#Headcanon time baby!
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I DO GENUINLY WANNA ASK ABOUT YOUR KIRBY HEADCANNONS!!! the idea that the mirror reflects what the looker wants to be is something ive never thought of before, o please please please just rant about your headcannons I beg of you/nf /lh
MUAHAHAHAHHA YOU HAVE FALLEN INTO MY TRAP. I WILL NOT SHUT UP NOW!!!!
Ever since the inclusion of Dark Meta Knight in KSA I've been... microwaving him in my head, marinating him in the juices of teories and ideas and headcanons, gripping him in my little corner even when I haven't been doing any art of Kirby...
He is a very simple character, he is often presented as an edgy(-er) version of Meta Knight, his freaking mask is made to look as if he is always frowning (it's funny). He is characterized as a bit petty in some manga (as far as I've seen), kind of a trouble maker.
I hyperfixtated on him for a long time, which eventually led me to search about all the info I could get on the Mirror World, the Amazing Mirror and, of course, the characters affected by this artifact.
Sectonia's case was the one that made me come up with the headcanon. It evolved from the fact that it was the mirror's influence that made her want to become what she ended up turning into. (It also led me to another headcanon about how our Taranza's Sectonia might not actually be dead but that one is long gone lmao).
I don't believe the mirror had the power to create dark ""evil"" versions of whoever looked into it originally. Perhaps it was an artifact made to show how far an individual could go, an artifact that was also a direct, faster gateway to the Mirror World, one that got corrupted by Dark Mind.
I like to believe that Dark Mind corrupted the Mirror itself and that that corruption was never truly "cleaned". It made sense to me then, you know? Having a kind of stronger version of Meta Knight (someone that, as far as I am aware, is constantly looking into improving and getting stronger), the Queen being corrupted (the apparent desire to look 'beautifull', the fact that, if the Amazing Mirror was never cleaned from the corruption, it could lead to the results given in Triple Deluxe).
With Kirby I can excuse it with Kirby's supposed "pure soul", apparently being the reflection of a little being that can fight gods and win even if he is just using a goddam truck to isekai them back nullifies the effects of the corruption. I also could say that Shadow Kirby's intentions could reflect what Kirby wanted during The Amazing Mirror (wanting to protect his home).
As for Dedede... it's a bit more tricky. What I could get is that the king, like Meta Knight, wishes to become stronger than he is, so there's that, maybe, I'm unsure. I need to do more research for this.
(I am not considering Dark Taranza in this because I think of him as exclusive to Kirby Clash Deluxe and it's universe).
Now. To get into more detail about our beloved dark knight.
Yobanashi Deceive starts to play in the background
Where's that music coming from--?
As I said before, he is a very simple character. Not a lot is really going on there so that pretty much just encouraged me to just make something for the guy (It might be just that I like the black/white/red tho).
The way I came up with the current humanizated design was by taking in count this headcanon about the Mirror. He is not only supposed to be a corrupted version of Meta Knight's views of how he wishes to become stronger, but also a desire to look into his past. Kind of like the longing for simple times but also refusing to go back there, there's no way to go back, there are only memories but unfortunely for him a very annoying Dark Knight is there to constantly remind him.
I wanted to specially get this across by giving Dark Meta the loose hair, opossed to Meta Knight's tied up hair. I have it in my mind that, if I were to draw the younger Meta and talk about his past headcanons, I would draw him with long, loose hair.
With all of this and Dark Mind's corruption and control over the mirror in mind, and the possibility of this eyeball being dark matter as well, the idea that Dark Meta didn't have much control over his own thoughts came. He was pretty much being mind controled into doing Dark Mind's will and didn't know but much about not being rude, or angry, or attacking on sight after Dark Mind was gone (even if sometimes he'd get those flashes of memories that are not his, where he sees through his eyes what kindness is like). He plays the role of a edgy guy to keep an image up, after all he, unfortunaly, has some of Meta's own traits and concerns about public image.
This thing about the mind control too.. it's what lead me into my own vision of how the fight against Meta went in KSA:
Dark Mind's corruption never truly went away, but he manages better nowadays.
