#hyper writing

[hyperfunnyblog]

i wrote a short oneshot abt vanessa and a hc i have abt her!! feel free to check it out

[nariarts]

Spent a ridiculous amount of time last night obsessively editing my hand written zines in Photoshop to take away any tiny blemishes so they were definitely readable.

Whatever. Understand or don't.

[feral-ballad]

Zehra Naqvi, from The Knot of My Tongue: Poems and Prose; “Grocery Shopping”

[Text ID: “You don’t want anyone to ask you if you need help, to ask if you are okay, to feel sorry for you, no one, no one gets to have this, no one gets to make you into a body they think they know how to read.”]

[http-tempted]

when you listen to a song and it gives you inspiration to daydream an answer to the plot hole in the story building inside your head

[acertainmoshke]

I was a “grumpy” kid. It was a joke in my family. They (with all loving intention) teased me for being a grouch, poked me when I scowled, got me things like pencil cases with “smile and no one will know you’re mad”

They also lectured me when I withdrew from whatever activity half an hour in or pulled out my book, because I was meant to be participating. Any picture taken at the end instead of the beginning of volunteering/marching in a parade/whatever has me utterly stony faced

I realized today that I was constantly overstimulated. It’s a similar emotional reaction to low blood sugar but I could recognize that as a kid and knew I had to eat regularly or I got dizzy and mean. The other seemed to be random

But we’re trying out hearing aids for audio processing, right? And we went to archery practice which is in a field by a road. And I was in a good mood, chattering with my partner, and then as soon as we got there I got grumpy. Everything made me want to snap or yell or pull away (I only did the last one, because I’m an adult who can turtle in on myself instead of screaming)

And they were like, “Are you having a sensory moment? Do you want to turn your hearing aid down?”

And I did and the passing cars on the road got softer and suddenly I was fine

But I lived like this for years, with the assumption it was just part of my personality but that if I didn’t want to go to whatever class or meeting or event, or if I wanted to sit in a corner and read, or if I shut down half an hour in, I was just not being Good

[chloelovesu]

[bunny-lvr]

By the.beau.studio on instagram

[stqrlightv]

[cami040405]

Okokok, can I request Bo Sinclair, Thomas Hewitt, and Michael Myers with a s/o that’s just super stereotypically feminine? Like, she hates bugs and getting messy, loves pink and makeup, says words like ‘totes’ ‘adorbs’ and ‘obvi’, loves shopping, etc.? Sorry if it’s super vague ;-; but I’d love to see it in your writing style ♡

Bo Sinclair, Thomas Hewitt & Michael Myers with a Super Stereotypically Feminine S/O (SEPARATE)

Summary: Imagine Bo Sinclair, Thomas Hewitt and Michael Myers with a stereotypically overly feminine S/O who only wears pink, cute things, hates bugs and dirt and speaks in a city girl language.

A/N: I really loved writing this request, it was great to see the dynamics of these slashers with a super feminine S/O, I wrote it listening to Sabrina Carpenter and Fifty Fifty to get more into the mood. I hope you like it as much as I did.

Bo Sinclair

“If it’s pink and sparkly, it’s probably already in her purse.”

Bo Sinclair never expected a girl like you to waltz into Ambrose. Hell, he wouldn’t have believed someone like you existed, much less would stay.

You were all fluttery lashes, bubblegum lip gloss, and sparkly earrings shaped like hearts. When you first stumbled into the wax museum, looking absolutely horrified by the “rustic aesthetic,” he expected you to start screaming bloody murder. Instead, you blinked at him, tilted your head like a curious little kitten, and said: 

“You’d be super hot if you smiled more. Like, dangerous bad boy vibes. I dig it.”

Bo had no idea what to say. It might’ve been the first time he’d ever been stunned silent.

You hated dirt, bugs, blood—literally everything Ambrose was soaked in. You gasped when your heel broke on the cracked sidewalk and clutched him dramatically like they were in a soap opera. “Bo, I’m limping. You’re gonna have to carry me. This is a whole crisis!”

