#i got carried away into writing lmao

[golden-buddle]

Hey mutual, figure the third Omegaverse thing was startin to get long again lol. So I thought I'd respond here instead >:3 (Also have links to the previous ones for easy access lmao) 1_ 2_ 3_

You know what would be kind of adorable? If it was Tim who got all angry at the gossip magazines. Everyone else is used to it and finds it kind of funny after all, since as you said, people outside of Gotham don't know the nuances of Gothamite body language. But Tim has been slowly coaxed into acting like a pup, been reassured that him acting like that is okay and is perfectly natural. So seeing people trying to claim Bruce isn't a good caretaker in a way that straight up targets that behavior? Oh baby boi is going to throw a fit.

Also love the idea of even other Gothamites going, yeah, the bats are more than a little feral, even for us lol. They've seen it all from the gleeful murder-baby first Robin to the trying-to-bite-your-ears-off second Robin to gonna-jump-off-this-bridge-and-take-you-with-me Batgirl. To the big bat himself who will see what could account as a straight up mob worth of people and go yeah I can fight that, and actually does, and wins.

Like that's just utterly hilarious to me lol.

Actually, before I forget, I feel like Damian's and Tim's relationship would be better in this. Seeing as Damian is younger and both Tim and Dick are very familiar with being unfamiliar with pup behavior or being forced to try and stop doing it. Which thankfully it wasn't to the extent of Tim, but still. He's the itty bitty baby of the pack who doesn't want to let anyone go the moment he realizes they won't betray him. Similar to how Tim is once he finally realizes the Waynes won't leave him and actually want him to stay.

Also remind me to sketch out the different fangs when my hands aren't shaking lol

Oh Tim DEFINITELY rips into the gossip mags.

He may be a lil pup and semi-recently got placed with the Wayne Pack, but by GOD is he going to send some angry emails.

Honestly I can see him reaching out to the daily planet as ‘Bruce’ and setting up an interview to clear it all up.

But until that happens, Tim gets scruffed and brought into the nest SO often to calm him down.

Like. Calm down pup! You are TOO angy!

Speaking of Tim and Damian’s relationship- they have the best relationship by far in the Pack. Tim can and will throw down for his new little brother. And the brotherly instincts he never had before (and thusly never had to stifle before) doesn’t help either.

Dami is more or less constantly following either his Mum, Jason, or Tim.

If he has to, he’ll tag along with Dick and Alfred, but in order of his favorite pack members Tim is definitely up there with Jason and Bruce.

He can and will use the fact that he’s just an itty bitty pup and whine and whine to get carried around. He may be an independent pup, and he DOES like to wander around on his own, but he absolutely loves being engulfed by his packmate’s scents.

It’s so very different to when he first left the cloning pod and all he could smell was blood and sterile alcohols.

And finally for how Gotham views the Feral Bats??

It’s DEFINITELY like that. Gotham is in awe over their guardians (and I can’t help but see them putting the Batfamily up as embodiments of the city, Gothamites definitely definitely made shrines for the Batfamily that dot about the city)

The Agent, the one who walked the streets long before the Bat flew for the first time, who holds ears in the highest of places and knows far too much that he rarely shares with others. The one who was only connected to the bats far, far down the line.

The Motherly-Protective Bat who has claws like in the old days, who bares his fangs and rips into flesh with no hesitation to protect his city-pups and actual pups. Who dragged the first of the costumed rogues back to Arkham by sheer force and detective skills.

The First Robin who was gleefully blood thirsty, somehow the most animalistic of the pack as he chirped and trilled and danced in the air. Flying like his namesake as he bares his puppy fangs in a barely constrained aggressive smirk.

The Batgirl (Cuckoo) who nearly flew as well as the First Robin, the one who chirped and warbled and forced herself into the Bat’s nest and first showed the City what happened to those who hurts those the Bat holds dear and who showed what happened to who the Bat deems as unwelcome to his territory.

The Nightingale, the first of the robins to grow up, the one with fangs he never hid and a voice as sweet as his feathers. The one who talks as much as he growls, the one who shreds his enemies with enough cheer and electricity to drown a clown.

The Second Robin, (Cardinal, clad in blood reds and spiked feathers, somehow still in the familiar designs of the First Robin) the one taken far too soon who didn’t quite fly as he did glide. The one who hid in his mother’s cape, only leaving to fight and protect-protect-protect just like his mother. The one who showed what happened to those who ignore that they were chased out of the Bat’s territory.

The Third Robin (Crow, Clad in blacks and shiny feathers but still the familiar Robin design) The one who is too smart for his own good- the one who ended the grip that the Bat’s bloodstained claws held on the city. He clings to his mother, only leaving to find more of his pack.

The Forth Robin, (Starling, purples and blacks and shimmering feathers that seem to mirror your face back at you) The blending of Batgirl and Robin, the one who was dragged into the Bat Pack when Crow wandered too far from his mother and needed her help finding his way back to the nest. All the gracefulness of the Bats and the Aggressiveness of the Robins twirled into one sparkling purple attack.

The Cardinal, the second of the robins to grow up, the one who took the name that was whispered in the alleys as his own. Who came into the scene with a splash of blood as bright and soaking as his initial departure. Who’s eyes glow with Unseen bloodlust and protection that followed his mother’s steps.

#Omegaverse #alpha beta omega #A/B/O #i want you to know seeing you in my ask box instead of the other way around is hilarious #it’s like I walked into my kitchen and you’re there just making a smoothie #and when I ask what are you doing here #you just lift up the blender like #“’making a smoothie.’” #hilarious lmao #Post Writing Edit: I uh. #i got carried away into writing lmao #may not be an actual fic or ficlet but still-

[tonberry-yoda]

A Nice Girl - Zuko

Pairing - Zuko x f!reader

Warnings - none!!

Word Count - 3,211

Notes - I have been pumping out these really long fics lately lmaoooo. i dont mean to i just simply get carried away. i need to stop before i get a block tho lmao. AND IM ALMOST AT 400 FOLLOWERS OMG!!! im like so excited about it tbh. maybe ill open my request when we get there. thank you all and i hope you're all well. stay hydrated!!

You yawned and stretched, the silk from your nightgown tickling you. That had to have been the best sleep you have gotten these past couple of weeks. As the oldest in the “gaang” at 17 years old, you had to act as the mother of the group and felt this awful need to protect everyone all the time, thus granting you several sleepless nights.

Sure, Ba Sing Se didn't feel like home and it didn't feel 100% safe either, but you got to sleep in a comfy bed and wear some really nice clothes. You had to admit that it was nice to be working with the Avatar sometimes.

You pushed your tangled hair out of your face and looked into the full length mirror next to your bed. Yeah, you definitely slept well, that was no question. You could tell by the rat’s nest created on your head and the sleep lines across your arms and face. You definitely needed to wash up before you started your day.

You got out of bed, stretching as the sun kissed your warm cheeks. You were going to make the best out of today. Lots of planning, but lots of downtime too, so that was nice.

As you finally walked out of your room, you were welcomed to cackling laughter from Sokka, his finger pointed at you.

“Ha, ha,” you said sarcastically, Katara handing you a brush. “Very funny, Sokka.”

“Not just funny,” he said through laughter. “It’s hilarious, y/n! You look so stupid!!!”

You rolled your eyes, hiding a smile, and tamed the rat’s nest on your head, looking a little more yourself.

Aang walked in the house holding a bowl of snacks with a smile on his face. “Oh, good morning, y/n! You sure slept in this morning!”

“Slept in?” You tilted your head. “What time is it?”

Katara took the brush from you and set it down on a nearby drawer. “Almost 10 am.”

“What?!” You were shocked. You were usually the first one up always and if not, you never slept past 8.

Katara giggled. “Listen, y/n. I think it's great that you finally got some sleep. We never really see you rest well, so none of us had the heart to wake you up.”

You beamed. “You guys are the best. Well,” you stretched. “I'm gonna get washed up so I don't look like a sleepy monster all day.” Something about Ba Sing Se gave you the creeps, but at the same time, it was nice to be back in a place where you could bathe in warm water and not fear Zuko coming after you. It's not like you had anything against the Fire Nation prince… it's more like… he was an inconvenience to you and the rest of the gaang. Since you and Zuko were about the same age, you understood him. Well, kinda. You escaped the Fire Nation when you were younger, disagreeing with all of their ideals and overall how they treated the world. You did see the prince as Fire Nation scum, but at the same time, you saw him as a kid, just like you. He was banished for god knows what and he just wanted to go home. You didn't hate Zuko. Not one bit. You understood that he may just be in some sort of hidden pain. But you had to admit that it was kinda nice to not have him around to bother you.

You got out of the shower refreshed and ready for the day. It was nice to have a day off, so you were probably going to get some tea and write in your journal about how the past couple of weeks have been. You figured it would be nice to log everything that has ever happened on this little journey just in case you all wanted a refresher in the next twenty years or so. You slipped on some Earth Nation attire and smiled at yourself in the mirror as you braided your hair. Today is going to be a good day, you thought. Nothing better than tea and some late breakfast.

“I'm going out for the day,” you said, placing your bag on your shoulder. “Stay out of trouble today, got it?”

You looked at Aang and he laughed. “I will, I will! Have a nice day, okay, y/n? You deserve it.”

“You’re all too kind to me. Thank you.”

“And let me know if you find Appa!”

“I will, don't worry.”

You smiled and walked out of the house, smelling the fresh Earth Nation air. Luckily, the walls didn't cover the fresh air, so you could still get the almost afternoon breath.

You spent the beginning of the day walking around shops, buying some supplies and new clothes for yourself and the others. The markets were busy, but it was nice to get some of the things you needed without Aang begging for some stupid trinket that you always ended up buying him because you thought it was cool too. That was always your impulse, stupid things that Aang showed you. Those could be the death of you.

As you finally finished your browsing journey, you overheard a conversation while looking over a map.

“I swear their tea has gotten better.”

“Really? I dunno.”

“I'm serious. It has to be the best tea shop in Ba Sing Se.”

“Fine, we can go try it later.”

You turned to the two men a little embarrassed that you were eavesdropping. “S-Sorry, but I was kinda listening to your conversation… uh… where’s that tea shop you were talking about? I've been trying to find a nice place to get some tea all morning.”

The man hyping up the shop smiled at you. “Don't worry about eavesdropping, kiddo. It's right here.” He pointed to the map you were looking at and you were satisfied that it wasn't too far from where you currently were.

You thanked the man and began your journey to the shop. It was a little closer to afternoon and you could feel your stomach rumbling, so you just decided to skip right to lunch.

You walked into the tea shop and saw people smiling and laughing together, the heavenly scent of tea filling your senses. You were quickly seated at a lone booth and given a menu. Everything looked so good, you could swear that you were about to drool just thinking about food.

You decided to order something that the waitress recommended and as she walked away, you flipped through your journal, going over everything that you and the gaang had been through. You quietly laughed to yourself as you passed a page that said: note to self - slap Zuko’s bald head at least once. Imagine the sound that would make.

It’s definitely been a long trip of both laughter and struggle, and honestly, you were really happy. You don't remember the last time you had laughed so hard before you met Aang and the others. It was nice. Really nice.

“Here’s your tea. Is there anything else you need?” Your tea was set in front of you along with your lunch and you tilted your head at the familiar voice that wasn't your waitress from earlier. It was on the tip of your tongue.

“I think I'm alright, thank-” You looked up and the smile you had suddenly dropped. No way. “Zu-”

Before you could say his full name, Zuko covered your mouth and quickly let go, hoping no one saw or heard any of that. “P-Please don't.”

“But you’re-”

“I know,” Zuko’s voice was low. “Just… can we talk… in the back?”

You looked around the restaurant at all of the other people and back at Zuko. He looked so different. Barely recognizable. His face didn't look so pissed off and he had a short head of hair now that looked healthy. The only reason you recognized him was the scar, but honestly, if he covered it up somehow, you wouldn't have a clue that he was the prince of the Fire Nation.

You nodded and stood up, collecting your things. You followed Zuko to the back, almost a little scared. You had no means of defending yourself. You were a non bender, so if he wanted to pick a fight, you were screwed. You didn't even have a simple weapon on you. Maybe you were getting too cozy.

Zuko brushed off a small table and pulled out a chair for you, which you sat in with slight hesitation.

“How did you get into Ba Sing Se?” You didn't mean to sound so defensive. Well, you did, but you weren't expecting to. Especially not on such a good day like this.

“It's… a long story.”

“Why are you here?”

“Listen… It’s not for the Avatar.”

“Huh? Is that so?” You crossed your arms and looked him dead in the eye. “Then explain to me how you always end up where we just so happen to be. That’s suspicious, isn't it?”

“I-”

“If you hurt Aang, I swear to-”

“I don't care about Aang right now!”

The whole room went quiet. You had never heard Zuko say Aang’s name before, let alone not care about what the Avatar is doing.

“Then why…”

“I have my own stuff to deal with. It's none of your business, okay? I do have a life outside of the Avatar, you know.”

You nodded and looked down at your tea. “I'm… assuming your uncle made this?” You giggled softly.

“Yeah. He did.” Zuko’s voice was small and way less frustrated.

“So that’s why this tea shop has hype all of a sudden.” You wondered aloud, your eyes wandering to the ceiling.

Zuko cleared his throat and shuffled in his spot. “So… uh… what now?”

“Promise not to hurt Aang and I won't say a word about you being here. I believe that you have your own stuff to deal with, so prove it to me.”

“I promise.”

Your eyes locked with his and you smiled, shocking Zuko a bit. You smiled at him, the guy that’s been trying to hurt you and your friends this whole time. The guy who would’ve done anything for the Avatar to be in his hands.

“You probably hate me, don't you?” Zuko spat out, rubbing the back of his neck.

You tilted your head. “Hate’s a strong word, don't you think?”

Zuko looked at you, appalled. “I mean, I would understand if you did.”

“It's been a long road for you, hasn't it, Zuko?”

He nodded at you and you pointed to the other side of the table, just realizing that he was standing that entire time. “Let’s share some tea.”