#ask#asa answers#Headcanon time baby!#Dark Meta Knight#kirby#long!!!!!#it's all I'll talk about for now#if you want me to go further into anything you can ask (^-^)#also that song is one that has inspired me always when it comes to this guy#I love him
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Leo learns something about himself 🏳️⚧️
Based roughly on this old post.
Bonus:
[Leo is taking the fact that he was born biologically female simultaneously very well and also not so well but overall he’s mostly coping with the fact that it was Draxum that just essentially gave him the turtle equivalent of ‘The Talk’.]
#rottmnt#rise of the teenage mutant ninja turtles#rottmnt leo#rise leo#trans leonardo#trans leo#rottmnt headcanons#turtle art tag#rise draxum#happy pride everyone~#if you’re wondering why there’s no backgrounds that’s because my files got messed up so just blankness in the bg sorry#but yeah!#this is forever and always my fav headcanon for Leo it makes too much sense to me#I wanted to make sure I got it done in time for pride haha#I don’t know if it’s obvious by the end but Draxum ran off because he was for once doing something nice for Leo#that being leading him somewhere else not in front of everyone so Leo can process the fact that he was born female in peace haha#(but he also just - wanted to avoid the ensuing awkward Talk as long as he could lol)#“how would Leo NOT know’’ he had an inkling but never thought much of it because he’s a teenage turtle mutant with no access to healthcare#also yeah that’s splinter’s hand at the end there I just KNOW he’d want those pics#also also - Leo here can technically be trans or even intersex in some way too#both is good#making this made me remember why I never do color#at least for comics#it just takes sooo long#but it was fun and worth it for my fave hc#this is like the first time I’ve drawn Draxum and man he’s kinda hard to draw#also their sizes are just 1 2 and 3 because Draxum had a simple system in place for sizing his subjects#(aka I was too lazy to think of anything else to put there)#also dunno if anyone noticed but look at Raph’s paper and look at his baby’s self’s photo
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Sketchy sketches
#headcanon#they both use cringe nicknames#like “pookie” or “baby girl”#this idea makes me laugh every time#transformers#maccadam#texaid#First Aid#Vortex
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victory lap
“Got a proposition for you, Simon,” the man says, and Simon snorts.��He reeks of the same brand of cheap cigarettes as always—stale smoke, day-old tobacco; acrid and unpleasant. It makes his skin itch. “an’ I told you already, Price. I ain't interested in a team—” “Not a team, Simon.” The look he levels him with is nothing short of malicious. Dangerous. His hackles raise on instinct, everything inside of him hissing to back away. “Got something else in mind.” Then through the door was you. Pretty as a picture— And all his for the night. or: John strikes a deal with young Simon Riley. his cooperation on a team they're putting together in exchange for a night with you. naturally, it goes awry.
18+ SMUT. implied noncon, dubcon. under-negotiated kink. bondage. overstimulation. size difference. size kink. messy, sweaty gross sex. rough sex. unsafe sex. mean Simon. smitten Simon. bullydom!Simon. spit kink. degradation and humiliation. young!Simon (pre-mw2019-2022 when he was still a Seargent; 25-28ish). manipulation. attempts at taming a stray dog that goes as well as you'd expect.
It's John who takes his muzzle off.
Dangles the key on his finger when he kicks open the door, letting his Lieutenant glimpse what lay behind it. Giving a gruff, like what you see? when his eyes finally adjust to the low light flooding in.
It takes him half a second. Enough time to commit the scene in front of him to memory.
It's you, of course.
good dogs get rewards, don't they, Simon?
Waiting for him. Pretty as a picture in sleek silk chiffon ribboned in intricate shibari around your chest, stomach, and thighs. Legs spread on the table; ankles tied down to the sides in nude jute rope. Hands clasped together, fingers laced; wrists tied above your head. The blindfold wrapped around your head is a pale pink ribbon, thicker than the silk on your body. Wrapped twice over your eyes, and tied in a pretty bow behind your head, he imagines.
In the split of your thighs, he finds you already slick. Wet. It drips down onto the table, puddling beneath your ass. The spread of your pussy, glistening in the flushed light; the small, pink vibrator taped to your clit makes his cock twitch.