At first, he rolled his eyes. A lot. Teased you constantly. Called you "Barbie" and "Princess" with a smug little grin.

But over time, something changed.

He started noticing how you lit up talking about stuff he’d never cared about before—nail polish shades, the drama of lipstick undertones, reality TV betrayals. You’d sit cross-legged on his dusty bed, wearing fuzzy socks and ranting about your favorite fashion influencers while applying glitter highlighter in a cracked mirror. Bo would sit there, arms crossed, pretending not to listen... even though he always was.

You'd make him stand still so you could “fix his eyebrows” or “just a little bronzer, babe, for definition!” and Bo would grumble but let you do it. The way your eyes sparkled when you were focused on something—especially him—made it real damn hard to say no.

And as much as he tried to play it cool, Bo adored the way you clung to him when a beetle skittered across the floor, squealing and climbing half up his torso like he was your knight in dirty denim armor.

"You're lucky you're cute," he'd mutter, wrapping an arm around your waist.

"Obvi," you’d giggle, pressing a glossy kiss to his cheek and leaving a shiny mark he never wiped off until you weren't looking.

You gave Ambrose something it hadn’t had in years—life, noise, glitter in every corner of the wax museum (much to Vincent’s quiet suffering). Your pink hairbrush sat next to his tools. Your perfume mixed with motor oil. There were rhinestones on the old radio dials in his car.

And when some poor bastard stumbled into town and made a snide comment about “that bimbo clinging to Bo like a chihuahua,” Bo didn’t even give a warning. He just grabbed the guy by the collar, smiled wide, and said, “Say one more word. Go on. I dare you.”

He’d never say it out loud, but Bo loved you fiercely. Loved your dramatics, your soft hands, the way you made him feel like a movie star instead of a wax museum reject.

And if anyone touched you? God help them.

Even if you’d never lift a finger yourself (“I don’t do violence—it’s so bad for the nails, babe”), Bo was more than willing to handle it for you.

Because at the end of the day, you were his ridiculous, high-maintenance, adorable nightmare—and he wouldn't change a single thing about you.

Bonus: The Shopping Trip (Against Bo’s Will)

Bo Sinclair in a mall was the equivalent of dropping a pitbull into a ballet studio.

He was stiff, annoyed, and visibly scowling, while you pranced from one boutique to the next, holding up clothes and saying things like “This screams me, doesn’t it?” and “Bo, look at this! It’s like a skirt, but with fur!”

Every time he tried to retreat to a bench, you’d call him over with a squeal: “Babe! You have to hold my purse, I’m going to try this on!”

Bo, standing in a women’s boutique holding a pink bedazzled purse with a small chihuahua keychain on it, was a sight to behold. Some teenage girls giggled as they passed by. He gave them a slow death-glare that shut them up instantly.

And then you stepped out of the fitting room wearing something way too short, way too sparkly, and totally you.

Bo’s jaw tightened. “You’re not wearin’ that in public.”

“Why not?” You asked, twirling. “Too hot for you?”

Bo reached for his wallet. “…We’re buyin’ it. But you only wear it in the damn house.”

You grinned like you won a war. “So possessive. Kinda hot.”

.

Thomas Hewitt + Family

“Tommyyyy! There's a bug in the kitchen and it’s HUGE—oh my god, baby, I need you to handle it like, right now!”

Thomas had never met anyone like you.

You waltzed—actually waltzed—into the Hewitt family's dusty, decrepit home like a princess misplaced in a horror movie. Pink suitcase, heart-shaped sunglasses, fluffy keychains, lip gloss glinting like wet sugar on her pout. Your clothes were always perfectly matched, your hair always done, and you wore perfume that made you smell like cotton candy and cherry soda.

To the rest of the world, you were obnoxiously girly, with your dramatic hand gestures, and constant stream of Valley Girl slang. But to Tommy? You were pure, sweet light.

