melody…”

Something warm was wrapped around your front, reeking of pungent cigar smoke, and you just wanted to fall away from it. The warmth felt like fire, a thousand needles into your freezing body, even as you try to embrace it. The crystalline tears that map your cheeks fall into the snow below, your eyes focusing on your husband’s friend, your children’s godfather. His face contorted into panic, something you felt was rare for the captain. He spoke into a radio - you couldn’t make it out over the sound of your pounding head. 

Only your daughter’s name came from you, Price’s face escaped your vision as your eyes rolled back to the sky again, watching something float above you. 

You don’t pretend you could keep your consciousness, even as Price kept yelling at you to stay awake. Even as you felt clawing hands at your chest, your head, your hands - you blinked again and it wasn’t Price above you, but Lloyd. His bludgeoned face fading in and out, going from the lifeless look to the enraged one he had the night before you escaped.

You shook the memory away, your neck creaked in defiance. “I think I’m going crazy.”

“And I’d say that’s okay, given the circumstances.”

“I yelled at Simon.” 

The ashtray clinked against the table as Price settled his cigar on it. “And he deserved it. Simon can handle a lot more than you may think.”

“That may be true, but that still doesn’t mean I enjoy hurting him.” The few ornaments that hung from the fence glimmered from the moonlight, little dots pranced around on the snow like ballet dancers - delicate and slow-moving like you. The wind whistled, your eyes followed the dance as your stomach tensed, then your chest cracked open, your feelings and heart spilling,  “It makes me sick to look at him, his…his face, it’s…”

“You gave him a few good shiners.”

“He looks so much like Lloyd and I can’t- I can’t get myself under control and understand that he’s dead. He’s dead and I- and Simon would never do that to me. He would never. I know he wouldn’t, I know he couldn’t, but I still look at his face and I…” The words almost turned to ash on your lips, and only a whisper followed, “I think I’m scared of him.”

“I could lie to you and say that it’ll go away, but it won’t. It’ll morph into somethin’ else, sure, but what happened to you…it stays forever. You’ll be afraid, for now, but you’ll persevere. We’ve seen you do it before. And it’ll be rough this time. There’s nothing like your abuser’s face being so close to you all the time.”

“Yeah.”

“Imagine how Simon must feel to wear both his and your abuser’s face.” John hummed for just a moment, a slow drag of his cigar as the chair clicked when he pushed back. “Give him some grace, Missus, but do not give him more than an inch. Your bleeding wounds matter more now than his healed ones.”

A friend, lending a hand or extending a branch with growing olives. His resolve to save your family and protect it almost felt like your own was fierce, like gnashing teeth and growls heard from miles away. Yet, he was the other side of the coin. While you laid your neck bare to protect your family, he fought with every tooth and nail he had, just like Simon. A friend. A confidant. Family. His right hand man, and now yours.

“Would it…” The tears on your face felt bitter, now that you tuned back into your body. The tingling in your nose, the pounding in your head, the weakness in your voice, “Would it be bad if I asked him to wear the mask?”

“Couldn’t hurt you.”

“Mellie’s…Mellie’s scared of it, but I…”

“Need it?”

A tremor in your bleeding heart and a sigh as you now found yourself staring at your hands. Rough, leather-like, raw with dark pink lines that covered your knuckles like a drawing. A sick, beautiful sketch. “Yeah.”

“Just tell him.”

“I can’t.”

John rustled in his chair, the smell of sweet tobacco hit your nose. “So you shouted. So what? You hurt his feelings, you lashed out, and you’re upset about it. He’s not going to ignore you for having feelings for once.”

Excuse me? Your head whipped up, cracking from the sudden movement as you met John’s eyes, “What do you mean by that?”

He huffed a chuckle through his nose, the smoke from the cigar reaching for the stars. “I mean that you are docile, at best. You coddle yourself and your husband because you don’t like to be angry. It’s an ugly monster and I’m sure you’ve experienced someone’s anger towards you before, right? Your mum? Dad?”