"All for me?" He rasps, eyes fixed on your cunt. On how pretty it looks. How inviting. A soft, ripe peach offered in the heat of summer, and he wants nothing more than to sink his teeth into you. Her. "'ow sweet o'you."
And Price, he thinks, eyes slanting sideways as he glances at the man sliding into his chair. It stands to reason that this whole thing, you on a silver platter for a starving wolf, wouldn't have happened if he hadn't seen the look on Simon's face when you first met him. The hunger.
Simon's not stupid, of course. He knew you were off limits the moment Price put his paw on your nape, squeezing once. Owned, claimed. The intention, the message, clear. Mine.
Don't touch.
And the way you lit up, stammering out something about how good it was to meet him, told him everything he needed to know how your willingness to be shackled to his Captain.
But even so—
He couldn't take his eyes off of you.
(and in his intense cataloguing of everything you did, he couldn't help but notice how you kept touching your neck when Price was dragged away for a conversation leaving you all alone in a room rankled down his spine. almost as if you were reaching up to fix a collar—)
The memory alone makes him shudder.
"All yours, Simon," Price drawls from his perch on the throne. Between two fingers, a cigar sits, unlit. Ghost huffs.
The words are a vicious bite to the want pooling low in his belly. "That so?”
The room seems to shake when he steps inside. Floor creaking ominously under his weight. It makes your mouth drop, heavy breaths spilling out between dull teeth. Chest rising and sinking shallowly with a wild sort of nervousness that flits across the expanse of your cheeks, in the tremble of your lower lip.
Despite your unease, your legs stay open. Held aloft by the rope, he knows, but also—
A testament to how trained you are.
He prefers his pets wild. Unpolished. Vicious little things that he gets to bring to heel with a sharp bark and rough hand glued to the back of their skulls, pushing their head into the dirt, to the floor, where it belongs.
Fine china broken at his feet.
But you—
Manicured. Groomed to perfection. Save for the harsh breaths and the shake in your joints—both an indication of just how new you are at this. A novice. One slowly being crushed under the leather boot of a man who reeks of smoke and whiskey.
But knowing his captain and the furious need for control, he imagines you're better than some of the seasoned ones he'd come across in his lifetime. No room for errors.
And certainly no forgiveness for them, either.
His cock twitches again—a heavy, aching weight against his thigh—and he reaches down to cup the thickness of it, crushing the flesh in his palm to stave off the need burning in his loins. The urgency to sink inside of your pretty little cunt rewiring the part of him that likes to mess his pets up first. Ruin them before he takes them. Fucking them to the point of unconsciousness—and sometimes, beyond it.
But you—
You've been a phantom taste in the back of his throat for months now. A tease between his teeth. Sinking his jowls into you is the only thing on his mind.
And when you're offered up so enticingly—
Well.
Price can't blame him much for how badly he's going to ruin you.
He reaches out, fingers pressing cruelly into the slim, thumb-sized vibrator Price has locked against your clit. A mindless, incessant torture, he's sure. Pushing you over the edge on a constant, unrelenting loop.
“Messy girl,” he rasps, the starchy fabric of the mask glueing to his balmy skin.
The reprimand makes you flinch in shame, but the flutter of your cunt belies the contrition that drapes over your brow in a shallow mimicry of sorrow. He can see why Price latched onto you so quickly, and doesn't bother fighting the stab of envy that brims in his chest.
“Didn't your old man ever teach you any manners?” He mocks, dry and derisively. Quietly amused by the soft mewl you let out, one that only just eclipses the snort from Price. “Daddy's been slackin’, ‘asn’t he? Let his little girl turn into a messy fuckin’ slag.”
You try to close your legs to no avail, the rope keeping you spread. In part, he thinks, from shame—blistering, burning, and vibrant when it streaks across your face—but mostly from the slick gush that leaks out of your drenched pussy at his foul words. Trying to hide it from him. To keep him from knowing just how much the brassy roll of his ugly words makes your empty little cunt ache.
“Look’it you.” He rumbles, enjoying the shiver in your joints. The way your head rolls to the side, nose pressed tight to the skin of your arm. “Messy pussy just achin’ to be fucked.”