“I-I don't know if that’s a good idea.” Zuko took a step back.

“Ah, I see,” you stood up, scooting your chair back in. “You’re a busy man with a job now.”

He just nodded at you.

“Well, I'll let you get to it then, but I expect to see you at 6 tonight ready to hang out, okay?”

“Wh-What?! Won't your friends notice that you’re gone?”

You just smiled, collecting your things. “Zuko, I do have a life outside of the Avatar, you know.”

Zuko’s face went bright red as you walked out of the room with a smirk on your face. It was actually kinda cute to see Zuko not being some evil kid with his heart set on hurting anyone.

“You’re leaving?” Sokka whined, watching you grab your bag.

“Yes Sokka,” you said for what seemed like the hundredth time. “I'm leaving. I just want to go get dinner out by myself tonight. Maybe go for a nice walk.”

“Aww man,” Sokka pouted, crossing his arms. “Who’s gonna make dinner now?”

You rolled your eyes, trying to hide the smile creeping on your lips. “Sokka, I left some money on the table. You guys should go out and get something to eat tonight.”

“Why aren't you coming with us?” Sokka tilted his head, counting the money on the table.

“I just want to go out by myself tonight, that’s all.”

“So you’re just gonna have a lonely dinner all by yourself?” Sokka questioned, looking skeptical.

“Yes!”

“She’s lying.” Everyone turned to Toph and your face went bright red. You forgot she could tell if you were lying or not, and it definitely didn't help that you were outside on the concrete so Toph could really feel right through you.

Sokka turned back to you quickly. “You’re going to dinner with someone?”

“Fine, yes, I am, so what?”

“Who is it?”

You rolled your eyes, already late. “Just somebody.”

“Is it a boy?” Sokka gave you a mocking look and you pushed his face away.

“Fine, whatever! It's a boy! So what?! Now let me leave before I'm late. Have a nice dinner everyone.” You waved at the group and ran to the tea shop, hoping that Zuko didn't leave yet.

The bell rang as you opened the shop door. “Sorry, we’re not serving tea anymore, we’re closing at the moment,” a familiar voice said. Iroh peeked his head out, surprised to see you. “y/n?”

You smiled, “hi Iroh.”

“How are you?” Iroh set down the broom he was holding and pulled you into a soft embrace. You never told the others, but you spent quite a bit of time talking to Zuko’s uncle when you got the chance. He was a wise man and kind as well. Maybe that's why you understood Zuko so well, you had someone to give you some insight on the boy.

“I'm good, Iroh. How are you?”

“Oh I'm fine,” he beamed at you, pulling away from the hug. “I'm getting to live my lifelong dream of making tea for the people of Ba Sing Se, so that feels pretty nice.”

“Well, you are the best at making tea, Iroh.”

“Oh, stop. You’re so full of flattery, y/n.” Iroh blushed with a smile. “Is there a reason you’re here?”

“Is your nephew here?”

“You’re looking for Zuko?” Iroh cocked an eyebrow at you and you chuckled, surprised that you were even here.

“I am.”

Iroh gave you a skeptical look, but honestly didn't care much. He thought it was nice that someone wanted to visit Zuko. “He is here. Let me go grab him. Would you like some tea in the meantime?”

“Tea sounds great,” you admitted, sitting at a table.

As you got comfortable, Zuko ran into the room, completely surprised. “You’re here?”

You laughed. “Of course I am! I said I’d be here at 6 didn't I?”

“I thought you were bluffing.”

“Well now you know I'm serious. Wanna hang out?”

Zuko gave you a side eye and thought for a moment. “I think I know what you’re trying to do.”

“And what might that be?” Iroh entered the room, placing two teacups and a kettle on your table. You thanked Iroh as he left with a smile.

“You’re trying to get info out of me. About the Fire Nation… aren't you?”

You shook your head. “You’re so defensive all the time, Zuko.”

“Can you blame me?” Zuko shut all of the blinds in the shop and sat across from you, taking a sip of tea.

“I guess not.”

“I'm surprised you’re not a little more on edge.”

“Why’s that?” You took a sip of tea as well, humming at how delightful it tasted.

“I'm a firebender. You don't bend right? I could literally take you down at any moment. And it doesn't seem like you have any weapons either.”

“I trust that you won't do anything. Your uncle would probably be pissed about the mess to be honest.”

For the first time in all of your time knowing Zuko, you heard him laugh. He laughed so hard that he snorted a bit, which made him laugh harder. Because of all of his laughter, he made you laugh too, sending you both into a laughing fit. It felt good. You haven't laughed this hard since you first met Sokka, all covered in Appa’s snot.

Zuko literally had tears in his eyes by the time he stopped laughing. Seeing him happy made you feel… good. Really good. It was almost a relief. It made Zuko more human. You didn't know if you could even remotely call him your enemy anymore.

You two ended up talking all night, Iroh occasionally bringing more tea or just little treats every now and then. You literally couldn't stop talking to Zuko. To hear about what it was like to grow up in the Fire Nation as a prince was interesting. To hear what Ozai was really like in person sent chills down your spine. To hear where that scar on his face came from almost brought you to tears. Zuko didn't even know why he told you all of this, but he could say one thing. It felt nice. It felt this giant weight on his chest had been lifted.

After a few hours, you looked at the clock in the shop and frowned. “Bad news, Zuko. I gotta go.”

“Already?” He turned to face the clock and pouted his bottom lip. “Alright then.”

You stood up and collected your things. “Thanks for the tea, Iroh!” You shouted, which was responded with a big smile and a thumbs up from Iroh.

“Thanks for stopping by.”

“Anytime,” you said, opening the door of the shop. “I'll be back.”

“You will?” You turned to Zuko, who almost looked excited that you said that.

“Of course I will. Goodnight guys.”

“Wait,” Zuko ran up to you, holding the door open. “Let me walk you home, it’s late.”

“Zuko, I don't know if that’s a good idea.”

Zuko frowned, but you were probably right. If Aang spotted him for even a second, both of you would be done for. “R-Right. Well… thanks.”

“For what?”

“Hanging out. That was fun.”

You smiled. “That was fun. Thank you for not killing me, Zuko.”

“Anytime.” He giggled, immediately taken aback when you pulled him in for a hug after dropping everything.

He was so… warm. I mean, duh. He was a firebender. But even so, his hug felt so genuine, so nice, and you didn't want to leave. “Goodnight, Zuko,” you said as you pulled away from the hug.

“Goodnight, y/n.” This time, he shocked you by pulling you in for another hug and pulling away only to pull you in again, but this time, your lips were inches apart.

“Can I kiss you?” His voice was in a whisper, his warm breath dusting over your lips.

You just nodded and closed your eyes as his soft lips brushed against yours. You wrapped your arms around the back of his neck pulling him closer. He smiled into the kiss, wrapping his arms around your waist.

When you pulled away from the kiss, both of you said a quick goodbye, your cheeks dusted pink.

Zuko quickly walked back into the tea shop to help Iroh close and put his back on the door.

“I'm glad you found a nice girl, Zuko.” Zuko jumped hearing his uncle’s voice, his face turning a dark shade of crimson.