Your face heated with embarrassment as you realized you sometimes forgot his rank. A captain, a man who can dissect humans down to their very soul with one glance, and use it against them if need be. The dagger pointed straight into your pupil, ready to slice the delicate membrane to dissect everything in your brain.

“And you didn’t want that for your kids, so all you do is put your husband on a pedestal and be a docile little plaything because you don’t want your children to be exposed to those ugly emotions like you were. Am I close?”

You didn’t answer, your tear-filled stare was the only response. 

“Thought so.” He leaned forwards onto his knees,  “Missus, there’s great benefits in communication. You and Simon have your marriage worked out well, but the situation has changed. You have changed, Simon has not. Whatever happened in that cabin has killed a part of you.”

“John-“

“I can see it. You’re like a caged animal in that head of yours, and you have no emotional outlet. A couple mom friends, you haven’t spoken to your parents since before Mellie was even a thought-” How the fuck- “Hell, you barely even speak to your brothers.” 

A flame of rage ignited in your ribcage, your own teeth gnashed as you snarled, “That's an invasion of privacy!”

John’s look was firm, unwavering and harsh. Almost as if he was reducing you with his gaze, the blaze began to shrink. “No, I’m profiling and protecting you. You’ve isolated yourself and refuse to show any negative emotion because you don’t believe you have them. Don’t you?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I’m not about to coddle you like they do. Answer the question.”

Knife pressed, slicing layers into your brain. Methodical. Deliberate. He’s a friend with an iron grip that broke the olive branch, he’s a mad man in a war hero’s body.

“Yes.”

“As much as you hate it, take it out on Simon. He can handle it.” Another drag, the smoke dissipated quickly. Your eyes met the garden door to see if there was any unwanted attention, but there was no shadow, no Winnie coming to ask for a glass of water. Alone with your friend, the man dissecting your life with a single train of thought. “I’m not sure he would ever think less of you. We sure as hell don’t.”

“You might after my session on Thursday.”

Out of the corner of your eye, John’s face steeled. “And what does that mean?”

Healing knuckles tightened. “I’m telling my therapist what happened. Again.”

“And you think I’m going to give it to Simon to read.”

“No, I…” The tears on your waterline spilled again - quick, almost as if they were never there. “Yes.” Don’t lie and pretend everything’s okay to the man who saved your life. He saw what you had done. “I don’t want anyone to read it and think less of me.”

“Missus, do you know what we do for a living?”

“No.”

“We- Are you serious?”

“Simon doesn’t tell me anything about it. I know better than to ask.”

He paused, your eyes moved to your hands again. Keep going back to things that ground you like the fish tank in Marli’s office. The pink lines on your hands, the pain in them, the disgust you feel when you remember beating Lloyd and smiling. You killed a man and smiled, and you are trying everything to stop it from eating you alive. John continued, “Do you think I’m a good man?”

“Yes, I do.” You have never been given a reason not to.

“Do you think Simon’s a good man? Gaz? Soap? Alejandro? Rudy?”

“Yes.”

“We kill people for a living.”

“Isn’t that just the military anyway?”

“No. We are Special Forces. We kill multiple people every mission. Folks who had families, lives outside of their work, but we still killed them. We kill mothers, fathers, daughters, sons, all in the name of world peace. But we also kill purple that the government just has a plain ol’ distaste for.” Fish tank, pink scars, pain, fear, terror, nausea - fuck, your eyes screwed shut as you squeezed your hands. “You killed your father-in-law. So what? You protected your child from being bloody trafficked, and you thought we’d think less of you? Come off it. The man deserved what came to him,  and you deserved to kill that man-”

Defend yourself. Fear, terror, nausea. Fish tank. Ornaments. Scars. Anger, hatred, terrified, even as you cried now, you still mourn the loss of life that was dealt by your broken hands. “He was still a human being, even if he-”

“The man who took you and your daughter away from your husband was a virus, a disease, and he needed to be put down.”