He adds more pressure until you choke. The scream lodged in your throat. Your toes curl. He hears the soft pop of your joints when you arch your back like a cat in heat yowling for attending.
“Want it bad, don't you?” He taunts. “Daddy must’a spoiled you too much—” another scoff from Price. The creak of leather. The clink of ice against glass. “Didn't teach you any manners—”
He wants you to beg. Wants to hear the peal of your voice—rough and ragged and begging him to sink inside you; fuck your little cunt until you can't walk anymore—but that's not what he's here for. Not why Price dragged him up to the room. Gave you to him.
And with the silk gag in your mouth, he knows he won't get it, anyway. Tied in a pretty bow behind your head. Wet with your spit already.
Simon's fingers slide down, dragging over the folds of your cunt. You're wet. Soaked. Drenched in a way he's never seen before; folds glistening. Thighs wet. Sticky. He licks his lips. Tastes the brine of his sweat. He wants to eat your pussy. Spread you wide on his tongue and make you beg Price to let Simon make you cum.
The thought roots in his head. Burrowing deep. He can already hear your sweet voice pleading with his captain—please, please let him make me cum—but he pushes it down when Price makes an impatient noise in the back of his throat.
He knows why he's here.
And wonders, then, when he steps back and drops his hands to the button on his trousers, how many times you've been punished like this. The thought is a sour smoulder in the back of his head. An ugly, foul thing unfurled over the soot-stained walls of his skull.
(he'll ask later. get the names of every man Price let see you like this, and pluck the memory of you right from their skull—)
“So needy,” he drawls, dragging his cock out of his slacks as they fall low on his thighs. “Even after this pussy’s been spoiled so much?”
It makes you keen, and the noise is a searing knife to his guts. He groans with it—low and rough, the noise scraping over the flesh of his throat until it hurts.
“Gonna have to punish you, ain't I? Needy fuckin' thing—” so he says, but his cock is just as sticky as your thighs, weeping a steady stream of pre-cum that pools in the tangle of hair at the base, dusting over his heavy, fat balls.
He shuffles closer, and reaches out to your knee, slipping his fingers behind your shin. The squeal of naked flesh against the metal tabletop shouldn't make him throb but it does. Cruel man, he thinks, and drinks in the way you wince.
He presses his cock against your slit, mouth dropping in a harsh pant when he takes in the hideous sight it makes. Your pussy is covered up by his girth. The tip of his cock bobbing over your belly button, dripping pre-cum into the divot.
Simon pulls his hips back, letting his cock glide over your silken flesh. The wet squelch it makes when he thrusts forward, cockhead tapping on your belly, has him grunting like an animal. It's obscene, this. The way he can't even see your folds over the wide spread of his cock. Pussy tucked neatly under him.
He can't even begin to imagine how you'll take the full length of him inside of you when his cock nudges past your belly button when he lets his balls rest on your molten slit. Poor thing.
He doesn't know if Price stretched you before this. Got you ready for him. But the man makes no move to intervene when Simon pulls back until his head slips down your seam, bracketed between your plush, swollen folds, tight against your entrance. All he has to do is—
Push
And the tip of his cock slips in.
You make another noise at the sting, and he thinks you might be crying but his eyes are riveted to the spot where you open for him. Pussy so small, so tiny, compared to his cock in a way that's sickening. Garish. But your little cunt drools on him. Rim fluttering like a heartbeat on his glands, pulling him deeper. Enticing him to sink inside. All the way. Until he can feel the hitch of your breath on his cock.
He leans back to get a better view, the motion forcing another inch inside of you. The noise is slick. Giving as your silken flesh parts around him, eagerly taking him in. But as wet as you are, as pliant, the stretch is unbearable. It chokes the air from his lungs when you tighten up around him—
“Fuckin' hell—” he snaps, his upper lip curling up beneath the mask. Your cunt makes him angry. Suddenly, viciously. The fury drips down his spine, pools at the base of his cock. His hand slips out from between your thighs, roughly grabbing your waist. Holding on tight as he jerks his hips harshly against you.