Though if he was being honest, he was glad he found a nice girl too.

~~~~~

atla masterlist --- pinned post

@tonberry-yoda

TAG LIST: @ede1faecam

#i hope you guys like it #i got carried away and wrote too much lmao #writing #fanfic #fanfiction #my writing #<3 #atla #zuko #atla x reader #zuko x reader #avatar the last airbender x reader #avatar the last airbender #avatar #prince zuko #the gaang

[reineydraws]

Hi hi! For the spotify wrapped art game, can I suggest akataka with 56?

oh, i think i was doomed before i began

56 is special girl by dodie. a particular fave, so im glad u chose mishanks for it since they've been on my mind. :')

wrapped 2023 game

#wrapped 2023 #mishanks #akataka #dracule mihawk #shanks #akagami no shanks #red hair shanks #one piece #one piece fanart #got carried away with this one pals lol #i was just so excited about it :')) #btw if it's not clear: they were dueling and then shanks just dropped his guard to kiss mihawk cuz he couldnt take it anymore #and mihawk (probably freaking out) kicked him to get him out of his personal space lol #btw i positioned this as shanks pov but an argument could be made that the song in general is more of a mihawk thing #depending on how u write his backstory #might revisit this tmr and remove the white square lmao im always more ham-fisted with my symbolism when im tired

[sehtoast]

His Place is in Lace (Homelander x Reader Smut)

18+ | sex toys, gender neutral reader, sublander, lingerie, no hands, x-ray vision, overstimulation, multiple orgasms, cockwarming, panties as a gag, light comeplay | Fic Directory

original request

Saying he was like putty in your hands was a fairly humble brag at this point.  In truth, he was all yours– fully and completely yours. You could do pretty much whatever you wanted to him, whenever you wanted, and he would thrive for the sole fact he had your attention.

It was practically all he ever wanted.  Homelander had been so desperate for even a shred of your attention in the beginning that he sought it out in all the wrong ways.  Picking on you, intimidating you, generally indulging that darker half of his mind and allowing him to run the show.  But you wore him down.  You were always so damn nice to him even when he tried everything to get under your skin. And, sometimes… 

Sometimes you would put him in his place.

Maybe that’s what made him like doing it so much.  Maybe it’s why he caved and realized you were the one for him– all he’d ever wanted wrapped up in one precious package that he would never get enough of.  Even with your undying devotion and love, he still couldn’t fucking get enough of you.  He had to be the center of your attention and he’d go to any lengths to get there.

Just like now.

He let you tie him up, promised he’d be a good boy and wouldn’t break those useless binds.  Let you dress him up in white lace panties and a see through bra. Let you position a vibrating wand just over the tip of his leaking cock and work a plug into his ass and oh how he wishes you would touch him.  He wishes so badly that you’d do more than perch on the edge of the bed and watch him– but oh how he loved to know you were staring .  Smirking and smiling, chuckling at his little gasps and wanton moans.  All the times you’d lick your lips at every jump and twitch of his cock…

But he had your attention, so he’d be good.  Would press his wrists closer together instead of tugging them apart, ever so careful not to break your rules.  He’d raise his hips into the air to seek more of that sensation, whimpering every time he failed to find more pressure, more speed, more anything.

He’d leaked through the fabric long ago and the red tip of his cock was clear as day beneath the pulsating head of the toy.  Each little bead of precum soaked more and more of the garment, each twitch a desperate declaration that he needed release.  It was only when he started begging with tears streaming down his face that you upped the speed of the toy.

He arches and damn near floats off the bed, head pressed back into the pillow as he fights with every ounce of his wavering control to not break the silky ropes at his wrists.  Whimpers fall from his mouth, but he can’t possibly care how pathetic he is with his head so fucking clouded.  His hips undulate with attempts to fuck against the toy and he feels a hot jolt of pleasure shoot straight down to his cock at your little giggle of amusement.

“You’re cute like this,” you tell him.  You smooth a hand over his inner thigh and he splays himself wide for you, begging, praying that you’ll touch him.  You drag your nails along the softness of his flesh and he shivers and whines.  You can see the way he trembles from such a small act and the swell of pride goes right to your head.  You decide to experiment.

“Look at you,” you say, voice low and sultry.  “Look how soaked you are…”

Just as you predicted, his cock twitches at your words.  You move as though you’re going to grasp him, but you turn the toy off instead.  An extra pitiful whine escapes his mouth.

“You’re so wet, I can see you through those adorable little panties of yours.”  You glide your thumb under the lace of the waistband and he keens.  You pull the fabric back just enough to reveal the head, smirking like the cat that got the cream when little strings of come follow the garment.  You let it snap back into place, covering the tip of him all over again.

“You’re such a whore.” You declare.  “God, even your nipples are poking through your bra, baby.  You’re really pent up, huh?”

He nods furiously, pressing his wrists together again.  All he wants is to snap those stupid ties and pounce you like a rabid fucking animal.  He’s painfully close…

A cold breath wafts over his left bud and he mewls.  More, more, more, more, more.

“Such a pretty boy, Johnny…” You lean down to whisper into the shell of his ear.  You don’t touch him with anything more than the occasional breath blown against his neck.  “So pretty… I could eat you right up.  I bet you’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

He gives a choked ‘uh-huh’ noise that was far more of a whine than anything else.  His hips rise again.

“I bet you’d love it if I touched you.  If I let you feel me .”

His eyes roll back and goosebumps erupt all over his body.  His breathing hastens as the coil in his core grows impossibly tighter with every word, every little breath of yours against his flesh.

“Imagine it… How soft and warm my hand would be on that pretty little cock of yours.”  You fan a hot breath at the shell of his ear.  “Or, maybe my mouth?  All hot and wet for you.  Dragging my tongue up and down your cock…  I bet you’d like to grab me by the hair and force me to choke on it, but you wouldn’t do that, would you?  You’re a good boy, right?”

He bites his lip hard and his thighs quake and tremble and he’s so fucking close.   He imagines everything you say and each little fantasy rocks him to his core.

“What if I let you fuck me?  Think you could even make it past the tip without blowing a load into me?”  You watch with a wide grin as his chest heaves and his cock twitches against its wet confines.  He’s damn near about to burst.  “I think…” You tease a faint nibble at his earlobe and he gives a particularly harsh thrust upward.  “I think you’d love to fuck your come deep inside me.  Push in as far as you can and claim me from the inside out. That you–”

A howling moan breaks you from your teasing and you watch in pure satisfaction as he fucks up into the air, hips raised at an angle so sharp that the come that didn’t spurt through his panties leaks onto his belly.  His cries are strangled against a breath caught in his throat and you’re there to talk him through the whole way.

“That’s it, Johnny… Cream your panties like the little slut you are.”

Just as he’s coming down from it, right when you think he’d be most sensitive, you press the button on the wand and start it up all over again, watching smugly as he’s jarred out of his orgasmic haze.

“Gah!  Fuck!”   He shouts loudly, binds creaking.

You click your tongue at him in disapproval.  

“Ah, ah, ah… Don’t you dare break those.” You chide.  “You’ll be a very, very bad boy if you do.  And then I won’t be able to give you what you want.”  

You pet his hair while he fights to settle himself down and submit to his place once more.  A finger finds one of his barely-clothed nipples and you circle the bud with a feather light pressure.  It’s still enough to rip a wavering moan out of his mouth.

“Needy boy,” you coo.  “You look so pretty in this getup.  I’d say Christmas came early, but,” you slip your fingers through the mess on his belly, bringing your digits up to smear his come on his lower lip. “Looks like you came even faster.”

His body quakes with little tremors, shivers that send a wave of smug satisfaction right to your head.  His helpless little moans spur you to shift the pulsating head of the toy to his sack, holding it there as he squirms and whines.  You tilt it against the base of his plug to spread the sensation to his ass and his head rises from the bed for just a fraction of a second in a blissful shock.

You toy with him for another hour or so before you decide you’ve had your fun.  He’d completely soaked his panties, cock perfectly visible through the transparent white fabric.  And Homelander?  He was nearly incoherent.  Babbling on and on about how badly he needed this or how good that felt, pleading and begging in between your good graces for any extra attention you might give to his aching shaft.

Fifteen orgasms milked from his pretty cock and you’d only just put your hands on him.  He nearly shrieks when your palms come down against the sides of his abdomen, smoothing back and forth between his perky nipples and his wet hip bones. You lift his bra just enough to expose his nipples and dive in, suckling hard on one and rolling the other between your fingers.

He mewls and melts, falling so far into an intoxicated swirl of lust and you that he fails to feel you unhook his binds.  He’s free to move his hands, but he doesn’t.

Your good boy knows his place.

You roll your hips against his drenched cock and he’s nothing but helpless, pathetic sounds below you.  If you thought he was like putty in your hands before , he was practically fucking butter now.

“Please, please, please…” He whimpers for the umpteenth time.  You’re ready and dripping for him.  He had to watch you get that way, had to see you dangle all that he wanted and more in front of him like a fucking treat and know he was only allowed to watch you touch yourself.

When you slide off and tug his panties down his legs, he’s almost hopeful that you’re going to finally touch him, that your hand is going to wrap around his cock or, better yet, your mouth, and he’s so fucking excited .  

“Open.”  You order.  You watch the look of realization settle in just before you stuff the garment in his mouth, grinning smug and satisfied as he’s made to taste himself.

“Bet it’s good,” you say as you press your palm over his mouth.  “You always taste good.”  You can feel his cock twitch against your thigh.  You reach down to grasp him and he arches from the bed, wrists pushing against each other.  His moans are muffled, but you can tell he’s already close again.

“You’re not gonna come,” you tell him.  “You’re gonna wait until I give you permission.  And when I do,” you grasp his jaw with your free hand to direct his gaze, “you’re gonna use those special eyes and look inside of me… You’re gonna watch every drop fill me up and you’re going to keep your eyes open the whole time.  Understand?”

When he simply stares at you with those wide, excited blues, you pat the side of his face to prompt a nod.  As soon as he does, you sink down onto him.

He clamps down on the panties in his mouth, squeezing more of his release onto his tongue as he does everything in his power to stop from coming right then and there.  He does as you told him.  He keeps his eyes open the whole time, shaking his head from side to side to disguise the desperate tears that have begun to spill.  His hips stutter to move but you slow when they do, so he fights himself over that, too.

It takes everything he has not to break those binds and touch you.  Oh how he fucking needs to touch you– needs to fuck you.

With your hands around his neck, you finally give him permission, leaning back so he could get his view.  You time it just right, to the exact second you begin to peak from touching yourself and riding him, your head becoming lightweight and body twitching through the quaking waves of your orgasm.

And Homelander?

He gnashes his teeth against the fabric as he comes undone, crimson eyes forced as wide as possible while he loses that last shred of control and thrusts upward.  He watches each spurt fill you, sees how it lines your walls and pushes deeper with each drive of his throbbing cock.  It floods you, seeps into every warm inch of your heat until there’s nowhere left to go but back down his cock.

The mere sight has his eyes rolling back.  He twitches beneath you, utterly spent, used, and balls deep in bliss.  Weak, breathy moans muffle against the fabric, eventually spilling free when you slip it from his mouth to kiss him.

You tell him how good he is.  That he was so perfect for you.  He did everything you wanted and more.  Just look at him, unbound, still holding his wrists together because he knows the rules.  You press kisses to his cheeks, to his forehead, to the tip of his nose and then his lips.  You caress him and pet through his hair, sweet nothings dripping from your tongue.

“That’s it, sweetheart.  You did such a good job.” You coo.  “I love you so, so much.”

He feels so free when you take him apart.  Like every shred of his being is laid bare before you and you’ve opted to hold each piece with love and care.  He tells you that he loves you too, but it falls out more as a slurred combination of the words.  He’s still buried inside of you, still warm and snug right where he wants to be– where he wants to stay.

“So,” you chuckle, all snuggled up on top of him.  “How badly am I in for it the next time around?”  You know damn well he’s going to repay you tenfold for this.  You’ll be surprised if you can even walk afterward.

“Mhm,” he hums.  His mind and body are spent and all he wants now is to drift off in your embrace.

“‘Mhm’ is a pretty strong answer, babe.” You’re proud of your good work.  You settle against him without letting his softening cock slip free.  

With a press of your lips to his temple, you bid him sweet dreams. You promise him safety and comfort while he rests and he believes your words more than he believes the sun will rise tomorrow.

He knows you’ll be there.

#homelander #homelander x reader #homelander fanfiction #homelander smut #antony starr #the boys #lmao i DEFINITELY think i got carried away with this one #but it was so fun to write

[blindmagdalena]

Omg could you maybe do “The sun rising over the horizon as they chat through the night” with homelander and maybe venus!reader? A standard reader would be wonderful too though ☺️

ohhh, venus!reader!!! it's been too long since i thought about her! yes, absolutely. 🖤

homelander x reader. dialogue from this list of newly wed prompts. reader is the supe Venus, a Poison Ivy inspired superhero. ❤️🌿 1.3k and 18+ for saucy imagery and some heavy petting, but no outright smut. mostly a sentimental affair.

Intimacy is a strange word. It’s the sort that can be used to describe the closeness of a wide variety of different relationships, be they platonic or romantic. It strikes Homelander that he’s had very, very few relationships that he would classify as truly intimate.

But that’s what this feels like right now. You lay atop him, nothing but skin between your bodies. It isn’t just your shared nakedness that makes this intimate, though.

It’s the tenderness in your eyes as you gaze down at him through heavily lidded eyes, lips curved in a gentle smile. It’s the way you tilt your head at the same time he lifts his hand, knowing he intends to stroke your cheek with his knuckles well before he does it. It’s the way you sigh the warmth of your breath onto his lips.

It wasn’t always like this. There was a time where he couldn’t stand you: at least, that’s what he thought it was. You had a way of putting him off balance, agitating him in ways few people could. There were times when he wanted to throttle you for the ease with which you would brush him off.

It turned his world upside down when he realized you’d been flirting with him the whole time.

“What’re you thinking about?” You ask idly, leaning against his hand. He adjusts his hand to support your cheek in his palm, rubbing his thumb along the rise of your cheek.

“You,” he answers, smiling at how you scrunch your nose.

“What about me?” You press, turning your head to kiss his palm.

He inhales a slow breath through his nose, exhales a little raspberry. “You and me. Where we are, how we got here.”

“Well,” you begin, folding your arms to rest them atop his chest. “It all started this afternoon when I sent you a picture of a blooming Middlemist Red–the rarest flower in the world, I’ll remind you–and you texted back ‘Not The Petals I’m Thinking About Spreading,’ which, inexplicably and against all logic, made me incredibly horny. So, I came home, took off all your clothes and rode you stupid.”

As you speak, a grin slowly spreads across Homelander’s face. “Wow. You got it bad, huh?”

“I married you, didn’t I?” You give back, quirking a brow.

“Ch’yeah, but even so. Sheesh. Embarrassing.” “I’m going to kill you,” you say through a smile, turning to bite his hand. He laughs as you chew ineffectually on it, continuing to stroke your cheek regardless. 

“Yeah? I think this approach is gonna take you awhile,” he muses, watching as you gnaw at the meat of his hand just below his pinky.