Your attacker needed to be put down, but you still killed someone.

“I’m not…I’m not you. I can’t…He was still alive. He hurt me and-and was a bad man but he was still alive.” A rough gasp came from you, the tears felt like the shield and cross you couldn’t help but bear. “But he deserved it. Deserved everything I gave him for-for trying to take my babies away from me. And I’m a bad person for liking being the person who killed him.” Roughly, you clawed at your eyes and ripped the feelings away before you placed your hands in your lap again. 

His chair creaked, but you couldn’t look away from your hands and the imaginary blood that covered them. “You’re the strongest person I know. You’re not bad. You’re traumatized, injured, and paranoid because of what you experienced at his hand.” You’re not like him, your friend. You’re not like Simon, even though you had thought you understood so many parts of him. You don’t understand the praise, the fear, the truth. “I’m proud of you for killing him. You protected your family. You took away your family’s abuser.”

“Attacker.”

“Sorry, attacker.” Silence fell like bird wings, the wind whispered against your cheek and shivering was your only option now. John cleared his throat, the ashtray clinked again. “I know you’re upset at my decision with keeping Simon away until you were safe, but it was to protect you. Simon’s… Simon isn’t your husband behind the mask.”

“Yes, he is.”

John’s lips pressed into a thin line, your gaze turned down to your hands that ached like no tomorrow. Pink scars, jagged fingernails. “It couldn’t hurt to ask him to wear the mask, and he might for your comfort, but don’t expect him to be normal.” Silvery scars covered yours as John patted your hand with his own, and it wasn’t lost on you the way his voice softened and cracked, “He was once Lloyd’s prey too.”

•••

“Hey, you need anythin’?”

Simon’s voice scared you, your head darted up from the book in your lap. His head was poked into the room, a hand on the door, and he looked tired. “Yeah. Can you…come in here?” 

You closed your book and placed it on the little table next to the rocking chair as he shuffled in and sat in front of you. Your eyes glanced towards the slightly open nursery door and your shoulders slowly declined. Escape was directly in front of you, the baby in her crib and it’s a quick grab if you need to-

No. No, stop it, it’s Simon, he’s Simon. 

Pressure began to build on your throat, dryness raked its claws too and you suddenly found it hard to meet your husband’s eyes. The hot splash of shame in your body made your eyes dart down to your hands that sat limply in your lap. Shame because you couldn’t understand your feelings, because everything you have told Simon caused him pain. Shame because this was the one thing you thought you could never ask.

“Can you wear the mask for me?”

His breathing faltered for just a moment, and if you didn’t know him so well, you wouldn’t have noticed. In your peripheral vision, his hands were settled at his sides, but had curled into fists. It was then that shame reared its ugly head and fear roared loudly. What was he going to do? He wouldn’t hit you, but how do you know? How do you know that you can trust yourself with Simon anymore? That he won’t hurt you like Lloyd did?

Your eyes flickered to his fist, the balaclava bulked the side of his sweatpants. The one with the print, you hoped. Skull plates tend to be awkward when shoved into pockets, don’t they? Does it get hot when he wears it? Is it itchy? Has to be when he has his beard. He shaved it before he left, before you were taken, before you were-

“Why?”

The way his voice strained made your stomach instantly squeeze. Red alert, alarms screamed in your head, you had overstepped. You’ve done it before, but…he could do so many things to you if he wanted. 

“I’m- I’m scared.”

He could be just like Lloyd, he could grab you by the throat here and take every ounce of trust you have in him and destroy it. He could be a monster too. He was a monster, and you knew it this whole time. You just refused to believe that Simon could hurt anyone.

The fist that squeezed against his side grew whiter every second. It wasn’t purposeful, the way you moved back, away from your husband and the possibility of what pain could be created by his hand. Gone were the nights you let him touch every inch of you without fear, gone were the days you could be jumpscared by your husband without fearing that he’d hurt you. He’s killed so many people, but his list of enemies was still longer than the whole length of Manchester. He was other people’s nightmares and once your favorite daydream, and now you sit here in front of him, praying he wouldn’t lay a hand on you too.