You feel good. Perfect. Wrapped snugly around him. A hot, wet embrace. And he huffs at the bitterness that clots in his lungs; the surge of pleasure so blisteringly intense, it nearly makes him gag. Makes him sick.
Price has this every night.
The thought alone is a poison. It needles in deep, lashing at him with foul, rabid teeth. Cruelly, he pushes deeper, sinking his cock in another inch, another, another—mindless in this pursuit to tear you apart well before you're ready for it.
He wants it to burn. To ache. Wants to be the worst fuck you've ever had; cock too big for you to take, but he feeds it to you in full. Gives you all of it. Every inch. Until your stomach churns with every press of his cockhead against your cervix, his glands sliding over that spot inside that makes your knee jerk and your eyes roll.
Wants you to remember him as a beast. To think of his cock and feel nauseous.
To sink deep inside of you—brutal and savage—until you can still feel him in your pussy for days. Each step causing a sharp pang in your lower belly.
It's awful, he knows. Terrible. But he forces himself into you anyway, feeling your flesh split around him. A blunt, unyielding pressure until his balls tap against your ass, pussy spasming around the fat length he punishes you with. He's sure he's deeper inside of you than anything—any man, cheap silicon—has ever dreamed of being. Kissing places in you that nothing has ever touched. Feels it in the nervous flit of your muscles pulsing around him—this foreign thing bludgeoning into uncharted territory, stretching you wide. Almost virginal all over again. It makes him groan.
Your pleasure is a muted ripple down his spine. The vibrator forcing you into enjoying the sharp sting of your rim pulled taut around the plug of his cock, skin blanching from the strain. He wants to stay just like this—grinding his hips into the backs of your spread thighs, cockhead chiselling into the molten seal of your womb with every gyration until the line between pleasure and pain begins to blur. Until you gag from how badly having your walls battered burns, hurts, but the bloom of pleasure deep inside your groin keeps you in place. Makes you arch your back, wanting more.
Desperate for it.
But this isn't what Price wants, is it?
No—
He voices his impatience with a muffled grunt. Get on with it, Simon is pinched out between the silver of space between his teeth, the butt of a burning cigar keeping his jaw unhinged. The heady, sour-sweet stench of smouldering tobacco, nicotine, staining the words.
You clench at the sound of Price's voice, pretty pussy drawing all tight around him. Perfectly trained. Sweet thing, he thinks, pulling out of you slowly. Just a few inches. Feeling your skin glue his; the glide of your walls over his shaft sickeningly good, nauseatingly so. He holds it for a moment, staring down at you through the eye holes of his mask, breathing heavily. Sweat drenches his skin. Tacky, hot. The starchy fabric clings to his flesh, peeling away each time he moves his head.
The exertion of fucking his cock into you shows through the muted pulse of his joints, muscles aching from the strain of pushing forward.
(Holding himself back.)
You blink at him blearily, eyes misted with tears. A smaller puddle sits on the table near your temples.
Up close, he can see the full detail of the intricate shibari binding you tight. The sleek pink ribbon weaving over your chest, your breast, stomach—hishi karada, Price said. At the base of your neck is more silk in a mockery of a collar. And he wonders if you miss it, then. The solid weight of leather on your skin. If your hands weren't tied up, he imagines they'd be there. Holding firm.
Just like the night he first met you.
The silk rope, the loss of your collar—
“Your dad's a cruel man, ain't he?” He mocks, sliding his fingers over the delicate trim of silk bound tight under your heaving breasts, peppering across your nipple, down the slope. Resting at the base of your throat. The thin slip of fabric is not enough to give you what you need. The pressure, the friction. The sense of being owned. “Didn't even give his little girl a collar.”
More of that tantalising shame rake over your expression. Tears dribble out in hot drops, spilling down the side of your face.
He hums, slips this fragility into his back pocket. “Want me to give it to you, little girl?”
He spits the words out like they're wrong. Awful. Takes in your flinch, the downward twist to your lips, and shoves that, too, into his pocket.
Simon has no intention of waiting for an answer, for permission—he reels back, hand still splayed wide over your sternum, and pulls his cock out more until only the flare of his glands peaks out. He's soaked—glistening with your slick. So wet that it drips out of your plugged hole, gliding down the cleft of your ass.