You squealed at bugs and cobwebs, refused to step into the kitchen barefoot, and definitely did not want to see “where the meat was made.” But instead of being cruel or judgmental, you’d wrinkle your nose and go:

"Ew, okay, I’m like, gonna pretend that doesn’t exist—but you’re still the cutest murder bear I’ve ever seen."

And Thomas, who had always been seen as a monster, didn’t know how to process someone calling him cute. His usual instinct was to back away, but you wouldn’t let him. You’d follow him around the house in your slippers with fuzzy pom-poms on top, chattering about skincare and outfit inspo and "how maybe this place could really pop if we added just a little pastel wallpaper."

When you first tried to hug him, Thomas froze—like a deer caught in headlights. No one touched him like that. No one wanted to. But you buried your head against his chest and mumbled, “You’re like a big warm teddy bear... with a chainsaw. So weird, but I love it.”

From then on, he melted every time you got close.

He’d do anything to protect you. You never had to lift a finger. If there was something gross in your path? Thomas took care of it. Bugs, messes, even replacing broken heels when you cried over snapping one on the old farmhouse stairs.

You made him feel seen—not as Leatherface, but as Thomas, the quiet man who liked to sew, who carefully cut fabric, who noticed colors and stitches. 

One time, you saw the damaged lace curtain he’d repaired in the living room and gasped, "Wait—did YOU do this? Tommy, that’s, like, totally impressive! You’re, like, an artsy murder man!"

It made his ears go pink. He didn’t understand half of what you said, but he loved listening to you talk. Your voice was high and musical and full of love for every silly thing—nail polish, boy bands, weird drinks from the gas station.

And when you grabbed his hand and painted his massive fingernails soft pastel pink? He let you. Quiet. Blushing. Heart pounding behind the mask.

You brought chaos into his life, but it was the kind he never knew he needed. You made the horror of his world feel like background noise, just scenery for you to twirl and sparkle through.

You were scared of messes, yes. But never of him. And that was enough to make him fall harder every day.

Reaction of the Hewitt Family when they met you:

Luda Mae:

At first, Luda wasn’t sure what to make of you.

You were like a living Barbie doll—heels clacking across the floorboards, constantly asking if they had “like, anything organic” in the fridge, and wrinkling your nose at the dust like it personally offended her.

But then she saw the way Thomas looked at you. That softness. That stillness in his shoulders. Like he was finally… breathing easy.

And when Luda saw you gingerly wiping dust off the kitchen table with a pink handkerchief—still gagging, but trying—she raised a brow and muttered to herself:

"Well, I’ll be damned. That boy finally found someone who ain’t runnin’."

Within a week, Luda Mae was fussing over you like you were one of her own:

"Now sweetheart, don’t you go starvin’ yourself just ‘cause our food’s not from some big city spa store. You need meat on them little bones."

She even started defending your quirks: "If she wants pink lemonade in a wine glass, let her have it. She’s happy, and Tommy’s happy. That’s all I care about."

Luda eventually took great pride in teaching you “real homemaking,” even if your girlie girl instincts clashed hard with rural chores. You made a hilarious duo— “You expect me to churn WHAT?”— but there was affection in every sigh and scold.

Sheriff Hoyt (Charlie):

Ohhh, he HATED you at first.

All that chirping, that perfume, that attitude. He couldn’t stand it.

"You sure that’s not some kinda undercover spy, huh, Tommy? They sendin’ in Disney princesses now to take us out?"

He was always grumbling when you were around. Mocking your slang, your style, everything.

"‘Totes adorbs’? What in the HELL does that mean? Speak English, girlie."

But here’s the thing about Charlie—he might be a nasty piece of shit, but he’s loyal to blood. And when he saw how Thomas, his quiet, broken nephew, lit up around you… it gnawed at something deep in him.