Letting his hand go with a soft pleh noise, you wipe your mouth with the back of your hand. “Yeah, I intend it to. At least a solid fifty years. You’ll suffer real slow. That’s why they use spoons instead of knives to torture people, you know. It hurts more when it’s dull,” you say, leaning in to press a sweet kiss to his lips.

“Fifty years, huh? That’s it?” He asks, wiping your own spit on your shoulder. “You know we’re probably gonna live a lot longer than that, right?”

“Yeah, well, you never know what the divorce rates will be like in the future. You know what the leading cause of divorce is, right?” You ask, refolding your arms, resting your chin atop them.

“We’re not getting divorced,” he says, unwilling to entertain the thought even playfully.

“The leading cause of divorce is marriage,” you say very seriously anyways.

“You are… so incredibly lame,” he says, voice heavy with the severity of his accusation.

“And yet,” you say, wiggling your ring finger.

He takes your hand and pulls it to his lips, kissing that inconspicuous little gold band. It matches his wider band perfectly. “And yet,” he echoes by way of agreement. “Hard to believe I finally pinned you down.”

“Oooh,” you purr, brows lifting. “Tell me more about how you pinned me down.”

“You’re done for now. Shackled. Legally bound,” he expounds, smoothing his hands down the curves of your body, sinking his grip into the soft swell of your ass. You laugh, moving your hands to kiss his chest just above the beat of his heart.

“Mmm, see, I recall our honeymoon differently. I remember you being the one all tied up,” you say, a wicked glint in your eyes.

True. You surprised him with that one, ensnaring him in a tangle of vines and keeping him like that for hours under the narrative of “breaking him in.” It had worked, rocked his world so hard that the thought alone was enough to send a hungry pang all the way to his core, despite having just thoroughly had you. It isn’t as though he can ever get enough. You’re intoxicating.

He inhales deeply, savoring the rich smell of you. You always have the lingering scent of blossoms and sandalwood on your skin, remnants of your powers woven into every fiber of your being. It gives you a sense of wildness, leaves him feeling as though he’s laying claim to you every time he touches you. 

“I love you,” he says, eyes soft, utterly drunk on the feeling. He watches how easily those three simple words disarm you, draining the slyness from your eyes and replacing it with a tenderness reserved exclusively for him. For as much as the world thinks it knows you, it never will. Not the way he does. Let them go on believing you’re part hero, part villainess, that all your stems are barbed with thorns. He’ll keep the truth of your softness a secret for his hands alone. 

“I love you, too,” you whisper, cupping either side of his face as you close in to kiss him properly, parting his lips with your tongue to taste, to feel, to consume. There is a hunger in you that mirrors his own, each of you taking bites of the other without ever truly growing full or satisfied. 

He realized a long time ago that no amount of you would ever be enough, and that was when he knew he had to make you his forever. The rings on your fingers are just a small token of that. It’s the scars you carve into each other’s hearts that scream the true nature of your love.

Time melts away in the wake of your presence in his. You make him laugh, bringing him the kind of peace he’d only ever dreamed of. There is an ease that comes about when you truly love someone, when you can not only show them your deepest darkness, but your most nonsensical self. He’s never afraid that you will laugh at him. He knows unconditionally that you only ever laugh with him. When he is vulnerable, you bring sobriety. When he is afraid, you don armor.

In the span of a single night, you are his lover, his rival, his spouse, his menace and his dearest friend. The two of you are so wholly consumed by one another, neither of you realize that the night has ended until the dawn comes crawling in through the windows.

“God, what time is it?” You ask, dumbstruck by the encroaching light.

“I don’t care,” Homelander answers unhelpfully, tugging you back down into his arms. “Fuck it, let’s stay in bed all day, sleep through it. I like the night better anyways. No one to bother us,” he says, kissing a line up your throat. “Let’s play hooky.”

You sigh through a smile, carding your fingers through his hair. “You know that I’m supposed to be the bad influence, right?”

“Step up your game, then,” he says, sucking a mark at your neck that threatens to bruise. The way you shiver against his tongue is fucking delicious. “Be worse.”

He inhales sharply at the firm press of your hand slipping between his legs.

“If you insist,” you say, feigning exasperation. He grins broadly.

Who ever said honeymoons had to end?

#homelander x reader #homelander x you #homelander fanfiction #homelander #i might have gotten a little drunk halfway through writing this lmao #these were supposed to be short fills but i definitely got carried away #i love venus!reader!!! thank you!!! #ask and you shall receive #my writing #ivy league

[skyeslittlecorner]

Can I request a Raphael x angel MC please 🥺

The Gabriel x Michelle and Lucifer x Michael were so good 😭😭

I'm stuck with you and your scenarios now 😠

You're welcome, dear~! I see my total eclipse of the brain bring some good after all. I hope I will be able to fulfill this request. Rafael is on the verge of being a character I dare write for, but let's try.

It was all your fault, that you make Raphael feel so special, then forget about it, and after all, you died. Lowly, pathetic human being. How dare you? Do you think he will forgive you for this? Tsk. Not only stupid, but naive, too. You are lucky that you chose to be reincarnated in heaven. Maybe there's still a chance for your pitiful soul.

And *maybe* you will repent if stop teasing him and start to suck.

Even though you were below him, licking his piercing and letting him tug at your hair, you knew who was boss. Poor, unaware angel. Blessing? Being the chosen one? Good joke. Only few strokes and his tip was already covered with whitish ooze. You raised an eyebrow and snickered.

“And who is the pathetic one?” 

He grabbed your hair harder. 

“Shut... up. Do your work.”

“Truly pathetic…” Your tongue stroked his trembling manhood. “Swayed so easily.”

“Enough!” 

As you opened your lips once more, he thrusted deep inside your mouth. Smiled vindictively as you chocked. He wanted you to lose your breath, to finally be quiet, and obediently end the act of his ascension. As cruelly, as holy. New madness hitted his insides as you murmured with a trickle of saliva ran down your chin.

“Better…” Those full cheeks, clenched throat and murderous intent in your eyes make you both dirty and perfect. Perfect to be used. Clouded with pleasure, he thought that he found his new favorite toy.

All Raphael stans! Let me redirect you to @livelaughlovesubs and her wonderful fics - here you got first and second part. I assume you've already seen it, if not, check it out~ She can write and catch his personality way better than me

#whb #what in hell is bad #whb raphael #skye's little talk #IGNORE MY RAMBLING IN TAGS #i know it may be not as good as previous ones #especially since Raphael is the seraph I have the hardest time empathizing with #I hope I didn't make it sound too ooc well oops lmao #i feel i'm wayy better when i can write in third person with actual characters #because mc must be more ambiguous and I can't go all in with them like with two characters that have established story and personality #ok established is a big word for characters we don't know yet #but i can make headcanons based on common ground #and for mc we may have the default ra-on but lets be honest most of us makes mc totally different from what we know in-game #especially when it comes to personality and that's crucial in writing #or maybe it's because i'm way more used for style i use in a book than for fanwriting cuz i got way more expirience in the first one #ahemmm i got a little carried away

[elliespuns]

Okay. Ellie and Dina having sex for the first time. Who do you think was the first to make "the" move?

This is how I think it happened (I feel brazen, so I will be describing it in detail, so stop reading if you feel uncomfortable). It won't be explicit though.

Pinning Dina down on the couch and hovering above her, Ellie presses her weight against her and continues to kiss her in earnest. Slipping her tongue into her best friend's mouth and tasting the sweetness of it, she roams her body, which is still covered with clothes—an awful lot of clothes.

That's when the freckled, not much experienced girl starts unzipping Dina's vest, causing her friend to prop herself on her elbows and take it off for her. With a playful smile on her face as they stop kissing for a while, Dina throws it on the dirty ground, not caring about anything but those cheeky girl's green emerald eyes and the taste of her pink, soft lips.

Ellie's heart is racing when their lips meet again, and they melt into each other passionately again. Bashfully even. That's all Ellie is—bashful—when she feels her friend's hand slip under the layers of her clothes that are warming up her already burning body. Tasting the sensation of Dina's nicely cold hands brushing against the sensitive skin on her tummy as they can't stop kissing and pressing into each other, Ellie slips her hand under the older girl's t-shirt too and starts enjoying the way her skin feels against her fingertips. If only they could do this for as long as possible.

With their tongues brushing against each other and their hands taking on a life of their own, the two girls continue to devour the sweetness of their salivas mixing together as if that's what they've been dying to do for so many years. This is already too much, and the girls haven't even started anything yet.

Grabbing the hem of Ellie's sweatshirt and trying to take it off her, their glistening lips part for a while as Dina pulls it off her completely. They keep staring at each other, breathless and panting. They are not naked yet, why does it feel like it, though? They still have their t-shirts and jeans on; those damn skinny jeans that just perfectly depict their thighs that delightfully press against each other as they're back to licking into each other's mouth, touching and caressing in places that only make their bodies shiver.

They are making out. Ellie still can't believe it. They are doing more than that. It seems like it. It can't be just a make-out when their hands are slipping under each other's tops and cupping each other's boobs. Right? This must be something more.

Ellie's head is all over the place as she's suddenly brought back by Dina rolling her to the side to change positions with her, climbing on top of her, and pressing her lips against her jaw, only to find her way all the way to the crook of the skinny girl's neck and bite gently.

This is her first time with Dina. Maybe this is her first time with a girl in general. Ellie is getting so lost in all the wet, open-mouthed kisses that are tracing her neck that she doesn't even realize her friend's hand that's been caressing the skin above the waistband of her jeans, is now inconspicuously slipping under it and right inside to start caressing slow, tender circles around her—

Oops. Not going too far. But yeah, I think it was Dina, who made "the" move. Sorry for the buildup only to end it at the best part, but yanno... my blog is not a smutty blog, even though I know I can pull it off. Ha! May the horniness in this post make you happy.

#got carried away #why don't i write smut lmao #the last of us #tlou #ellie williams #ellie tlou #dina nolastname #dina tlou #ellie x dina #dinellie #the last of us part 2 #tlou part 2 #ellie x dina fic #elliespuns writes #elliespuns answers

[sea-buns]

Forgive me if I'm a bit nervous about Gorgug this season. It's just that the last Zac Oyama pc was Colin Provolone, who was arguably one of his greatest D20 performances, if not the greatest.

Zac always does great with every pc he plays, but Colin was something else. He came out swinging with actions and words that were teeming with unspoken emotional baggage. The way Colin's presence affected the other pcs; there was this level of depth that I don't think I've seen in any of his other characters. It was understated and quiet in that signature "just a guy" way that he tends to be, while still captivating everyone instantly with just how raw it was.

Not to say we haven't seen emotional depth in Gorgug. It's just that, compared to the other Bad Kids, Gorgug's journey and progression as a character has been very... impersonal? Like, yes, he found his birth parents, and he found friends who appreciate him, and he faced his insecurities about his intelligence, and he navigated relationship troubles, and his trial through the claustrophobic bug-tunnels was a horrifically-uncanny parallel to how he's spent his entire life trying to make himself as small as possible.

But how much of that has actually changed him from the Gorgug we started with? I would agree that he's definitely happier with his life, given all the loving and supportive people that have been added to it when it used to be just him and his parents. And he's certainly grown into himself and become more self-assured in his abilities, even if he's still, and always will be, our anxious little guy. And there's nothing wrong with that. I've always liked how Gorgug was a representation of all the little things. The subtle acts and kindnesses that don't seem like much to most, but to some are everything.

We don't need another Bad Kid living in fear that their mouth could be shit-in at any moment. We've already got one-too-many.

All that being said, I just feel like Gorgug's personal story beats are much easier to sweep under the rug than everyone else's. He has the same soft and understated quality that Colin held, but they lack that extra oomph that pushed Colin over the edge from being just another guy in a series of dudes, to a character that the vast majority of us could not get out of our heads. He took someone who was anxious and softspoken, who ultimately never wanted to be violent— someone who is remarkably similar to Gorgug in many ways— and maintained that demeanor and core in Colin's character while still hitting us in the feels with character development at max velocity at every turn.

I think Zac gets better and better at this with every season that goes by. With each new character, there is always something that leaves me stunned in awe. And it's been, what, three? Four years since we last saw Gorgug?

I'm just,,, I'm cautiously optimistic but also going into a bit of a worry about what violence this man may inflict upon us

#i got SO carried away LMAO #i dont think ive ever written any posts about gorgug specifically #i made a lot about colin. and some about pib. and some more about zacs performances in general. #but never anything gorgug-focused. i just wasnt on tumblr at those other times that hed been on my mind like this #you can tell i still couldnt resist talking about colin lol #he was just so fucking good. a fantastic character all around. i cant imagine a better example to get my point across than him #when i do posts like this its all very much just me taking a vague idea and working with whatever comes out in the moment #so when i tell you i very much did not plan to get lost in the counterargument and had to stop for a second to remember what my point was #my point still stands but so does everything else #you dont realize it. how similar gorgug and colin really are. or how metaphorical the bug tunnel was. #or how gorgug IS the epitome of little details. small acts. quiet rights and wrongs. the faint causes and the even subtler effects. #u dont truly realize it until youre writing it yourself in a free flow fugue state and it all comes to a halt cuz youve blown your own mind #anyway i love gorgug and i love zac pcs and i hope this post makes sense cuz finding the right words was fucking hard hah #dimension 20 #d20 #fantasy high #fantasy high junior year #fhjy #fantasy high sophomore year #fhsy #gorgug thistlespring #the ravening war #trw #colin provolone #zac oyama

[boytumms]

Okay so, I’ve had this one fantasy for a long time (probably since my sexual awakening lol) and it’s a double whammy of stuffing and pregnancy. A very vain person is kidnapped and told that the only way to leave is to clear the massive dining table of all the food on it.

They protest at first, they have an intense and strict diet and exercise regime and the food on the table is all fatty meats and buttery sides and carbs and sugary desserts. But their captor persists, giving them water spiked with appetite stimulants, and eventually they relent and try a bite. They’re so hungry at this point that they start gorging themselves, and even when they start to be in pain and really want to stop eating, they can’t. It’s like their body has a mind of its own as they eventually make their way through all of the food.

By the end their stomach is red and sore, they’re rubbing it desperately to try and find some relief but it’s like every available inch of space is taken up. Eventually, their captor enters the room and taunts them with how much weight they’ll gain because of this binge and the vain person is absolutely horrified. Then, the captor gives them an alternate option. Instead of gaining that weight, they can become pregnant with a child that is the equivalent weight. Best of all, they’ll give birth within the week and then they can just lose the leftover baby weight.

The vain person agrees immediately. They know pregnancy won’t be great for their figure but it’s better than having to work off fat. And how much could one stuffing like this cause? Five, at worst ten pounds? Easier to birth than exercise away. What they don’t realize is that the amount of food they ate was the equivalent of 30 pounds of weight gain and they are going to give birth to a toddler sized child in a week.