“I can’t.”

Even if his hand did not move, your heart was still ripped out of your chest. Your teary eyes darted up to his face, his piercing eyes drilling holes into yours. Tears escaped quickly, your own hands baffled at your sides. “Why not?”

“I can’t do it.”

“Why?”

Monster. He was a monster and he stood in front of you like a well trained dog - Simon and Ghost bled into one being instead of their strict divide. Panic began to bubble in your chest, shame screamed as fear cried. 

Your husband growled through gritted teeth, “Because I will not let you hide from me too. Do you understand?”

The sob that left your throat was like a prisoner escaping, unwanted and quiet. You could do nothing more than hang your head, your hand pressed against your mouth as you tried your best to stay afloat next to your screaming emotions. Even if Simon Riley, a man you truly believed was good, wasn’t a monster before, the way he just broke your heart made you afraid of the dark. 

•••

No one had seen him all day, but he knew you could hear him. He was cleaning the bedroom, folding laundry he hadn’t had the chance to. You’re upset and it’s his own fault, but shame was a powerful feeling. The mask sat heavy in his pocket as he zipped up Mellie’s onesies, folded them, and placed them into her laundry basket. He’d have to go back in soon but he wasn’t sure he could face your sobs again. His heart squeezed in agony with every beat, his own tears silent as they fell onto every piece of clothing. 

He wanted to put his hand through the wall. He wanted to scream, bring his father back to life and kill him again; he wanted everything to go back to normal where the monster was still in the shadows and all he was to you was a husband. Your Simon. He didn’t miss the fear in your eye, in your body, when he came close to you. It was like a neon sign flashing above you. But he didn’t do anything about it. He didn’t know how to show you that he would never lay a hand on you, or the kids.  That he would never raise his voice to control you. The only thing that kept you calm was your baby, and Price, the ever-calming figure and leader. In some way, Simon was jealous, and angry that John could easily talk you down, but he also understood. You knew he was the one who rescued you, it created some strong bond, just like the one he has with his captain. A savior with a bad smoking habit, one who had an affinity to talking down scared Rileys. 

He nearly folded another sweatshirt of yours from the basket. You’d only been wearing comfortable clothes, stuff easy to get in and out of because of your back. The doctor said you’d bruised your ribs and pulled a few muscles during your tumble down the cliffside. It was hard enough trying to get you to stop carrying Mellie around, so he wasn’t going to fight you on wearing warmer things like sweatpants or a thicker sweater. There were so many cogs turning in his head, panic and anger buzzing in his fingertips. There was too much to do. Laundry, bathe you, pick Winnie up, grab groceries, ask John when he’s able to beat the shit out of the lackeys they captured in the cabin where they held you. They had good hits to their heads, he’d seen the pictures - they were still knocked out cold by the time Rudy had apprehended them. He had praised you endlessly for it, fighting just how he told you to. Dirty and as fast as you could. But he still couldn’t get the look of your face out of his head, the way you cowered in fear every time he was even in the room. Simon was well aware of how much he looked like his father from a distance, but he looked so much like his mother up close. The softness of his face in the places it counted - cheeks, smile, eyes, even the myriad of scars on his face changed the way he looked.

It didn’t matter. He can’t change the darkness that has you trapped.

In a way, he has you trapped. The thought almost made him throw up on your jumper. 

Yet, there’s an insatiable need to understand what happened. To pry open your head and watch your memories like a movie, understand why you decided to fight Lloyd instead of running, why you didn’t take a gun from the table near the door in the cabin, why you refuse to be left alone without Mellie. As much as it would destroy him, it would still help you. It would tailor his drive to help you and the baby. 