One day he caught sight of you brushing Thomas’s hair behind his ears, gently humming while he sat still as a statue. Charlie stood there silently, watching the scene for longer than he’d admit.

Did he stop teasing you after that? No. Of course not.

But he started bringing you back things from town.

“Here. Some stupid lipgloss I saw. Said ‘cotton candy’ or some girly crap. Don’t get used to it.” (Spoiler: he bought you five more.)

He’d still act like he couldn’t stand you, but the minute someone outside the family made fun of you, he got real mean real fast.

"You talkin’ to our girl like that? ‘Cause I will rearrange your teeth, sweetheart."

Monty Hewitt:

Monty, bless his grumpy little heart, didn’t know what to make of you. You talk a mile a minute, wear hot pink everything, and once screamed bloody murder when you saw a spider crawling near his wheelchair.

But once he got over the initial shock, he actually found you entertaining.

He’d sit on the porch in his chair, sipping something strong, while you chattered about celebrity gossip or fashion trends, gesturing dramatically with a bedazzled water bottle in one hand.

"Now THIS is entertainment," he’d mutter, smirking.

You’d paint his nails once, calling it a “bonding moment.” He grumbled the entire time, but he didn’t stop you—and he definitely didn’t remove the pastel blue polish afterward.

Eventually, Monty became one of your unexpected protectors. If anyone said you wasn’t “tough enough” for the family, he’d raise a brow and say: 

"She’s still here, ain’t she? You try living in this hellhole in heels. That girl’s tougher than she looks."

And he’d throw in a wink for good measure.

.

Despite the glitter and giggles, your place in the Hewitt family became solid. You weren't just Thomas’s quirky girlfriend anymore — You were family.

Your laughter echoed through the halls, and your energy brought life to the broken-down house.

You painted little hearts on the kitchen cabinets (Hoyt grumbled, but didn’t stop you). You decorated Thomas’s sewing corner with pink fairy lights ("Ambience, babe!"). You even taught Luda Mae how to contour her cheekbones one lazy afternoon, both of you giggling like teenagers.

You were chaos, glitter, pink fury—and somehow, you were perfect for the family. Because despite the perfume, the squealing, and the sparkles…

You loved Thomas. Truly.And they?They loved you for it.

.

Michael Myers

Most people wouldn't dare step within fifty feet of Michael Myers, let alone live with him. But you? You marched right into his life with a pink suitcase, a Chanel knockoff purse, and a lip gloss wand in hand.

You were the complete antithesis of him—bright, bubbly, and loud in all the ways he was cold and silent. The first time you laid eyes on him, you gasped. Not in horror. Not even in fear.

"Oh my god. You’re, like, soooo tall. And spooky. I love it."

He said nothing. Of course.

Just stared down at you, that pale mask blank and unreadable. You, on the other hand, looked up at him like he was some gothic god.

"You must be, like, a Scorpio or something. So mysterious."

Then you winked.

Michael wasn’t sure if you were insane, brave, or just so utterly oblivious that it baffled even him. But he didn’t kill you. Didn’t chase you. Just stood there while you babbled about your pink UGG boots getting dirty and how Haddonfield needed way more aesthetic lighting.

You moved in shortly after that. Not that he invited you… You just kinda never left. And strangely, he didn’t seem to mind. You filled his dark, grimy house with scented candles and plush throws. You left Hello Kitty slippers by the front door. You replaced the broken mirror with one that had LED lights and glitter decals spelling “You Look Fab.”

The house smelled like vanilla and strawberry body spray. The silence was filled with your upbeat pop playlists, makeup tutorials, and the occasional shriek when you saw a spider: 

"Michael! Get it! Oh my god, it’s going to attack me! Babe, pleeease!"

He’d appear out of nowhere, squash the spider with a boot, and disappear again.

You’d clutch your chest, dramatically:

"Ugh, my hero. You’re literally giving Jason Voorhees nothing right now."

He never answered your questions. Never spoke. Never changed facial expressions. But you always knew what he was thinking.