I've said it before and I'll say it again, stuffing + pregnancy is so top tier and they need to be combined more often!!!

What if, to make it worse for the poor guy, he agrees to the pregnancy thinking that the baby will replace the food he just ate, but instead, he get's impregnated on top of his fully stuffed stomach. While he wont gain the weight from the food, it's still in his stomach and has to be digested while the baby grows in his belly at the same time. Since he was forced to eat so much, it takes ages for his gut to process the food, so while he's still so overly stuffed, his tummy continues to swell even bigger with the huge soon to be 30 pound baby.

In a matter of days his belly doubles in size, becoming so large and heavy that he can barely stand on his own two feet anymore. The baby's growth is only aided by the copious amounts of nutrients from the food, so it grows big and strong extremely fast. It kicks and punches, twisting and turning in the poor boy's tummy, making him feel sick as his stomach cramps from the food it's still trying to work through. He spends his time trying to rub and sooth his restless belly, whimpering and trying to keep the baby calm to stop it from beating his tender tummy.

By the end of the week he's absolutely exhausted. His mountain of a tummy is so big it pins him to the ground, skin red and tight, so full now he can't even rub the painfully taut surface anymore. His massive toddler sized baby rolls and kicks within him, tenting the too tight skin and making him cry out in pain. Each movement threatens to rip through the paper thin skin of his swollen mound, and all he can do is clutch his bloated sides and pray his belly holds together.

The week is finally up and his captor excitedly waits for his labor to begin. After 7 days of torturous agony, the boy will finally be free, that is if he can survive giving birth to a gigantic 30 pound baby. His contractions start and his baby squirms inside him, eager to be born, but it still takes hours for his waters to finally break. By the time they do, he's already moaning and screaming in pain. He throws his head back in agony as the pressure heightens to the point he thinks he's really going to pop, when instead he feels something burst inside and a rush of hot fluid soaking his trembling thighs.

His captor laughs at him as he shakes and thrashes, arching his back and throwing his contracting belly into the air. He feels his captor place his rough hands on his squirming tummy, rubbing and squeezing his sides and making him choke out a garbled scream. Despite his weak pushes, the baby inches down towards his ass like it's trying to crawl out on its own. His canal stretches around the massive head, it's so big it feels like it's the size of a small melon.

Hours of pushing later it reaches his hole and begins to ram against the tight ring of muscle. The boy's voice is ragged from screaming, but he can't help by let out a torn cry as the baby spreads him wide. Slowly the head begins to emerge, stretching him further and further until he feels the skin begin to tear. He kicks and thrashes in pain, begging his captor to help him, but they laugh and tell him there's nothing they can do even if they wanted to help, which they don't.

The baby's head comes to a crown, and to the exhausted boy's horror and dismay, comes to a complete halt. He pushes and strains as hard as he can against the pain, but it's useless. His baby is stuck stretching him at it's widest point and he simply doesn't have the strength to force it to move. wailing in despair, he thrashes back and forth, trying to spread his trembling legs wider, clutching at his sweaty deformed belly, anything to get the head unstuck. Nothing works, and he falls back panting and moaning.

His eyes flutter as his vision blurs. He's too tired to push anymore and his head rolls back on the floor, letting the contractions rip through his body with his mouth hanging open in a silent scream of pain. Suddenly, his body jerks and his belly jumps. His eyes widen and his hands fly to his tummy, crying out as it jerks again. He looks down at his quivering belly in fear, watching in horror as it jerks over and over, pulling his body with it with each lurch. A sudden crack and he weakly cries out, feeling a rib break.

He realizes what's happening, his baby is trying to kick its way out of his belly. It's strong arms and legs push and kick at his insides, and cracking his ribs in the process. Each kick sends his mind spiraling with pain, arms wrapped around his tummy as far as he can reach in a desperate attempt to stop it's movements. He sobs and babbles incoherently as his baby forces its way out of his body, beating his insides to a pulp and tearing its way through his entrance.

With one last kick, the head bursts through his hole along side a gush of blood and fluid. His body convulses as the baby wriggles and writhes the rest of it's body out, leaving him gasping and wheezing, no longer able to scream anymore. The baby slides out between his legs and he hears it take its first breath and begin to cry. It's a miracle he's somehow survived giving birth to a baby the size of a two year old.

Standing over the boy, his captor picks up the crying baby. They look down at him and smirk, lifting their boot over his still swollen tummy and placing it right over his stretched out belly button. The boy seems unresponsive at first touch, but his captor drives their heel deep into the bloated, puffy flesh of his tender belly, immediately eliciting one last gargled shriek from the boy. Fluid spurts from his torn hole as the heel twists and digs into the poor boy's tummy, forcing the placenta out with a sick splatter onto the messy floor. His eyes roll back in his head and his tongue lolls out the side of his mouth, vision finally fading to black as his mind finally blacks out.

He should have just gained the 30 pounds

#ask #anonymous #tummy ache #stomachache #belly ache #stuffing #mpreg #birth #writings #belly torture #belly kink #i got so carried away with this one lmao #really tortured this poor guy :)

[briviting]

idk my bff rose

#''I'm gonna draw my ocs often!!'' (hasn't drawn one for 3 months and the other for 6) #I got a little carried away w/ the different electronics now it looks like a series of them annoying each other over multiple decades #it was supposed to be a bunch of loose drawings and their tech is just anachronistic and weird #gala's familiarity w/ internet dialects and tone tags is an outlier for how ''in-touch'' he is. they're only marginally more hip than kludg #he talks somehow like a mix of a contemporary teen and a polite formal email from a middle-aged relative #kludge? entirely dry letter writing/prose. all lowercase tho. #why would a totally sapient person who knows the purpose of stitches and not to mess w/ them need a recovery cone? well. gala is impulsive #hence needing stitches #ocs #kludge oc #gala oc #art attag #eye strain #maybeee #LMAO oops that was a placeholder caption I forgot I uploaded it like that. ah well I'm keeping it

[ziggyztarduzt]

Hey, I don't know if you are still writing prompts but can you write a super sweet zevlor x Tav, maybe with sumt if you want 💙 thank you

HELLO, MY SWEET ANON.

I present to you: Sweet, tender Zevlor x Tav smut because I am weak for this man, and you KNOW he would 100% be dedicated to his lover and their pleasure.

Explicit! She/Her Tav! Good ol' missionary! Sweet dirty talk! MDNI!

Zevlor wasn’t used to someone flirting with him so boldly. 

Well, no. That wasn’t quite true. Halsin was incredibly forward in his advances, but he seemed amenable when Zevlor stammered out a declination. That wasn’t to say it wasn’t flattering, but Halsin was not particularly his type. 

Tav was either a miracle sent in their hour of need, or a poor adventurer who showed up in the wrong place at the right time. She had saved his people and extended kindness to everyone while doing so. Even Kagha was let off relatively lightly with a demotion from Halsin and a stern exchange with Tav. 

They held a party that evening. Zevlor stood off the side as he always did, drinking from a cup of wine as he watched partygoers mill about and socialize. Tav had a queue of folks who wanted even a second of her attention–some to thank her, some to congratulate her, and some who wanted to…proposition her, so to speak. So, when Tav approached him, her cup of wine barely touched despite the flush that decorated her face, he was slightly bewildered. 

“There are several others who might enjoy your company this evening,” Zevlor said as evenly as he could while she stood next to him smelling of lemon balm and lavender. 

Tav rolled her eyes and replied, “But none of them are you, Zevlor,” as if that was the most obvious thing in the world. 

Zevlor took another sip of wine and decided to allow himself this one indulgence. It’d been a long while since he was so openly desired. Tav looked at him like she was torn between kissing him and shoving him to the ground to mount him right then and there. 

When Tav stole him away, Halsin gave him a knowing smirk just as they disappeared around a corner. Her tent was tucked away in an offshoot of the camp. She had already stoked a fire, and it burned warmly as they sat and watched the flames dance and spit embers into the sky. 

“Why me?” he asked quietly as Tav fumbled with the clasps of his armor. There was no rush to her movements, and she glanced up to meet his eyes every so often before pressing another gentle kiss to his lips. 

“Because there’s nothing sexier than a man who is willing to do anything to protect his people,” Tav said matter-of-factly as she coaxed his arms up to pull his tunic off. When the expanse of his ridged, scarred skin was exposed, she traced cool fingers along his ribs until he shivered and rested his hand over hers.

Zevlor chuckled, warm and low in his chest. “Surely, that can’t be–” 

Tav kissed him again, far less chaste than the kiss before. 

“You seem to be in disbelief over my affections,” she said. “If I may be so forward…?” 

He raised an eyebrow and nodded, watching curiously as she guided his hand beneath her skirts. What he found was a slick mess, his fingers slipping into her with little resistance. Tav’s eyes fluttered shut as her soft giggle turned into a quiet moan. 

“Is this what I’ve done to you, my dear?” Zevlor whispered as his thumb found her clit. She gasped as he pulled her into another kiss, their tongues pressing together as she writhed under his ministrations. “I’m quite flattered.”

Tav gasped, “Please, Zevlor,” and she allowed herself to be tipped back until she was lying flat on her back with Zevlor hovering above her. She quickly pulled her skirts up until she was exposed to him; if he were a more patient man, he’d do this properly–worship her with this tongue until she cried out and clenched around his fingers, nibble her skin until he left marks that she could still easily cover for modesty’s sake. 

Right now, though, he desperately needed to be inside of her. 

It seemed that’s what Tav needed as well, as she frantically undid the ties of his trousers and made a frustrated noise when Zevlor didn’t move to help her shove them down. Zevlor laughed. This was such an absurd situation he found himself in. He felt so undeserving of such pointed affection, especially from a younger soul like Tav. 

But then Tav was grasping his cock and guiding it into her while she looked into his eyes, so wide and full of affection. Zevlor stroked her hair as he pushed into her, slowly, slowly, slowly. She was so hot, so slick and tight, that he was unsure how long he might actually last. Once he was buried in her, he leaned in to kiss her once more, slow and languid. 

“Please, Zevlor,” she gasped. “Please move. I can take it, please.”

Her moans and cries sounded wonderful in his ear. She locked her legs around his waist, forcing him deeper into her. Zevlor couldn’t help but think how wonderful she looked like this, falling apart beneath him as he pleasured her in a way he hadn't pleased anyone in a very long time. 

Tav’s hand moved to her clit, and Zevlor increased his pace, her chest bouncing with each thrust. 

“Gods, yes!” she cried. “So good, so good, so good, please, don’t stop…”

Zevlor huffed, “Is this what you needed, my dear?”

Tav nodded, though he wasn’t entirely sure she was comprehending anything other than the slide of his ridged, textured cock inside of her.

“Thank you for allowing me the privilege of assisting you, then,” he whispered. 

Suddenly, she was clenching around him and crying his name. Her back arched, and she sobbed as he fucked her through her orgasm. Zevlor wasn’t far behind, thrusting only a few more times before he was grunting and spilling inside of her. 

Afterwards, he spooned her on her bedroll as they warmed themselves by the fire. He wrapped his tail around her ankle, and she looked back at him with a soft smile. He pressed a kiss to her shoulder and buried his face into her hair, purring wildly as he felt the heaviness of sleep weighing on him.

#zevlor x tav #bg3 zevlor #bg3 smut #nsft #thank you for your patience i got carried away here obviously #you can tell I write for ao3 when I accidentally add formatting codes to a tumblr post lmao

[sunsetzer]

Assorted FFVI headcanons because these blorbos live in my head rent free: Edgar edition

- He became king at 17 and had to keep up an alliance with the people who killed his father alone for ten years, this man absolutely has anxiety

- Is used to suppressing said anxiety because he has to be dependable

- Definitely had a breakdown at some point in front of his friends and felt mortified; his friends don't judge him for it

- Workaholic- buries himself in his duties so he doesn't have to think about his feelings

- Tinkering as a means of comforting himself

- Actually quite the artist, especially sketching plans for machines, totally has a little notebook somewhere with rough sketches of various things and people he's encountered, Relm finds it at some point

- Doesn't hate kids but really also has no idea what to do with them if he's asked to watch them, will agree anyway (especially if it's for Terra)

- Always forgets to drink enough water

- Used to both hot and cold weather since he lives in a desert

- Outfit covers his whole body to protect from the sun but is very breathable so he's not overheating

- More of a survivalist than you'd expect him to be, especially knows a lot about the desert

- Can MacGyver the most seemingly unrelated useless objects into something useful

- The constant skirt chasing and flirting is intentionally exaggerated and he is not actually Like That to the level it seems

- Very bisexual, definitely has/had a thing with Locke or Setzer or both and also has a thing for Terra (good thing he's got two hands!)

- 100% would be down for polygamy

- Blonde hair is weird for a desert dwelling people with darker skin (related: I just cannot picture the figabros as white, they would burn so bad in the desert) but it's a Figaro royal family thing and of course Edgar is proud of it and vehemently refuses to cut it at all, impracticality be damned

- Uses some kind of special conditioner so even though the desert is hot and dry, his hair is very soft and shiny

- Figaro's native dishes can be notoriously spicy so the twins have a high spice tolerance

- Edgar absolutely deliberately chooses the spiciest dishes his country has to offer when entertaining fellow politicians he does not like, and his guests can't really complain because spices are one of those things that mean status and whatnot, so refusing a spicy meal is like slapping Edgar in the face, so he's just sitting there having a nice time and the other guy is internally on fire (yes he did do this to Gestahl and Kefka, the latter of which barely had a reaction to the pain and deeply unsettled him)

- Zero patience for nobility who look down on common folks

- Visits South Figaro incognito to check on his people, some of them have figured out it's him but they keep quiet about it

- Had the death penalty abolished in Figaro very early on in his reign

- Was personally responsible for the invention of air conditioning

- Gets adorably excited when talking about machines, will completely forget that not everyone understands technical jargon

- Very sentimental, has a collection of mementos from his travels, definitely still has the Gerad getup

- Will never admit it out loud but at least one of his friends has figured out that he can be calmed by stroking his hair, like a cat (it was probably Locke, they've known each other the longest, he definitely tells the rest of them because it's adorable and silly, yes Sabin was already aware of this)

- If he had a choice he'd be living in a little workshop building and repairing things for people instead of running a country

- A little bit vain but not obnoxious about it, mostly because he's supposed to keep up a certain image as the king

- Actually enjoyed being Gerad and not having to be proper all the time

- Is not stuck in Figaro all alone after the game because I refuse to believe they'd all just go back to doing their own things, instead his friends show up to pull him away from working himself to death and help take some of the burden off of his shoulders

EDIT: Can't believe I forgot my own headcanon I've already posted about but: migraines

Can you tell I think a lot about Figaro and the twins, because I think A Lot about them, I think the desert kingdom is very neat and desperately want to see it rendered in modern CG (I can't help imagining it would be like the desert region in ff16 every time the plot sends me there; please square I beg of you)