He wonders if you always get like this—
Bites that thought clean through with an angry groan, and pries his fingers out from the back of your knee, dragging them to the end of his mask. Rucking it up over his skin, bunched against the bridge of his nose.
If the mess of his mouth, chin, the crooked, angular slope of his nose horrifies you at all, you don't let it show. Content to quietly sob on the table, eyes flickering between the thick plug of his cock between your thighs and the Price.
He hates you, he thinks. And then he spits on your pretty pussy, right over your taut rim. Watches the foamy mess bubble, drip down to the skin behind his mushroomed head. When it pools there, he pulls back until the widened flare of his glands slips free. You whine—a noise of bright hot disgust, humiliation—and he lets it burrow under his skin, trickle down his spine. Then he pushes forward, popping the head back inside of you.
The spit—his spit, too.
And he does it again. The same thing. Pulling out, spitting. Feeding it to her. Letting it rub against the slick, wet (wetter now) walls of her cunt.
Price doesn't say anything about this claim. Schoolboy possession—childish and immature when you're used to fine leather gripping tight around the slope of your neck.
Still.
He pulls on your proverbial braids until it burns.
The hum of the vibrator takes some of the sting away when he shoves inside of you again, cockhead bullying into your cervix with an unmatched cruelty. Leaking slick, steady, over your seal. Drooling, thick and viscous, against your walls. Staining you.
Ruining you.
Each breath is punched out when he bottoms out. Forced from your lungs. Winded. He knows it hurts almost as much as the thick bludgeon of his cock pressing deep, but as he scrapes and claws at the rot concealing over his humanity, morality, he finds nothing inside of him left to care.
He stops looking. Stops searching.
Simon fucks into you with vigor instead, laughing mockingly at the lewd, sinful squelch of your cunt. “Think that's the sound of all my spit, birdie? Or is your sloppy little cunt always this fuckin’ messy?”
Each piston makes his pelvis slap into the vibrator; he can feel it through the tangle of coarse hair spooled above his cock. Buzzing incessantly against his skin. The spike of sharp pressure has you yowling beneath him, hips twisting, turning, trying to flee from the brutal onslaught. Pleasure and pain balancing on a knife's edge.
He holds you there. Dangles you above the precipice just because he can—
A lazy flick of his waist. The savage grind of his hips. The softened bulge of his lower belly tapping against the plastic toy—
And it breaks you. This careless, effortless attention he pays to you has you tightening up around him like a knot, a vice; cunt squeezing, squeezing, before you shatter. Wave against a cliff; you spasm on his cock in a series of shallow, tight throbs pulsing along to the rapid fire of your heartbeat.
His eyes are locked on your face. Pretty, lachrymal. Tears bleed down your temples, soaking into your hairline. Puddling underneath.
His own little sea of your miserable pleasure.
Eyes rolled into the back of your head. Toes curling. Hips jerking, twisting. Trying to run from the ugly, awful way he makes you cum. Makes you gorge yourself on pleasure. Force-feeding you pain with each sloppy, brutal thrust into your sopping, messy cunt—swollen, bruised; battered. And his—
—ice clinks against glass. A clicking swallow follows. The hollow thud of glass on wood. Scraping over the veneer as it's pushed back into place. Tobacco is chewed up by flames, popping and sizzling; smoldering with each inhale as the playwright watches the show he weaved together unfold—
—his.
The silk around your neck comes loose with each thrash of your head rolling from side to side, shaking with quick, successive no, no, no’s that go unheeded, ignored. Every animalistic rut of his hips makes you change your mind, anyway. Turning those devastating no’s to yeses so eager, your teeth clack with every thrust.
As it slips, sliding down the sweat-slicked column of your arched throat, he finds a stripe of red. A scab. Right at the knot where your collar would sit. A pretty gem in the middle. Your name, or maybe something that would amuse Price more than the perceived idea of your autonomy—bitch in glinting gold. His name and number etched into the back.
if found, return to John Price.
A foldhold, perhaps. Tailor-made for his boot.