When you forced a pink hoodie over his head one day that said “Killer BF Energy,” he just stood there for a solid minute, breathing through the mask. You thought for sure he was going to snap your neck.

Instead, he wore it the whole day.

You started taking selfies with him. You’d pose like an influencer, flashing peace signs with glittery nails while he loomed silently behind you, bloodstained knife in hand.

"This is my spooky little murder muffin. Isn't he adorbs?"

The internet thought it was cosplay. You never corrected them.

Despite the complete lack of words, Michael showed his affection in other ways. You noticed it.

He’d always show up behind you if someone was bothering you in town; He'd carry your shopping bags in one hand like they weighed nothing, while you skipped beside him in heels; He started leaving strange, oddly thoughtful gifts: a pretty rock, a heart-shaped hairpin, a necklace you’d once pointed at in a shop window.

And one night, after you'd curled up on the couch in a pile of blankets, face mask on and chick flick playing, he sat beside you. Slowly. Stiffly.

You leaned against his shoulder without hesitation. "You're like... the murder version of a golden retriever, honestly."No reply.

But he didn’t move away.

Sometimes you swore you saw his head tilt just slightly when you were doing your makeup. One day, as a joke, you painted his mask with sparkly pink eyeshadow.

He didn’t wipe it off.

No one got it. No one understood why you of all people were still alive. Why Michael Myers let you prance around in stilettos, spraying air freshener and calling him “boo.” But the truth was simple:

You weren’t afraid of the dark.You made it glitter.

And somewhere in the silence, behind the mask, he found a reason not to kill.

He found you.

.

[genderqueerdykes]

here's to every cis femme lesbian who has been told they're not queer in some capacity or another. i've seen a lot of people be rude and invalidating as hell to cis femme lesbians because they "look and act just like straight girls". i don't know why people think this way. cis femme lesbians are presenting as lesbians. they are presenting lesbian femininity, and when seeking partners, presenting for the lesbian gaze. this is inherently queer.

lesbians don't have to be masc or androgynous in order to be seen as queer. high femme lesbians are queer. all femme lesbians are queer, gender non conforming, trans, intersex, cis, perisex, whatever they may be. being hyper feminine as a cis lesbian is queer, it's an inherently queer display of femininity and/or womanhood. you don't deserve to have the queerness in your femininity forcefully removed from you. you are queer. cis femme lesbians are queer women and femmes

[hyperfunnyblog]

late night oneshot posting wahoo, surprise its about vanessa again

[faembrosia]

[ Steve Wilkos disliked that]

[kabr0ztrousers]

Kabr0z Writes Episode 3: A very bad idea, part 1

Find yesterday's entry here

CWs: usual gratuitous sex scene; demon summoning; serious dubcon, probably noncon when you think about it; heavy cumflation; horror themes; hyper-genitals; it's a lot today, folks

Author's note: Jesus H Christ this one got away from me. It gets good after about halfway but I feel like I spent too long setting up. Ah well, live and learn. I'm also trying something a little new where I'm linking the next few episodes together, so this one, episode 4, and episode 5 will follow on from one another.

There's basically no plot, so do what you want with that, but it's a fun thought.

With that aside, enjoy!

##########################################

It was a bit of a tradition now, whenever Heather was in town you'd get the lowest-rated book on a topic from the internet and take the piss out of it over a few bottles of your favourite red wine. Well, this week the wheel had spun, and landed on Demonology as a topic.

You thought about just saying screw it, and choosing another, but as you browsed the web for a terrible book, you saw it: "My First Book of Shadows" by Creedle and Crabnuts. The store listing alone was comical, from the pictures it looked like it had been printed out at home, badly trimmed to size and haphazardly stapled together. It was perfect. Two minutes later, and £5 lighter, it was on its way, predicted to arrive a couple of nights before her.

You leafed through the book when it arrived, barely a magazine really, and saw it contained what purported to be step-by-step directions to call forth a denizen of Hell, including a list of materials and guides to pronounce the chants.