Simon also wanted to know exactly what his father did to you in the cabin. The nitty gritty details. The withering bruises and the mental wounds you refuse to speak on. He just wanted to understand, but he also didn’t. He didn’t want to know if…if the worst happened. Destroying the house would be too hard to resist. A rampage wouldn’t be enough, he needed everyone responsible to be killed by his own two hands. Pressure beneath Ghost’s fingertips, the feeling of hard bone and pulsating arteries as he ripped jaws out of socket or twisted a neck so violently that the whole base could hear. And if something had happened to Mellie, the entirety of the Russian Mafia would be up in flames by the end of the week. 

Can you wear the mask for me?

He rested your jumper on your stack of clothes, his thumb brushed against your university’s logo. You were still working on your degree, you were watching every sports game and cheering like you were in the arena, the last time Simon was home before you were taken from him, ripped from the sanctuary he so carefully built. Sanctity of his home was sacred to him, a little corner of Manchester he made his own, somewhere he could hide and protect his family. Ruins lay tainted in his hands by the one person he hated the most. 

The report was long, as to be expected with a spouse and child of his rank being kidnapped. They got a barely intelligible recollection of the events from you, but all he could hear was you repeating, “Nothing happened. Nothing like that.” in a shaky voice. Your husband hasn’t heard you lie before, but you were lying then. He knew you and it tore him apart to hear you cry in that recording, and to hear you cry now. 

You would never ask me to do that for you if nothing happened in that cabin.

Simon wiped the tears from his face with a rough hand and stood, pocketed his phone and left the laundry on the bed. Winnie would be done with school soon, he needed to get groceries, but all he wanted to do was curl around his girls and keep them safe in his arms. 

As he passed the nursery, he paused as he heard you softly talking to Mellie. He couldn’t bring himself to look at the door, let alone knock. He kept walking. 

[diejager]

Okay so this is a character I have in the works but I'd love your interpretation.

What about a BunnyDragon!reader being introduced into the monster!141? Long drooping ears, a friendly temperament, spewing green flames that bring life and heal things rather than destroying them. But their claws and teeth just as sharp and deadly as any other dragon.

Rabid Cw: reader being a menace, fire, pyromaniac, tell me if I missed any.

Laughing, you dashed off, away from the mess you four created out of sheer boredom, green flames sparking and lingering on the corner of your lips were the only proof people had to link you to the few burning heaps around the base. Your ears flopped as you ran and hopped away, a skip in your feet and a bright smile splitting your face, flashing sharper than usual teeth at people who stood in your way. They all parted, little chuckles leaving their lips when they saw you, all used to your little pranks, the sly and mischievous gleam in your eyes when you got bored and the loud steps that followed you closely, either Price, Laswell or another superior chasing after you to scold you.

“Spread out!”

You separated from the others, taking your own path from the fork. Spreading out meant that it’d take more time to catch each and every one of you to bring to Price’s office, wasted time meant that you stalled your punishment and burned through Price’s anger and disappointment. You would rendezvous back on the roof or the airfield once you’d waited out long enough, or Price would hound you back to his office for a verbal lesson on behaving and not giving him and Laswell paperwork.

Which seemed to be your situation after he sent the others to find you, Soap brought back by the scruff by Ghost, Gaz by a stalking Horangi, Rudy by a snickering Alejandro and you by a touchy König. You sat on the armrest of the worn couch, giving space for your wings to breathe and flutter behind you, occasionally moving to soothe the small ache; and your tail to sway, moving back and forth on the floor like a dog wagging it’s tail. There was a slight excitement in your body, to see how Price would react to this stunt you pulled, bigger in scale and more obnoxious with the bright flowers and lively faun that bloomed after your flames died down.

“Want to explain it to me before we start?”

You all shared a look, seconds spent staring to convey a silent message that you all agreed on and that left you to work your magic. You gave him a cheeky grin, watching his eyes narrow and his arms cross before you stared your little explanation, going onto the blandness of the base, the sheer boredom you all felt and having to find something to occupy yourself with. You could feel disappointment ooze off Price in waves, his furrowed brows and shaking head to the small snickers and laughs from the men who caught you.

“You’ll be the death of me,” Price sighed, stepping away from his desk and moving towards you with big and quick strides.