#i know there are more bullet points here than there were for setzer #i got carried away #i tried to keep it contained in my first post and then the brain rot just took over in the second one lmao #anyway i will yell about how much i love the twins and figaro any day of the week and at anyone #edgar roni figaro #final fantasy vi #ff6 #final fantasy 6 #ffvi #my post #i want more fics about pre-game edgar and i think i will have to write them myself #so be it

[north-noire]

looks like you guys are getting Hidden Hands Chapter 2 pretty earlier than expected actually! not sure when it'll be up (hopefully not very long! no estimated dates but I can definitely say pretty soon) stay tuned, it's gonna be another long read! :]

#shoutout to jedi for sticking with me and letting me spam your dms with my writing #I WAS SUPPOSED TO DRAW SOMETHING FOR CHAPTER 1 AND AU STUFF BUT NAH I GOT CARRIED AWAY WHAT THE FUCK LMAO #north-noire notes

[takamikeiigos]

i just feel like kei would take FOREVER to finally confess his feelings to someone. like years. he’d probably try to convince himself not to like them and do everything to avoid them or lose feelings. but then once he finally does confess, he’d be trying to marry them like 2 months into the relationship lmao

ahhhh!!! i love him!!! i hope he knows how loved he is!!!

i like to think that sometimes he doesn't know how to process emotions?? or that he does, but just compartmentalizes and tucks them away, y'anno?

takes him some time to actually figure out what true, genuine, deep love is. he never had that growing up, instead just became a puppet for the commission and he didn't know how to be anything but that.

he's probably so oblivious. first time he gets butterflies when he sees the person he likes, poor baby probably thinks he's coming down with the flu :( he doesn't get why he feels like he's floating, or why his breath catches in his throat when he sees you. he knows life feels good when he's around you - that you ease his mind and his worries melt away, but he doesn't understand why.

he'll do something like ask rumi about it, conflicted as all holy fuck because this isn't something he knows. and rumi will just laugh and pat his shoulder, saying something along the lines of, "oh pretty bird, sounds like you've got a crush."

i'm sorry... a what? he'll give her a look of confusion, quite possibly the cutest frustration that rumi's ever seen, and she'll laugh even harder.

"you know... love?"

there's no way. you and hawks are just friends. what he feels for you is nothing more than admiration and loyalty. a deep friendship and nothing else.

...right?

silly bird. he doesn't know what to do with himself. every time he sees you now, his heart skips a beat and his feathers stand on end, wings puffed out like he's been spooked. he curses rumi in the back of his mind, because there's no way.

one day you reach out to pass him the coffee you'd bought him, and he just about falls the fuck out when your fingers brush. not because it makes him flustered and shy, but because he finds himself wanting more.

no, no. this isn't right.

he gives it a few weeks. and after a few weeks, he realizes rumi was right. and that scares him.

he's out of denial, but now he's just terrified because he doesn't know what to do with the situation. what does this change? should he tell you? no, he shouldn't tell you, because it's not important.

he hides his feelings well, a well-trained façade that he's developed over time, and carries on as if this whole love thing doesn't exist.

because it doesn't, right? it's nothing, he'll feel like this for a month and everything will go back to normal.

so he carries on, like normal. continues to do his job, continues to pick on you in the mornings, especially when you haven't had your coffee, continues to share late-night laughs and flight adventures with you.

he pretends not to feel the longing, the ache in his chest, the feeling of loss.

"you haven't even told them, yet? how would you know they don't feel the same?"

because there's nothing there to feel. right?

he's assigned a mission that's estimated to last six months - half a year. it's a lot of undercover tactics, halfway across japan in hokkaido, twenty hours away.

when you find out, he knows you're sad, but with understanding. he gives you what details he can, only giving you the prefecture and the time frame, and tells you he doesn't know how often he'll be able to reach out due to the extremity of the mission.

the last night you spend together before he leaves is one that stays in the back of his mind throughout the whole mission. perched on your favorite rooftop that overlooks the city, laughing about stupid memories with tears in your eyes.

it's a long six months, spent communicating back and forth with the commission, relaying information about the suspect and their agenda, stakeouts, late nights and early mornings.

he's tired, honestly. worn out lack of sleep and stress, but he still keeps up on the news footage from back home, watching as days go by that you aren't by his side.

a few months in to him being gone, he's informed that the villainous activity he's been tracking has dwindled, meaning they're laying low. almost four days with no action and he decides to give you a call, figures its safe enough.

he knows you're having a bad day when you answer the phone but don't say anything. there's a long sigh at the other end of the line, and only then do you let out a shaky, 'hey'.

his heart clenches in his chest, a lump forming in his throat, and he misses you.

"songbird, tell me what happened," he says gently, and it almost kills him when he hears you let out a long, shaky sniffle.

you tell him about your day, the rough mission you'd been on and the casualties involved; about how tired you are and how badly you want him to come home. he can only offer you comforting words and reassurances that he'll be home soon.

he hates it.

the phone call lasts for a few hours, continuing until the moon is far into the sky, and not a single soul is awake, except for what seems to be the both of you.

he knows you're falling asleep, your words coming out slow and your breath evening out over the phone. he tells you that you should get some sleep, and maybe take the day off to recover from the days events.

you really must be exhausted, because you whisper an 'i love you' across the line, and tell him to stay safe.

his heart sinks in his chest, and all he's able to muster is, "you too," before hanging up the phone.

he sets his phone down on the desk in his hotel room, and scrubs his hands over his face.

fuck.

days turn into weeks; weeks turn into months. he doesn't reach out to you again, caught up in the thick of the investigation, but time still passes by slowly for him.

four months and two weeks into it, he decides to ask about his agency while he's on the phone with the commission. he's glad to hear that everything is holding up well, and that his apprentices are fairing well without him there. he asks about you, with you being his sidekick and all, and hears that you're doing well. granted, of course, that your last mission left you in recovery girl's care with a broken arm, three broken rubs, and a punctured lung.

he clenches a fist at the news, but knows reacting won't change the fact that he's nearly a thousand miles away and can't do anything to help you.

his internal confliction fuels him to stay focused on the task at hand, knowing that the distraction is only going to make things harder. he's got a little over a month left until he's back home, back by your side.

when the commission decides to test a theory and engage the enemy earlier than intended, it turns out to be a hard battle but it's won. he documents the necessary evidence needed for trial, makes the necessary phone calls and fills out the necessary paperwork, and before he knows it, he's packing his bags.

one month early. one month closer than he was yesterday to seeing you.

the plane ride is long, and he spends most of it deep in thought with nerves. there's a feeling in his chest that he can't describe, and the world feels like it's moving in slow motion.

he arrives at the commission's private hangar and goes through the proper security, heart thumping in his chest while his mind whirls a mile a minute. you don't know that he's coming home, and he can't wait to suprise you.

the flight to your apartment is short since you live downtown, the sky turning a deep red-orange hue above him. it's peak fall, right in the middle of october, and the cool breeze through his wings feels good.

he soon comes to a halt, perching on your balcony railing while he peers inside your apartment. you're curled on the couch, your favorite comfortor wrapped around you as you sleep.

he quietly steps off of the railing and tries the sliding glass door, and to his suprise it opens with ease for him, the faint sound of the door sliding on its tracks echoing throughout the quiet apartment.

he takes in your sleeping form, curled up with the small, stuffed animal version of himself he'd jokingly gotten your for your birthday tucked under your arm.

something in him breaks.

he kneels down in front of you and reaches a hand out, brushing loose hairs away from your face. you open your eyes dazedly, blinking away sleep, now aware of the man kneeling before you.

"kei?" you sit up suddenly, in awe. he sits back on his haunches, and smiles at you, reaching a hand out once more to tuck your hair behind your ear.

"yeah, it's me baby bird," he coos softly, promising. he's almost knocked back when you fly forward, wrapping your arms around his neck and burying your face in his neck. he holds you firmly to the couch so you don't fall off, his hands squeezing your waist where they rest.

you look up at him, eyes tearing and cheeks red, and he can't help himself. he leans forward and presses his lips to yours, feather soft, only for a moment. he doesn't expect you to tangle your fingers in his hair, careful not to pull, and guide him down into another kiss, a gentle press of lips that lasts a bit longer than the first.

"i love you, fuck," he chokes on the words as they come out, a stutter of breath against your lips. "i love you, have loved you for so long, i-"

you comfort him with gentle hands coming to rest on his cheeks, and bring his face up to look at you.

"i know, pretty bird," he leans into the chaste kiss you press to his forehead, "i know. I love you, too. welcome home."

#why do i turn every ask into a whole ass fanfic lmao #so sorry #i deadass just got carried away #also this is like.... #kinda rushed cause i started getting sleepy so apologies #keigo takami #hawks #bnha hawks #bnha keigo takami #keigo takami x reader #hawks x reader #ky writes #keigo takami headcanons #mha hawks

[wastemanjohn]

use a photo on your phone camera roll and write a quick scene/hc for it

well, this turned into a monster.

johndeanna, sam pov; 6k words, mature; cw discussions of character death, incest. unedited.

Sam has to keep himself busy, otherwise he’s gonna lose his mind.

Not that he isn’t already. Not that he’s even pushing any pretence of keeping it together, what with that last fight with Dad playing a constant live loop in his head, that code alarm ringing in his ears like tinnitus, phantom smells from the burning pyre lingering constantly under his nose. And that's to say nothing of Deanna, stone-faced and vacant, unreachable under the hood of the Impala. Yeah - that alone, Deanna's distance, her denial, is enough to make Sam feel certifiable.

So Sam keeps himself occupied, because there's really nothing else he can do right now. And besides - someone has to start the process of going through Dad's stuff.

Dad's truck's been sitting at the far end of the salvage yard for a couple of weeks, untouched and unspoken of since Bobby sent someone out to collect it from Nebraska. Tucked away where no one can see it; but Sam can’t forget that it’s there. Can feel its presence like Dad’s ghost, which is unsettling a thought as anything else. 

Someone really, really needs to deal with this, alright.

The trees around the yard rustle in the wind, and Sam can feel the budding Autumn chill on the back of his neck. Bobby will probably scrap the truck once Sam's done with it, which is just fine with him. He and Deanna have no use for it, and the idea of selling it on, of someone else driving it, making it their own, feels kind of unbearable.

So Sam ignores that chill, and gets to work.

There's a lot of crap inside. A lot. Sam picks out all the fast food wrappers, a grimace fixed on his mouth; keeps stumbling across empty pill bottles with stolen names on the labels. He’d noticed them before, among Dad’s things, but he hadn’t wanted to give it too much thought - kinda hard not to now - and there are unwashed clothes balled up in the footwells that seem to have been festering for months.

Yeah, definitely hard, not to think about the way Dad was living. How old and exhausted he'd looked, how startling that was when Sam first laid eyes on him back in Chicago; how bad things seemed to have gotten, in the four years he’d been in California. Pretty rough, having those as his last, most live memories of Dad. Almost as rough as finding him motionless on the floor, listening to a strange, unreal voice calling time of death; nothing compared to how cold Dad’s skin felt when Sam and Deanna had laid down next to him for the last time, kissed him goodbye. Sam just can't stop remembering.

He clears out all the trash. Feels a little robotic about it, a little numb. He keeps going until the inside is dealt with; then, Sam moves to the trunk. He opens it up with a wrench, and a deep, deep breath.

Dad's duffel bag is inside. Sam stares at it for a moment or two; it's worn and stained, and there's a hole fraying around where the zip rests. It’s the same one Dad has had for years and years, all packed up and ready to return to, like Dad was just on another job or something. Like a part of him believed that would be the case; that for all the noises he made about being willing to die in the fight with the demon, Dad never truly meant it.

Sam blinks at the tears forming in his eyes. Takes another deep, deep breath. Holds it in his body as he takes the duffel out of the trunk, sets it down gently on the floor, He can't bear to go through it just yet. That's definitely a job for another day. Or maybe never.

Sam lifts up the floor of the trunk to reveal the hidden compartment underneath, just to check there's nothing else left behind. Nothing personal, at least; because for all the inside of Dad's truck was a mess, his assortment of weapons are clean, maintained and perfectly organized. Military precision, Sam thinks, with a smile that's only half-bitter. He'll need Bobby to help him get all this stuff out; it's stuff they're gonna need, after all. Something tells him it's a bad idea to ask Deanna.

His eyes idly roam glinting silver pistols, jagged blades; they could definitely use all of this. As Sam scans the little shelves tucked under the weapons tray, something else catches his attention. Something he’s never seen before; looks like a flat wooden box.

He frowns; it looks a little out of place. He reaches in to pull it out.

There's a layer of dust over the top. Sam blows on it until most of it has gone, then brushes the rest away with his hand. It feels quite light, almost like it's empty. There's nothing but a padlock holding it shut.

Sloppy, Dad, Sam thinks, with a little more scorn than he can forgive himself for. Really sloppy.

It doesn't take him long to locate a box of paperclips amongst Dad's shit. The only lock picking tool you'll ever need, he used to say, if you know how to use it right - and Sam's learned well. He gets the padlock off in less than a second. He opens the box.

Inside are three different white envelopes. Unsealed. Sam frowns again. He has no idea what these could be.

He closes the trunk, and sits down on top of it so he can take a closer look.

He pulls the first envelope out, prises it open with his thumbs. Inside is a stack of Polaroids, held together with a paperclip. Oh.

Sam holds them up. The picture on top is old, pretty faded. It's of a blonde woman in sunglasses and bright orange flared pants, perched on a low fence with fields rolling out behind her. She's looking off to the side. Between the sunglasses hiding her face and the degraded quality of the image, it takes Sam a moment to realize he's looking at a picture of his mother.

His eyes start to smart again. Alone, here, with this photo, with Dad's memories, he lets them. 

Sam notices the text on the strip of white at the bottom; June 1975, in Dad's handwriting - everything labelled and organized, always. Sam smiles, despite everything. His mother was truly beautiful; Dad always said it, said it all the time.

Do you think I look like her, Sammy? Deanna used to ask, when they were younger. She’d ask it while standing in front of full length mirrors on wardrobe doors, lifting up her hair, turning side to side.

Sam, usually rattling with resentment and injustice at that time, rarely felt generous enough to agree; usually he'd just snort and go back to his book. He regrets that now, at the memory. He regrets a lot of things lately, a lot of the shitty ways he behaved.

Sam takes off the paperclip, and starts to look through the rest of the Polaroids. The first few are of Mom by herself. Mom sitting in a field in those flare pants, smiling with a single daisy in her hands; June 1975 again, maybe taken on the same day as the first one. Mom dancing at a bar with a woman Sam doesn’t recognize, September 1976. Mom with her head turned away from the camera, side profile grinning, holding up her middle finger; April 1977. 