Something about it... It called to you.

You don't know what came over you, but before you knew it you were walking around the high street, gathering incense sticks, candles, chalk, and a razor-sharp knife.

Heather arrived at your door on Friday evening, you had the house to yourself until at least Sunday afternoon and so we're busy in the living room. Your hands were covered in chalk dust in shades of white, blue, purple and red. The incense smoke was already filling the whole house with heady aromas of bergamot, cloves, camphor and myrrh.

She knocked again, snapping you out of your reverie. Still dressed in your dressing gown (robes are expensive, it turns out) you flung open the door and hugged your friend tight. "I have a surprise for you!"

"What? You've had the place fumigated?" Heather laughed, her voice lilting and sweet in the chill of the fading light.

"Better, come and see" you grabbed her by the hand and took her into the room where your circle lay, half finished, on the laminate floor

"Taken up a cult?" Heather's laughter hadn't stopped yet, then she saw the book open on the floor "Or started without me?" Mock-pouting now as she opened a bottle and started to pour the wine

You lent Heather your other bathrobe and as she pulled it on you couldn't help but see a small pile of her other clothes in the corner. Was she wearing anything under there? You guessed it fits the theme, and you'd been half hoping tonight would take that turn anyway, so you didn't say anything.

Together, you worked on the circle, both on hands and knees to trace the delicate runes and lines onto the ground. A few times Heather's gown rode up and the sight of her pink lower lips told you that, yes, she was completely naked under there.

You finished up, and knelt at opposite sides of the floor, gazing into the circle you'd drawn. Maybe a little smudged in places, but you weren't expecting anything to really happen as you recited the chants. The unfamiliar words felt strange to get your mouth around. As you came to the last few syllables you could have sworn the candles flickered, the incense grew more intense, the chalk lines began to smoulder. You raised the knife in your right hand and drew the point across your left.

That's when you realised your mistake.

The first drops of blood began to boil on your palm. The room became hot, and dry, like a desert wind blowing in your face. Gone were the scents of the incense, replaced with the smell of hot metal, searing meat, ozone, blood.

A noise, somehow the opposite of a bang. A dazzling flash. The guttering candles now ablaze and belching thick, black smoke that billowed down their sides like tar. You could see the fear in Heather's eyes, but neither of you could move. You were transfixed by what had appeared in the centre of the circle.

Too tall, too skinny, it hovered 6 inches off the ground. Spindly legs, 4 spindly arms, pencil-necked and sharp faced. Bald and with curved metal shards forming a shattered halo above its head. It blinked its four angular eyes and spoke with a voice that somehow echoed before you heard it

"Hail! I am Simizel! Viscount of the pit of Ashen Despair, Lord Commander of the seventeenth regiment of the Damned. Who are you to call me?"

You struggled to make any noise, throat dry and gasping for air. Simizel looked around at both of you, then down at the circle below him. "Wait, that's not right" he mused, "That's nonsense, that's spelled wrong, that's right, but in the wrong place, and..."

He looked at you

"It's a little irregular to ask, but what binding spell did you two use?" He was still looking at the ground quizzically as you rose to your feet

"Binding spell?" You croaked, eyes streaming

"Yes, to bind me, you know, so I don't just kill you both and go home?"

His eyes widened and his mouth grew into a wide smirk as he realised what had happened. He reached for the crumpled and charring pamphlet on the floor and skimmed it.

His smirk turned to a chuckle, then a laugh, then a cackle

"By my name! Someone thought they were very clever, didn't they?" He either couldn't disguise his mirth, or wasn't trying very hard "You just copied out any old rubbish and slit yourself open!"