He hunts, Simon knows. Walked in reeking of leather and smoke when they first met and casually mentioned how good he was at Big Game hunting. A threat, then—however thinly veiled and erring on the side of mordant humour it was. But he wonders if Price personally made the collar you mourned the night he swung you into Simon's path.
Your neck was bare, then. Blemishless.
A collar too small. Tightened too much. Punishment, he supposes, and feels a sick sense of satisfaction roll down from his nape to the bottom of his spine where it pools in his groin—hot, molten oil—as he wonders just how much convincing it took you to agree to this. To spread your pretty legs for the ugly brute Price dangled you in front of. Who watched you all night from the corner of the room, chest heaving and eyes wide, wild, and furious. Reeking of rot. Want. To let him rut you like an animal while Price watches from the corner of the room—
A bead of sweat follows the phantom trail.
“Fuck, birdie,” he's rasping, voice uttered wrecked. Mangled in his throat. “So fuckin’ tight f’me, ain't you? Must want me to cum inside this pretty cunt—”
You shiver. Knee jerking. There's a real sense of panic in your eyes when they dart over to Price, silently nursing another glass of scotch. He follows your gaze, catches Price glaring at him with his chin dipped low to his chest, peering out through his lashes. Brow furrowed. A flat line.
Simon doesn't stop thrusting. Keeps a steady pace despite the anger brimming inside of him as the pleasure grows. Festers.
Then—
Barely discernible: a nod.
Shadows fall over his cheeks. He brings the glass back to his mouth with a surly mm between the mouthful. An irrevocable fuckin' get on with it.
And Simon does.
The look he gives you pure predatory hunger. Victory in the potent stench of charred bones. He lifts his chin, stares down at you—all spread out like a gift to a god—and surges forward with a rabid hunger brimming in his guts. Unquenchable. Horrific.
—wants you to eat you alive. Consume you whole. Leave nothing for Price to pick at, to mourn over,
settles instead for ruining your pussy. For fucking you raw. Cumming deep inside of your quivering cunt even when he knows you don't want that. Are silently begging Price to reconsider. To get this ugly fucking mutt off of you—
It churns his guts. Makes him viciously excited over the image that brims in the back of his head, tears raining down your cheeks as you bring a shaky hand to your aching, swollen cunt, feeling the thick, viscous glob of his cum leaking out.
Or before that, when you have to lay there and take it. Feeling his cock throbbing, pulsing as it spits cum inside of you. When he pulls out, and a milky trail follows, dribbling down between your cheeks. At his mercy the whole time, too, because Price won't get up right away to untie you. You'll have to lay there in his filth, feeling it ooze out of you—
He wants it. Badly. Feels it scorching his hindbrain, burning him up from the inside out.
Later, he thinks, he'll fuck you with more finesse. Make you cum on his fingers—stuff them inside of your sore, aching cunt to the last knuckle; give you three of them to squeeze around, to cling to, and watch the ink on his bruised, scabbed skin disappear inside of you over and over again, pulling them out all slick, pearlescent with a mix of his cum and yours. On his tongue, too. Keep you in this pretty frogtie, unable to push him off—or pull him closer. Forced to take it. To let him lap at your pussy until he quenches this uneasy hunger festering inside of his stomach, growing bolder, greedier at the sight of you splayed out like this, exhausted already even though he's only just begun.
Fuck you again, too, just because he can.
all yours for a night, Price had said, sealing your fate with a sharp, decisive nod.
He plans on making the most of the twelve hours until sunrise that he has.
This, then, the appetizer—
It curls over his shoulders, tar-stained fingers digging into the tight coil of his muscles, easing the tension in increments. Soothing out the fear that still clings to him of missing out. Still, very much, that hungry little mutt on the side of the street, peering into the bakery at the family's milling about, smiling happily. Content to ignore the brat in rags glaring at them from an alcove with bruises on his chin, and a black split on his lip. Diving for scraps because the alternative is going to bed with an empty stomach in a house that reeks of flat beer and stale piss.
There's nothing to miss out on here, it reasons, when he has you all night. All his.
“Beg me,” he huffs, sniffing through the balmy, damp mask when it slips down his crooked nose. “Beg me not to cum inside you.”