Sam finds himself a little surprised by that picture. The way Dad talked about Mom, it'd be kind of hard to imagine her ever flipping Dad the bird. Doesn’t really feel like the kind of thing wide-eyed, respectable housewives do. But then again, Sam has wondered on more than one occasion if he knows that much about his mother at all, really. Who she really was.

Mom is pregnant in the next picture. Dad is standing next to her, arm around her. Mom has her hands on her swollen stomach, and she's smiling. Dad - Dad is smiling even wider. 

They're next to a crib. Sam recognizes the layout of Deanna's old bedroom from the other photos he's seen. There's a lot of pink. December 1978.

Sam feels that like a slap in the face. Sudden, stinging. A wave of grief for a woman, a life, he never knew. The smiling, carefree father he never really met.

Sam has never seen any of these photos before. He feels like he's looking through something intensely private. Something Dad wanted to keep close, keep just for himself. He draws another deep, deep breath; puts the paperclip back on the Polaroids, places them gently back in the envelope like they're made of glass. He's keen to see what's in the other ones.

The second envelope is unlabelled too. Inside is another set of Polaroids, clipped together; but there’s something else too. A beaded bracelet. Sam frowns, and pulls that out first.

He turns it over in his hand. It takes him a moment to realize he's holding the first gift he made for Dad in arts and crafts, back when he was in kindergarten. He remembers it so clearly because Deanna had laughed when he brought it home - men don't wear bracelets, Sammy - and when Sam had given it to Dad, he'd laughed too. But not with Deanna’s scorn.

Sam’s throat burns. It’s hard to believe, now, that there was a time when Dad still used to laugh, despite the fire, despite everything, but there was - and Dad had put that bracelet on, all gentle about it, like he was scared of breaking it. He'd ruffled Sam's hair and said, thank you, Sammy. I love it.

And Dad kept it. To this day, Dad held onto it. He never threw it out.

Sam has to stop for a second then; press the back of his hand to his mouth, like he's going to puke, because it feels kind of like that, even though nothing comes. In the safety of the quiet salvage yard, he lets out a rough sob. Dad - despite everything that happened between them, Dad still held onto a piece of crap Sam made for him when he was five. Carried it around with him in his truck, like a part of him. Wanted to keep the memory. 

Sam doesn't know what to do with that. It feels so big. He rolls the bracelet onto his wrist before he can feel stupid about it, and reaches into the envelope for the Polaroids.

Like the ones of Mom, they're clipped together. January 1991 is written on the strip on the bottom of the first photo. Sam recognizes his own seven-year-old face, his gap-toothed smile, the Goodwill clothes sitting far too big on his little body. He's sitting on a swing. There are chunks of snow like clumps of cotton wool on the concrete below, a woolly hat on his tiny head.

A wet smile grows on Sam's face as he looks through the rest of the pictures. There's one of him in some kind of diner, August 1987, the background dark but for a neon sign, smiling wide with some kind of food all around his mouth. He winces - embarrassing - and moves on. There are a few photos dated around this time. One of him coloring at a motel room desk, tongue stuck out in focus. Another of him holding a book upside down and grinning. 

Then - September 1983. His infant face blinks up at him. He’s all fat little limbs and confusion. Deanna’s in this picture too, crouched on the floor next to Sam’s carrier with a big toothy grin on her face. Her hair is in pigtails, and she's wearing a blue cotton dress. This picture would mortify her, Sam thinks, with a soft laugh. He doesn't have a single live memory of his sister wearing a dress.

Deanna's in a few more of the photos, Sam notices, as he rifles through. One in particular catches his eye. They’re at a fairground, by the looks of it; there’s a ferris wheel and a cotton candy stall in the background. May 1994 - and already, Sam’s taller than Deanna in this photo, but she's got an arm around his shoulder anyway, asserting her eldest sibling status. They're both squinting in the sun, smiling wide; and Sam finds himself looking at that photo for a while, because something is out of place. He notes with a frown that Deanna is wearing lipstick. Red lipstick.

Dad never let Deanna wear make up of any kind. He can’t have taken this picture; must have lost his shit when he saw it for the first time, too. He didn’t even like her wearing tinted lip balm. Deanna still doesn’t wear make up to this day.

Sam keeps looking at the photo; he remembers now. It was his eleventh birthday; Bobby had been the one orchestrating the fairground trip. And Sam remembers, also, that Dad didn't call that day. Dad was never home for his birthday by that point; but it was the first year of many that he’d forgotten to even call.

God, Sam had been so angry about that once, the way he'd been angry about most everything that Dad did. His distance, his absence. His presence, too; Sam couldn't tolerate that either, for how suffocating it was. 

Sam feels very far removed from that now. All that resentment, that rage. He feels like he could forgive Dad all of it, immediately. Forget it, too; if he could just see Dad one last time.

Sam gets to the final photograph. February 2001. Seventeen; he’s sprawled across a motel bed, all gangly, awkward limbs, hair so long it’s almost brushing his chest. He’s staring down at an open book. Well. Sam doesn't remember that photo being taken at all.

He sure remembers 2001, though. That was when things went from pretty bad to unbearable. 

That’s when they started having to quietly flee motels hours before check out to avoid covering the damage for broken appliances, holes and dents punched, kicked into walls. When Dad really started screaming at him, and Sam started screaming right back, Deanna pacing up and down with her hands over her ears until they wore themselves out. And then - Deanna lecturing Sam as she patched up his busted knuckles. Deanna, always, always siding with Dad. 

It was Dad she’d go after whenever he stormed out; Dad whose point of view she always supported. Always. No matter what.

February 2001; Sam stares at that picture for a while, lost in it. He can smell greasy rental kitchens, Dad’s dirty ashtrays, the vanilla body spray Deanna wore constantly at the time. The memories hit him all at once, bringing their residual anger with them. Because for all he and Dad fought, he and Deanna fought too, by then. They fought about Dad. About how Deanna never had Sam's back.

You could be going to school, Sam remembers saying to her. Well, yelling, really. You could be making something of yourself. But instead you're here. Following his orders. Cleaning up his messes. When are you gonna wake up, Dee?

Deanna's arms were folded, in a display of that Disappointed Mother Mode she'd adopted recently, but Sam could see that he was getting to her from the quiver in her shoulders. Dad needs me, she said, short, curt. And I am something. I'm a hunter.

Sam had laughed. It was cruel - god, he was so cruel back then - And you know what? You could be literally anything else you wanted to be. But you won't do a damn thing unless he tells you to do it.

That quiver flashed through Deanna’s eyes. She took a step towards him, folded hands in fists. You're talking about shit you don't understand, she'd said, tightly, the way she often did. Dad wants justice for Mom. So do I. And the quicker you get off that sky high horse of yours and start doing as he says, maybe we'll actually get somewhere.

You're brainwashed, Sam had told her. It's pathetic.

His fit of frustration blinded him to the not-small flash of hurt in her eyes; but still, Sam walked out after that, because even he knew he wasn't allowed to press the Mom issue. Mom was an automatic out, an automatic shutdown of any meaningful conversation that Sam would try to have. Because that was always shit he didn't understand; not worth getting into, unless he wanted Deanna to end up punching him, anyway. He knew from experience that Deanna had a better set of fists on her than most hunters twice her age and size. He was smarter than to fuck with that.

And, Mom; something that connected Dad and Deanna in a way that Sam could never touch. He doesn't remember what Mom's cookies smelled like, how her laugh sounded, how her hugs felt. Wasn't sentient enough yet on the night of the fire to be particularly bothered about witnessing a house, a life, burn to the ground. Sam remembers always feeling like an outsider in something he was apparently a huge part of. It just made him angrier.

February 2001; yeah. Not a whole stretch of time back from August 2001. No photos from around that time - and, around that time, the night Sam left forever. Not that Sam needs photos; he'll be able to hear Dad's roar of you walk out that door, you never fucking come back, clear as a bell, for the rest of his life. He's never wished he could erase it more.

He doesn't realize he's still crying until a tear lands on the Polaroid in his hand.

Dad had cried that night as well, that night Sam walked out. Then again, Dad cried a lot as time went on, all the time, really; rarely in front of Sam, but Sam would hear him anyway. It would usually happen when Sam was meant to be sleeping - not that he really could, over the sound of those breathless, drunken sobs. Over Deanna's soothing murmurs of it's gonna be okay, Daddy, because whenever Dad got home at stupid o'clock in the morning, stinking like sweat and whisky, she’d always rush out of bed. Straight to his side like a nursemaid never off the clock. Pathetic, Sam would think, every time, even if he did only say it the once. Just felt, all too often, like Deanna couldn’t stop proving his point.

Those old memories usher in another; something Sam hasn't thought about in a very, very long time, as he gently clips the Polaroids back together like he hadn't disturbed them, slots them back into the envelope. Probably 2001 as well; some nondescript night where Sam had woken up to the sound of a decaying front door rattling on its hinges; followed up by a loud, hissed curse. Deanna, as always, sitting up dutifully in their shared bed, without so much as a sigh of complaint.

Sam listened to Deanna in the dark, going down rickety stairs, her footsteps sounding dainty in this out of place way. Heard her going to the kitchen, the hiss of the faucet as she got Dad a glass of water and three ibuprofen. The sound of her bare feet on the wood floors as she went back to him, got Dad cozy on the couch. Started the process of calming him down.

Sam wasn't sure what compelled him to get up that night too. To take himself to the top of the stairs like a kid eavesdropping on fighting parents. But from his vantage point, if he craned his neck just right, he could see into the mildewy living room. He could see Deanna kneeling before Dad on the couch, undoing his shoelaces with one hand. The other was holding Dad's. Fingers interlaced. Dad’s grip looked tight, his fingers tiny in hers; but she didn't seem bothered.

Dad was looking at Deanna. Staring at her, really, with his mouth quivering, tears spilling indulgently down his cheeks. There was blood on his shirt, Sam noticed; there often was. Dad had been getting into a lot of fights.

Sam watched Dad cup Deanna’s face, Her hand stilled on his laces; she let Dad tilt up her head. My beautiful little girl, Sam had heard him murmur. What would I do without you, huh?

Those quivery lips moved into something that resembled a smile, and Sam didn't need to see Deanna's face to know that hers were doing the same. For a moment, nothing happened; Dad didn't seem to blink. And maybe Sam left before he could see Dad kiss Deanna on the mouth, or maybe he completely imagined it; it's still not entirely clear in his mind. Still doesn't quite make sense, that that's what he saw; or what he thought he saw, anyway. Or even why his mind would even concoct something like that. He was half-asleep, he guesses.

And besides, he told himself afterwards, Dad was pretty damn wasted. It's not beyond the realm of possibility to think that he'd been in enough of a state to mistake Deanna for Mom. Deanna would have known that, Sam is sure; and Sam is sure, certain, that Deanna would have taken it in stride. She would have reassured Dad quietly, and gently pushed him away. Confident that he wouldn’t even remember in the morning.

Do I look like Mom, Sammy?

Sam breathes in the burnt Autumn air; it's getting a little dark. Bobby will be calling him for dinner soon. Dinner is usually prepackaged chilli, canned Ravioli, shit like that; Sam's stomach is beginning to churn for even the thought of it. He’s not seen a vegetable in weeks. 

Anyway - Sam shoves that old memory (dream? imagination?) back into some dark eave of of his mind where it belongs. He touches the bracelet on his wrist - thanks, Sammy, I love it - and thinks about the way Dad had ruffled for his hair, the way he smiled in that photo in Deanna's nursery, the Dad he could have been, kind of sort of was for a while, when Sam was very small, until years and years of the life slowly took him apart. The Dad Sam always knew was still in there; the Dad that was good.

Yeah - Sam takes that version of Dad with him, as he moves onto the final envelope. Wonders if, maybe, he'll find that version of Dad inside. More pictures of him looking young. Happy. Not the broken, exhausted old man Sam can’t help but keep on seeing every time he closes his eyes.

This envelope is a little heavier than the others. Sam presses it open with his thumbs. Makes sense, if it's the heaviest; this must be Deanna's envelope. Dad was closer with Deanna than he was with anybody, and he knew her a hell of a lot longer than he knew Mom.

Sam pushes around inside. He was correct; there are more Polaroids here than in the other envelopes. Lots more. But unlike the others, they're not clipped together. They’re just laying haphazardly inside. There's also another envelope stuffed in this one. Folded up small to fit.

Sam sees the glint of a silver chain peeking out from the bottom. The necklace is a little tangled up when he pulls it out; it has a little pendant shaped like a rose, with some kind of fake red gem in the middle.

Sam remembers this necklace, he realizes, as he studies it. Deanna had picked it up at some dollar store or other; thought it looked cool. And she'd been pissed as hell when she lost it. She'd looked for it everywhere. Made Sam look everywhere too. That had sure been a long night.

Sam gets this feeling he can't describe, as it crosses his mind that the necklace may have been in Dad's possession this whole time. But why - why would he do that? Had he picked it up by accident? Decided to hold onto it, forgot to mention it? Was he entirely unaware that it was even lost in the first place?

Or - well. Sam has no fitting explanation for the or. 

He pockets the necklace, not really thinking too much for now about whether it'll be a good idea to return it to Deanna or not. That weird feeling spreads through his gut.

It gets worse still when Sam's reaches into the envelope again; when his fingers brush something else. The small lock of hair is held together by a rubber band. Hair. Blonde hair.

It could, Sam thinks, as that feeling climbs his spine, be Mom's - some couples keep each other’s hair, right? That's a thing, right? - but Sam somehow knows that it isn’t. That this lock of hair belongs - or belonged - to Deanna.

He drops it straight back into the envelope.

There's a part of Sam that wants to put the damn thing away now. Put everything he’s seen so far up to more shit you don't understand, to another thing he couldn't possibly have really seen. Because this - none of this - there’s no explanation Sam can live with that makes sense. And with that in mind - he should stop digging around in Dad’s shit right now.

But there's a bigger part of Sam that feels differently. And that part takes over before he can think too much about what he's doing.

Sam's fingers are shaking a little as he takes out the Polaroids. He pushes them together like a deck of cards, and starts to look through.

He half-expects to see pictures of Deanna as a kid, like with his envelope; pictures of her on swings, at diners, with her arms around Sam. But there aren't any; most of them seem to be of her as an adult, or at least as an older teenager. Sam can't pinpoint it exactly, because the photos aren't dated like the others - and unlike the others, in most of them, Deanna isn't smiling or posing. There's one of her working on the Impala at the side of a dirt road, bent over the hood in those tiny denim shorts she only dons in 100 degree weather, the look of focus on her face suggesting she didn't know the photo was being taken. There's one of her at night in a parking lot of some kind, a hand in her shirt pocket, her irises red in the flash, a confused look on her face. Another of her from the back; standing up a bar, her hair glowing under the low lights, flanked by two men on stools. They’re both looking at her, Sam notices. Then again, Deanna can't go anywhere without men looking at her.

It brings another memory back to Sam, as he stares dumbly at that photo. They'd just finished up a job, a black dog maybe, somewhere in Arizona; and Dad had taken them out to a bar kinda like the one in the picture, dank and yeasty, the kind of bars they only ever went to, really. Sam was bored and miserable, twirling the straw around in the diet coke he’d been nursing since they got there, while Dad and Deanna proceeded to get wicked, wicked drunk. 