You only smiled up at him, gazing at him through squinted and amused eyes, head perked up to his bowed figure, face nearing yours with a stoic expression.

“But you love me,” you let slip out, feeling especially cheeky and proud of your work, bringing life to a grey area.

“But I love you,” he agreed with a small smile, hitting your horns with his, a display of love and affection for dragons, “Doesn’t mean you’re not getting punished, any of you.”

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[heartfullofleeches]

Man imagine bustomer walking in and just seeing a bigass human monster long arm legged cat with a zipper??? Just staring.

Customer: *pays for item and rudely hands the money*

Lynel: *whispers behind them menacingly* …Say keep the change.

Customer: *shits their pants and on the brink of tears* mommy…

Lynlas tricks/enjoys messing with customers by pretending to be a statue propped up in Witch Reader's lobby/living room. In a normal household, a cat human creature held together by zippers may seem like an outlandish choice for decoration, but it feels right at home in the witch's possession.

-

"What a peculiar figurine...."

Aged fingers map the teeth of the zipper scaling the length of the statues face. They trail to its mouth, curled in a wide grin - unsurprised by the give of its teeth given the zipper's impression of there being something else underneath. The illuminated iris of its singular visible eye pokes through the shroud of darkness that is its sciera. Curiosity blossoms a new as attention is directed towards their right eye. A tab dangles from the sealed lid - small, hole circle scars in the skin indicating some of of former injury. The point of a needle, perhaps?

"Pardon me...."

The collector stiffens- Entering from the kitchen, floorboard's creak with each tap of your advancing steps. Standing before the older gentleman, you present him with the cup of tea requested from your lists of refreshments for guests. A smile dawns your face, yet it does not reach your eyes- They point away from the man, knowing and calculating. The watchful gaze of someone waiting for another to misbehave.

"Do you like them? Lynlas has been with me for some time now. They are the best companion one in my line of work could ask for."

The name of the figure lingers on the collector's tongue. "Lynlas....I beg you- I'll pay ten - twenty times more than what I came here for. It would be a marvelous addition to my collection."

Your face tightens, smile shrinking into something akin to a grimace. "I'm afraid they are not for sale."

You stumble - grounding a foot backwards as his hands perch onto your shoulders.

"Money is not an issue for me. Name your price, I insist!"

Your eyes once again dart towards the figure - a flicker of panic flashing over your otherwise relaxed expression. "Sir, please refrain from putting your hands on me. They do not want you-"

"Surely you can bare to part with it! You can fill your home with similar novelties with the money you'll gain-"

"Agh!"

Scolding white pain shoots through your hands, bleeding down your arms as scorching liquid seeps into the sleeves of your shirt. The tea cup crashes to the floor with a loud crack - your body falling to its knees along with it. The agony is fleeting, hurt morphing to terror as the tear of a zipper racks through the walls of your living room.

"Lynlas.... It was an accident."

Nails scrape along the wooden floor, bones snapping and cracking into place as the statue reaches its full height.

"Lynlas.... He is a senile old man. Do not attack him."

The collector turns as hot breath fans the nape of his neck. A long, greyed tongue unfurls from the backs of pointed teeth.

"Didn't you hear, old man.... I'm not for sale."

"LYNLAS!"

-

The feline's ears press flatly against their skull as they scrub blood out of your prized rug. Sniffling, it looks up at you - eye wet with tears.

"I'm sorry for ruining your favorite rug again, Master... Can I still sleep in your room tonight?"

[back2bluesidex]

Dear Darling - JHS [Masterlist/Prologue]

Pairing: Serpent king (imoogi)!Hoseok X Human!Reader

Theme: Angst, dark romance, smut, fantasy au.