A wave of his hand. You and Heather were floating in front of him now. "I haven't been amused like this in centuries. For being such fun, I'll give you girls some gifts"

He flicked his wrist and both of your gowns burned away, leaving you naked and glistening with sweat and fear

"First, if you want to try this again in the future, do it properly." He gestures at the book and it burns away, replaced with a wax-sealed scroll "That will summon an old friend of mine, just break the seal, read the words, and out he will come"

"Next, I'll make sure I don't leave behind any cambions" His clawed fingers etched patterns into your and Heather's skin. You tried to struggle against the pain, but your body was under his spell. In a few moments of etching, he had carved glowing sigils into the flesh just above each of your pubic bones.

He smiled, almost warmly, "Knowledge, and a boon, normally gifts like these would cost a soul, but I feel generous tonight, so I will simply take my fill of your bodies."

The spell keeping you aloft broke, and you dropped to the floor in a heap. You looked up at him and wondered how you could have missed it: between his pale thighs hung a pendulous, rapidly hardening cock. Your belly began to ache and your mouth water. What had come over you?

You started to crawl over to him, dimly aware Heather was doing the same next to you. Reaching up for this amazing rod as it grew longer and thicker than any human would have, flared at the head like a horse's and knotted at the base. You weren't sure how it was going to fit inside you

You knew you were going to make it.

You started kissing the end, as Heather began sucking on his gravid balls, each one the size of a grapefruit. Simizel cradled your face in his hand, fingers still bloody from marking you, then lifted you up with a gesture.

Upside-down now, you could see a rope of glittering precum hanging from his cock as it pulsed against your lips. You held out your tongue to try and taste it.

As soon as your lips parted it was in your mouth. You felt like your jaw would break. You didn't care. His tongue was at your pussy, licking your clit furiously and making you shake. You tensed up as you came, hips bucking against his face.

He pushed you down. The too-thick cock forcing its way down your throat and making you gag. You couldn't breathe. You still didn't care. You didn't care as you felt somehow even more tongues at your clit, invading your pussy, pushing into your asshole

He started thrusting. You felt as though you could split in half. Some dark power was keeping you conscious as you felt the end of his cock moving up and down in your belly. The thrusting got harder and faster until the knot was driven past your lips and started swelling in your mouth.

His tongues were still at your cunt. Your body squeezing against him as repeated orgasms rocked you. You could feel yourself squirting fluid into his face as he fucked your mouth open even wider

His cock must have been in your stomach now, bottoming out and stuck in you. You could feel it pulsing and could see his balls pumping in front of your face as your belly began to swell with the volume of fluid gushing into you. You tried to scream, in pain, in ecstasy, you're not sure, but the vast mass stuffed inside you prevented any sound escaping.

Heather was still cradling his balls in her hands as she kissed you, licking the base of his cock where it was jammed into your face, tasting where his fluids were leaking out of the sides of your mouth. Her eyes were empty but for lust as she rubbed her hands over her clit, her hips bucking erratically

The knot began to loosen and pull away from you. You felt hands on your hips lifting you from the demonic shaft as it pumped ever more into you, until it slipped free. You saw it hang, still pumping potent demon-seed and painting your friend's naked body in sticky, viscous white as she screamed her way to another full-body orgasm.

The world came back into relief and you realised you were panting and moaning, the tongues bringing you to your peak again and again. Pain rocked your body in between waves of pleasure as you came over and over, cum leaking from your mouth and throat as Heather stood below.

The demon wasted no time, repositioning himself under the two of you on the floor, one pair of impossibly strong hands on your hips as you rode his face, the other positioning your friend's ass over his impossible cock, still leaking and pulsing.

You heard her gasp and call out as it entered her ass, stretching her out and filling her immediately. Again and again he pushed in, her belly growing larger and larger with the size of him and the fluids he emitted. Your orgasmic cried mingled as your mind blanked and you passed out.

You don't know how long it was having its way with Heather, but when you came to you were lay on the floor watching it pull out of her pussy, her ass and throat leaking fluids and her gurgling moans of pleasure filling your ears.

Simizel looked at you and you wordlessly rolled onto your back, legs opened for him. He strode over to you, leaving your friend lying on her side in a pool of his semen and her own squirt.