They told Sam - but mostly each other - the story of how they wasted the thing, because Sam, as usual, wasn’t allowed to join for the actual hunt part. The details kept getting more and more elaborate, Deanna’s voice rising with excitement; that manic hint to her laugh growing, the more wasted she got. And Dad's smile was warming up and up, his eyes lingering on her for longer and longer periods, shining with the pride he rarely offered verbally. A part of Sam hoped Deanna saw that, at least.

When Deanna went up to the bar to get in the fifth or sixth round - Sam would lose count as quickly as they would - Dad's eyes followed her. His apparent good mood saw an interruption, as he shook his head. 

See that bartender? he’d said, without looking at Sam. Gives me the creeps, the way these horndogs look at your sister. Who the fuck does that guy think he is.

Dad often complained about the way men acted around Deanna. Sam just shrugged. I’m sure she can handle herself, Dad.

Not the point, Dad muttered. Locking eyes with him, finally. Hey Sammy, listen. When I'm not around, you need to start lookin' out for your sister. If you see what I mean.

Sam didn't see what he meant. Dad had this way of speaking in riddles, or at least they were riddles to Sam. He shrugged again, didn't say anything. Giving Dad a cue to fucking elaborate.

Dad huffed. Problem is, Dee's a looker. A real looker, just like her mother. 

Sam stayed quiet. Wasn’t sure what he was meant to say to that.

Dad narrowed his eyes. You ever see anyone gettin' too close to her, you come and tell me right away, alright?

Sam nodded. Felt easier. Wasn’t too sure what else to do.

And Dad had pressed his beer to his lips and kept on watching Deanna up at the bar. Didn't seem to blink as he gulped his drink down, placed the bottle back on the table. And Sam watched Dad watching Deanna, saw the line of his gaze moving up and down her body, from her big boots all the way up to the neckline of her crop top; and Sam thought to himself, at that, that the way Dad looked at Deanna wasn’t all that different than any other guy did. The horndogs. It wasn't a welcome thought; but it sure as hell crossed Sam's mind anyway.

And Sam dismissed it just as quickly as it had come. It wasn't a thought he could keep around, not beyond that mere split second. Not when he had to be wrong.

Sam stares into the envelope. He decides, with his pulse in his ears, that he doesn't want to see any more of these weird Polaroids. Any more erratic angles; any more of Deanna apparently not even knowing she’s having her picture taken.

He puts them back in the envelope. And now, it’s really about time that Sam left it there; about time he accepted, willingly, that whatever Dad and Deanna had going on, he is, was and always will be, outside of it. That it's not at all - nowhere in the ball park of - what it looks like. 

What it sometimes kind of felt like. What it kind of feels like now. 

Sure, Dad was never winning any parenting awards; on a good day, or maybe a bad one depending on how you looked at it, he'd admit it himself. But - this...

Yeah, Sam could really leave it there. Put the envelope back in the box, salvage the nice photos, and burn everything else. But there’s still that other envelope. The smaller one.

His fingers close around it. He watches his hand take it out. Watches, watches himself.

Sam can see why it’s folded now. It’s perfectly Polaroid shaped. 

On the front, Dad’s handwriting: Summer 2002. The year after Sam left, he registers, somewhere in the back of his mind.

He starts unfolding. Watching, watching himself.

The first Polaroid is on another dirt road. Deanna’s sitting on the hood of the Impala, sunglasses balanced on her head. The wind is blowing her hair around. She’s holding a bottle of Jack in one hand, and there’s a cigarette dangling between her fingers on the other. Sam has never seen Deanna smoke.

The next photo, she’s still on the hood. She’s got a leg cocked up beneath her, a hand tangled up in her hair. Bottle of Jack posed between her legs. She’s pouting. She looks kind of ridiculous; and something in her expression belies that she knows it.

In the next photo, Deanna’s sitting upright on the hood again, laughing hysterically. It’s funny, how Sam can hear Dad laughing too, laughing from behind that damn camera. Laughing like he never did, not since all those years ago. Laughing at his daughter - sitting, posing like that.

Sam keeps going. Keeps looking.

Deanna and Dad are both in the next photo. Sam can see the length of Deanna’s arm; she’s angling the camera down at their faces. Dad’s got his eyes closed tight, his lips pressed against her cheek. There’s the biggest grin on Deanna’s flushed face.

Sam’s gut feels weightier, weightier.

In the next picture, Dad’s mouth is on Deanna’s neck. 

Deanna’s grin is gone; her mouth’s drooping open a little. Sam can see the whites of her closed eyes.

Weightier. Weightier.

He keeps looking.

The next Polaroid seems to have been taken in a motel room. Kinda nicer than their usual fare; Sam can tell that by the velvet headboard topping the bed, the matching gray curtains behind Deanna where she stands. She’s holding a rifle, a big one; it’s covering half of her face. 

It’s not covering it enough for Sam to miss the way her eyes smoulder at the camera this time, in this way that looks practised, intentional. She’s not joking this time. Not laughing at herself anymore.

She’s wearing a t-shirt that just skims the midst of her hips. Sam can see the strip of pale pink panties underneath. Did Dad - like her that way? Did he enjoy seeing Deanna handling weapons - and not just because he was impressed with her prowess?

God. God.

The next Polaroid is even worse. 

Deanna’s kneeling on the bed, in front of that headboard, her thighs parted. And oh, Sam can see her panties again alright; he can see her stomach too, her bare waist. The outline of her tits, suggestive; covered by Deanna's hands. Deanna's hands, on Dad's leather jacket, the only other piece of clothing she has on.

No, not the only other piece; Sam can just about see the black lace around the tops of her thighs. Stockings.

Her hair is in a cascade down her shoulders. She’s half-smiling, half biting her lip.

No.

Next photograph; and Dad’s jacket hangs loosely on Deanna’s body now. Her tits are bare.

She’s in the same pose; only now, with her head tilted a little back. Her eyes closed again, like in the last picture. Mouth slack; and there’s a hand on her face. A hand with scar tissue, house fire burns; a wedding band glinting on the ring finger. A hand Sam would know anywhere. 

The photograph blurs before his eyes. His tears are different now; born of an emotion he can’t identify. Nothing like his earlier grief.

Sam shoves the photos back into the envelope. The envelope back into the box; slams it closed. His hands curl into fists. He can’t catch his breath.

He shuts his eyes. Acid lurches up from his stomach, hits out at the back of his throat. His limbs feel weak. It takes every last ounce of control inside him not to slump off the hood, fall to his knees, and violently puke.

Sam doesn’t know how long he sits there, on that hood. All he knows is that despite the falling dusk, the cold winding through the fibres of his clothes, the teeth he can vaguely feel starting to chatter, he can’t move.

Because the thing is - he didn’t want to know. Sam never, ever, wanted to know.

You can explain things away; but you can never, ever forget them.

He should’ve expected that Bobby would come out looking for him eventually. 

Bobby approaches John’s truck slowly, the way he always seems to kind of tiptoe around Sam these days. “You been out here for hours, kid."

Sam eyes the floor. All he can think to say is, “Where’s Deanna?”

Bobby leaves a pause. Then, “She’s sleepin’. Figured we should let her get her rest. She ain’t been doin’ much of that.”

It’s true. She hasn’t. Nor has Sam. None of them have.

“Gettin’ a little worried about her,” Bobby admits, after another of those pauses. “She’s takin’ this hard. She was crazy about her Daddy.”

Sam doesn’t say anything. Bobby must notice; he must, because the silence just feels awkward now. And Sam doesn’t mean to be cold; he really doesn’t. He’s just numb.

“You got everything you need from John’s truck?” Bobby asks, eventually.

Sam nods. He can’t speak.

“All good for me to junk it?"

Another nod. Yes. Crush it to pieces with every last little fucking piece of him inside.

Sam already put John’s duffel back in the trunk. His box, its photos, its necklace, its hair, along with it.

Bobby nods too. “Alright. Now get your ass inside before you freeze to death.”

Sam could. It’s very, very cold out here.

He lets Bobby walk up the path in front of him. Lagging behind, Sam slides a finger under the elastic of the bracelet on his wrist. He tugs on it until it snaps; hearing the beads scatter their pieces across the floor isn’t much, but it’s something.

#asks #anon #johndeanna #my writing #prompt #i got carried away and this ended up not being quick lmao #tw implied addiction #tw incest #tw implied mental illness #always female dean

[livv-watkins]

Mike gets vecna’d and it’s that one concept where vecna shows him what his future with Jane would look like vs Will etc etc. Enjoy!!

All of a sudden he’s in this life that he promised himself he’d never be in, mirroring his parents with a sad and loveless relationship. The dying flower field gone from his vision in a blink, replaced by the buzz of a small tv in front of him.

Mike rubbed his eyes tiredly, he was wide awake a second ago, watching Hawkins fall, but now he was sitting on a familiar la-z-boy with a newspaper article long forgotten in his lap and a knot in the back of his neck from sleeping up right.

The sound of food sizzling came from where he assumed the kitchen was, followed by the distinct sound of breakfast sibling rivalry. It reminded him of when he would dump syrup on Nancy’s eggs.

Nancy…

He sprung up quickly, only to immediately regret it. His back ached and he dizzied slightly, as if he had aged 30 years in the span of a second.

What had happened? Where were the others? Will, El, Nancy, Jonathan, Joyce and Hopper and Will. Where had they gone?

“Sweetie! Get up, breakfast has been ready for almost 10 minutes.”

Sweetie? Was that El?

He moved towards the sound quickly, the house he was in resembled his own, but was not quite the same. Walls were filled with photos of unfamiliar children and cheap plastic trophies obviously won from kids sports.

As he entered the room he immediately froze, El stood by the stove before moving to place more food on the table. She looked much older, with the long curls that she had so recently lost flowing from her head and a tacky apron around her waist.

“You fell asleep in the living room, again.”

She sounded disappointed, a tone he commonly heard his mother use on his father when he did the same as he just had. There wasn’t even a hint of the stiltedness in her voice, gone from years of real world experience.

“El, whats going on?”

She looked at him confused.

“El? You haven’t called me that in years, Mike. Are you alright?”

This was creepy, so so creepy. What would he call her other than El? Why was he here? Who were these kids? What is happening?

“El, don’t mess with me. What’s going on? Where’s Will?”

Her expression saddened, quickly glancing over at the children at the table.

“Our Will or your best friend Will?”

“My best friend Will is our Will! El, what’s going on? We were just on the Hill not even two minutes ago and—“

Somewhere in his small monologue the youngest of the children had already started crying, obviously worried by the man’s behaviour. The eldest was already half out of her seat, and who he assumed was the middle child sat visibly confused by the ordeal.

“Mike, what are you talking about? That was 20 years ago.”

“20 years?!! No way, El, where is Will?”

El sent him an incredibly worried glance, before shooting away to shush the girl that kept crying. 20 years was too long, way too long. This had to be something to do with One, but Will said he was still resting. Will. Where was Will?

With the child in one arm, bouncing her up and down as a way of comfort, El placed a steady hand on the side of the spiraling boy’s shoulder. She asked him over and over if he was okay, if something was wrong and reassuring him that it was over, but he couldn’t believe it. He kept asking where Will and the others were, he asked and asked, but El wasn’t giving him a straight answer and—

“He’s dead, Mike. He died saving us.”

…what?

“what? El, what do you mean—“

He could feel the tears starting to well up in his eyes, but he blinked them away as quick as he could. He couldn’t cry, not here, not like this.

“Damn, I didn’t know dad had emotions until now.” The middle child exclaimed.

“Will!” Both the eldest and El scolded at the same time.

Will? That was not Will. Will would never say something like that, especially not to his family. Will was kind, and selfless and amazing and —

and dead.

Will was dead.

He couldn’t do this anymore, he had to escape. So he just blocked his ears and closes and eyes and prayed. He prayed that this would end, that he could go back and make sure everyone was okay. He prayed that Will was okay.

Then all the muffled noise stops, there’s no more children crying and El wasn’t grabbing his arm and begging him to tell her why he was acting like this. Instead, the family’s panic is replaced by a familiar voice.

“Mike? You okay, babe?”

Immediately he opened his eyes again. Though he was still freaked out and terrified and confused because the boy in front of him was much older than he was 5 minutes ago, Will was there and he was safe. Will was safe and okay and he just called him babe and—

wait what?

“Mike. What’s up?

He was still in a kitchen, just not the same one as before. It was smaller and cozier and over the counter there was a large window that stared down at the surrounding city.

The space was open, just in front of the window sat a yellow sofa with a small stained coffee table. It faced a slim tv, much slimmer and modern than the one he had at home. The tv was perched on a light yellow shelf that matched a decent amount of furniture in the house.

He kept staring off at the apartment, noting things like how there was an accent wall that was almost the same blue as his room and how books and papers were sprawled over the table and how —

“Mike, say something. You’re being extra spacey today and it’s worrying me.”

Mike quickly snapped out of his haze and stared at Will, with an older face and stubble marking his jawline, he looked good.

‘you okay, babe?’

Will opened his arms toward Mike, inviting him in to hug, and who was Mike to say no? This was okay, he and Will were okay. He could live like this a little longer.

So he walked towards Will and slumped his head into his shoulder, before putting his arms around Will and snuggling his face into the crook of his neck. Will’s hands wrapped around his torso, the coldness slightly seeping through his shirt to his bare skin. He paid no mind to the faint sound of music he heard, too immersed in what was Will Byers to care.

“You scared me, y’know. It’s like you teleported into the room.”

Mike only mumbled in response, taking Will’s presence and practically eating it whole. Will pulled him back a bit, before putting an unexpected soft kiss on his lips.

Though Will’s lips were almost freezing, Mike burned up like a flame. Will just kissed him and it was really nice. It was really nice, so he ducked down to return the favour, but Will’s hand wrapped around his face to stop him from going any further.

To your soul

To your soul

“How disappointing.” Will spoke, but it was not his voice. His eyes practically glowed white as he stared Mike in the eyes and gripped onto his face tighter and tighter.

Mike tried to run, but he was stuck in place. His feet glued to the floor and forcing him to watch the man in front of him slowly mold himself into a monster as he shook in fear. The distant music from before was louder, the lyrics slowly starting to blare in his ears.

He could see something out of the corner of his eye, through the large window across the room. A portal floating a foot away from the building. Through his tears he could see his body slowly start to rise as vecna’s claws latched onto his face, and he could see someone’s hand desperately grip onto his ankles as he flew up.

“MIKE!”

“I will take away your suffering, Michael. You won’t have to live the life you never wanted to live longing for the one I just showed you.”

…The love that you need will never be found at home

run away, turn away…

“MIKE PLEASE”

“It is time.”

“MIKE, ITS ME. PLEASE, I-I LOVE YOU, OKAY?? DON’T LEAVE ME, I CANT LOSE YOU.”

…run away, turn away…

“No.” He spoke, before reaching to the side and grabbing a kitchen knife on the counter, cutting a vine clean off of his body.

He didn’t dare look back, running towards the window and unlocking it as quick as he could.

No, you never cried to them, just to your soul

Vecna glared at him as he slid the window open, but he paid the monster no mind. On the other side of that portal there was Will, begging him to come back and telling him he loved him. On the other side of that portal there was the boy he loved telling him that he loved him back.

Run away, turn away, run away, turn away…

No vine could stop him as he leaped towards the opening with no hesitation, only a second away from falling 30 floors down.

Instead, he fell into the arms of the boy on the swings. He fell into the arms of the boy he went crazy with. He fell into the arms of the boy he had loved before he even knew what loving was, and he was okay.

Sitting in the dying flower field, surrounded by the people he loved and cared for the most. He was okay.

#byler fic #Byler fanfic #this was only meant to be a short concept post #byler #mike wheeler #platonic elmike #I got carried away #sorry for my shit writing LMAO #smalltown boy #heavily inspired by another fic on tumblr I don’t know the name of