Wordcount: 1.5+ for the prologue

Summary: After his bride flees from his clutches and reaches the realm of mortals to reunite with her lover - Hoseok has no choice but to chase her. Upon his arrival to the land of obnoxious humans, he crosses paths with you. You are a small, driven mortal who walks with a load of despair on her back. You are nothing but a delicious meal to him and he wants nothing more than to suck your life out of you, find his runaway wife and return to his kingdom. But much to his dismay, you ruin his plans, make him do what he never imagined doing in 600 years of his life - like making him fall in love and keeping him bound to you.

Warnings: Hoseok is cruel, there maybe some mentions of blood but nothing too crazy, eventual smut, heavy themes, quite dark actually (more will be added with each chapter). NSFW!!

Accepting Taglist Requests.

A/N: Got this idea in a dream.... that's all:')

Prologue | Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Epilogue

Masterlist | Patreon (Early access to the chapters)

Jung Hoseok. 

The name was enough to shake the core of dark creatures with terror. Even serpents like him would not dare to cross paths with him. 

He is an ominous creature of the night, rules the realm of darkness. He stays under the shadow and attacks when his preys are at their weakest. 

He is powerful, cruel, horrendous and everything that can be one’s nightmare. And to climb at the peak of his power, to rule the underworld with more and more ruthlessness - he must get married. 

He was about to be completed with the coupling ceremony by now only if - his bride didn’t run away. 

“Do you think I believe you, sir?” Hoseok speaks with a voice so cold that he can clearly see the shiver that runs down the subject's entire body. 

The old man - or more likely - an old serpent is sitting on his knees in front of him. His head is hanging low, palms conjoined with each other to beg the king. 

“You- you must believe me, my lord. I know n-nothing of the lady’s departure.” his voice is trembling but he keeps lying regardless. 

Does he not know Hoseok can see him through? 

“Really? I must believe you?” he laughs, one that prickles on your skin in the worst possible way, “then.. Would you be able to pay the price of my trust?” 

The old being doesn’t say anything. One of Hoseok’s guards pushes the tip of his sword further in his side. That coaxes a reply out of him, “what- what price must I pay, my lord?” 

Hoseok smiles, “I heard you have a freshly transformed son? Only a year old, if I am right. I was wondering how enjoyable it would be to rip off his very new scales one by one and then behead him in front of the entire kingdom?” 

The old man jerks at that “My-My lord. No. I beg you no. I- I will tell you as much as I know.” 

“That’s good. So tell me, where is the soon-to-be queen hiding? Down the sea or up the mountains?” Hoseok bends one of his knees to come face to face with his prey. His heavy cloak falls on the ground as if to make a carpeted floor for the king. 

“She… she has fled to the realm of mortals. My- my brother, who- who is half human has helped her out. I heard that her lover, a gumiho, is settled there. But I swear to my kids, my lord, I don’t know where she is, how she fled. I only helped her in contacting my brother. That’s all.” 

“What? What did you say? Realm of mortals? Her lover is a gumiho?” Hoseok roars, stands abruptly. His anger flares like a ring of fire and as a result dark clouds start swinging in the already dark sky. 

The storm starts raging just as Hoseok’s anger, “Guards! Behead his entire family right this instant! And make sure he watches them die before having the pleasure himself.” 

He ignores the pleas of the old serpent as he walks away. And even if he didn’t ignore those, what could he do? 

The blood that runs in his veins is cold, there is no heart that beats inside his chest. Even monsters call him a beast. He is just that bad. 

But he is even worse to the ones who betray him - like his wife-to-be, who has managed to flee from his grips, who also has fallen in love with the enemies of his kind. 

Only if she wasn’t the chosen one - the one who can increase his powers by tenfold. He would have killed her right the moment he found her. 

However, he can’t do so, not at least now. Before everything he has to find her. He has to visit the realms of humans, whom he loathes so much, to pull her between his clutches again. 

“How are the Mins doing?” Hoseok’s dark eyes focus on the goblet of dark red liquid that sits atop the table. 

On the other side of the table sits his trusted advisor Kim Seokjin. He is probably the only serpent in the kingdom, whom hoseok as a speck of trust on. 

“Thanks to you, my king. They have been running a very successful business on the land of humans.” Kim Seokjin states. 