He loomed over you and pressed himself against your aching hole. You gasped as it pushed in, stretching you around its immense girth. He was at your cervix already, and showed no signs of stopping. You screamed out as it pushed deeper in, lubricating its movement with a neverending stream of thick cum. Your eyes rolling as your orgasm rocked you again and again until he was again at the hilt. You weren't sure how much longer you could take it as he pumped litre after litre into you, the fluids spraying out of you even despite the knot holding him into you.

You passed out again.

This time you woke up and he was gone. Heather was where he left her. Sunlight was starting to eke in through the drawn curtains. You felt your belly, round and full, it sloshed around as you moved towards the bathroom to expel as much of the spunk left in your ass and your cramping womb as you could.

As you stood you felt the mark he left on your skin, it wasn't glowing now but still remained, red and cauterised by the heat of his claws.

You heard movement, Heather was awake and groaning. Her eyes met yours. They were still empty, there wasn't anything there but lurid desire. Your heart dropped as you lamented what he had done to her, before you realised where she was moving to

The scroll

She broke the wax and opened the paper before you could reach her on your shaking legs. She read the words and the walls began to shift.

A purple light suffused the room

You weren't done yet.

[arckiaym]

has anyone done this yet? og under the cut

[boytumms]

guy with a size kink gets knocked up by a size shifter. all through his pregnancy, his baby has growth and shrinking spurts the way other babies would kick. it's disorienting and painful. one minute he'll be fine, then his baby will knock him on his ass by deciding to grow as big as a foal, then his bump disappears when the baby shrinks to the size of a peanut. he has no predictability for any of this, and it's made his pregnancy a confusing nightmare. he didn't know this would happen, the dad didn't warn him, and he had to furiously look up sizeshifter pregnancy after an embarrassing growth spurt in the grocery store his first trimester, when baby decided to make him look ready to pop and tore apart his favorite shirt. clothes have been out of the question for months now. his belly skin is so red and stretched out and agitated with the constant inflation and deflation, the baby just getting more active near the end of the pregnancy. he worries about the birth. what if his baby has a growth spurt that makes it impossible to push out? or godforbid, one while he's actively crowning?

Having the baby shift sizes while he's giving birth would be so good, it keeps growing and shrinking rapidly while he's trying to push it out, making his labor so much longer and more painful than normal.

It's constantly changing shape, stretching him wider than his body was ever meant to stretch and getting stuck when it shifts into something huge. He screams and cries, thrashing in pain as he bucks his hips wildly in an attempt to dislodge the massive head, trembling under his towering belly and begging his baby to shrink before it breaks him. When it finally does shrink, he pushes frantically, not even waiting for contractions because he desperately needs to make as much progress as he can while the baby is small enough to be pushed out.

His labor drags on for hours, constantly bouncing back between non stop pushing when it's small and feeling like its about to split him in half and getting stuck when it's too big. He never knows how long each phase will be, he could have only minutes to push and hours of torture stretching around a creature with the head the size of a watermelon, or vice versa. His labor could last days if the baby decides to shift too big too much, leaving him exhausted and barely conscious by the time he manages to get it out.

He feels it slip out with one last push and collapses back in relief, thinking he's finally done, but suddenly his tummy jumps up, swelling right back up until he's even bigger than he started. He screams in pain, watching his belly in horror as it squirms and bounces with movement. It turns out that because shape shifting babies are always changing and shifting sizes, it's nearly impossible to figure out how many there really are. What he though was one baby constantly shrinking and growing could have actually been twins, triplets, or more.

After hours and hours of giving birth to just one baby, he realizes he has to do it all over again, and without knowing how many babies he's actually carrying, he may have to push out many more after that...

[deductions-and-magic]

Just noticed that Robby hangs on to Abbot on the side of his good leg

Taking care not to unbalance him or put unnecessary pressure on the side of the prosthetic