“Tell them to prepare a comfortable stay for me there. I will be finding and bringing my bride back myself.” Hoseok orders. His fingers curl underneath the goblet in the meantime. 

“My lord, it will not be wise for you to visit alo-”

Hoseok slams the goblet on the table interrupting his advisor, “Mr. Kim, do you perhaps doubt my capabilities? I assume you already know I am more than capable of destroying the entire mortal land all by myself.” 

“Yes, my lord, I am well aware of that. I will convey your message to Min Yoongi.” Kim Seokjin stands on his feet and bends down on a deep bow before leaving the room. 

Hoseok feels a buzz in his cold veins. He is eager to find out how love can be more important than the power he was going to provide Soojin with. 

She could be the queen of this kingdom but she chose to fall in love with a gumiho instead. 

Love? Huh! He scoffs to himself. He is proud that he can feel no such emotions. And he would rather have his scales rip off than falling in love with another creature. 

Extravaganza. 

These lowly human beings know nothing but extravaganza. 

From the full glass buildings to the noisy music on the streets, they overdo everything and anything. 

Hoseok’s eyes scans each and every corner of the mansion that the Mins have organized for him to stay. This, too, is extravagance in every way. 

Min Yoongi, the head of this generation’s half-serpents, sits on both of his knees in front of Hoseok. 

“My king, it is a reward to have a chance of serving you personally. Just name what you want, I will have it presented right before you.” he speaks like the obedient servant that he is.

“A job. I need a job.” Hoseok speaks absent-mindedly. 

“My lord, forgive this lowly creature but did I hear you right? You need a job?” Min Yoongi’s confusion makes Hoseok smirk. 

“Yes, Mr. Min. you heard that right. I need a job to blend with these mortals. I am certain my wife-to-be has put the tigerlilies at work. You might already know, inhaling the pollen of those flowers once is enough to be transformed into any other creature for two nights. And even the King, as I am, is unable to defy its power.” Hoseok comes to stand in front of Yoongi, his hands are kept behind his back. 

His dark eyes find the pale man amusing and quite obedient. 

“Yes, my lord. I am well aware of the magical powers of the flower. About the job - thanks to you, my business here is running well. I can arrange an executive position for you at the company, if you’d like.” 

“Executive?” Hoseok raises one of his perfectly shaped eyebrows, “what kind of work do they do?” 

“They don’t have to do anything much, my lord. I will take care of whatever work your position might be responsible for, you can invest your sole concentration on your task.” Min Yoongi bows lightly. 

“I like your proposition. Tell me how to get to your company.” Hoseok takes a few steps back towards the staircase. The intricate designs of the railing catches his eyes. 

“I will have a car ready for you, if you want to visit now.” 

“I would like that.” 

Hoseok climbs out of the car and stands in front of the large building that the Mins have been ruling with the power of wealth that he had gifted them, some hundred years back. 

He scrutinizes the glass walls. His gaze zeros on his own reflection and he devilishly smiles at the way he looks so human. 

Min Yoongi has arranged some clothes for him. Some black silk pants with a silk shirt and a short cloak that they call a blazer. 

Hoseok has always been proud of the way he looks. But he must admit - he looks even better and more eye-catching in human clothes. 

His, now invisible, scales rise under the material of his clothes when he senses someone else watching him from a short distance. 

He projects his eyes in that direction and finds a woman with petite form, big pebbly eyes and a beautiful face. 

It’s you. 

With just one glance he sees right through you. He can see your breath getting stuck in your throat at the sight of him. He can see the cogs of your brain working and your heart leaping inside of your chest. 

He knows you are getting attracted towards him. And that’s good for him. Having a human right on his foot as a servant can help him in tracing Soojin faster. 

It’s one of his powers to attract his prey, like how a pitcher plant emits a sweet smell to attract insects only to eat those up when those near it. 

But with those innocent eyes, that alluring face - it’s a waste that you are just another moth driven to the flame.

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