All you can do is make a small, keening oomph behind the loose gag, words muffled by wet silk. His head rolls back, eyes narrowing down at you in mocking delight—catlike, leonine, in the dwindling glimmer of sunlight spilling through the crack in the curtains.
“C’mon,” he taunts, rolls his hips into you just to hear the loud, wet squelch of your pussy taking the full, fat length of his cock. Lets the noise box through his ears in a vicious, heavy punch. “Or I'll cum inside you—”
He's already there. Edging toward the precipice.
Simon grabs the tops of your thighs, digging his fingers into your skin, and pulls you closer to the edge of the table until your ass lifts. It opens you up wider for him, knees notched wide, nearly level with your ears. The new position lets him push in deeper, fucking you in full now. Balls slapping against your ass with every brutal stroke.
He leans down, knee lifting to the table as he climbs on before dropping the full heft of his weight onto you. Forearm braced above your head, the other catching the column of your bare, scratched neck in the wide spread of his palm.
The size difference before was intoxicating. A rush that pooled in the back of his head before rocketing down to his spine, filling his cock, but this—your knees bracketing around his waist, spread so wide they're forced down flat to the table below in a split that lets his cock sink in deeper, head tucked against his collarbone, swallowed whole beneath him, is his undoing.
Arched over you like a beast, he grunts. Ruts into your sopping cunt and feels the whines that spill from your throat at the rough way he batters into you.
The softness of his lower belly grazes the vibrator humming on your clit. The pressure makes your eyes widen, and roll into the back of your head. Neck trapped in his hold as you thrash beneath him, sobbing in earnest. In dismay.
He's sure it hurts. The pleasure careening into overstimulation—the kind that burns, bellows too much, no more. He huffs out a derisive snort, and eats your misery from your parted lips, dipping his head down to catch the seam of your mouth in a mockery of a kiss. The silk wrapped around your head, tucked neatly into the corners of your mouth, keeps it from being anything more than a messy smear of his scarred, torn lips and your muffled gasps. The band prevents him from really tasting you, and he makes do with curling his tongue over your teeth, catching the drool running down your chin.
It's gross. Messy. He slurps you up, and hums in pleasure when he tastes the brine of your tears.
“Gonna cum,” he grunts into the silk before catching it between his crooked teeth, nibbling on the wet hem, sucking on your spit soaked into the fabric.
Your pussy spasms around him. Eager, he thinks—pulsing like a heartbeat and starving for it. It blooms under his skin, burning hot like a fever. His tongue slips under your gag. Eyes glued to yours, listed in quiet, merciless delight when you grimace as he slides it along yours, nearly gagging you on it.
It's almost sweet. A pastiche of loving making—as close to the real thing as he's ever come. The thought is a bludgeon to his head, making his ears ring—
And he runs from it. Rears back from the sloppy kiss, eyes creasing, brow furrowing, as you stare up at him with wet, glossy eyes, rheumy with tears. Silently pleading for something he can't discern. He feels that trail of anger coiling in his guts again, sitting low in his belly as his hips stutter to a slow, softer roll.
His finger lifts, settles on the corner of your unhinged jaw, holding your head steady. There are lines, he thinks. Walls, divides. Protective armour—
And some shouldn't be crossed.
Simon spits on your gag. Squeezes the huff of disgust from your throat when he feels your chest expand with it. Bullies himself closer, smothering you under his weight. Owned, then. Claimed.
You can't close your mouth around the gag, or fingers digging into the muscle of your jaw. He keeps you like that, degraded. Dehumanised. A vessel for him to use as he likes—
Nothing more, nothing less.
Sinks into your bruised cunt again, hips slapping meanly into yours in a way he knows must ache. Sets a choppy, deep pace; humps your pussy and grinds the weeping, swollen head of his cock into your battered cervix. Loses himself in the messy, plugging rolls of his hips; the wet, tight slide of your skin—flushed and clenching around the thick of himself he feeds to you, over and over again. Mindless in the pursuit to ruin you further. Stain you with his cum—
The problem is:
You feel like heaven. Pussy wrapped tight around him. Silken walls hugging his aching cock until it feels like he's melting into the hot, wet squeeze of it. So good it hums inside his head like a purr, rattles his thoughts around until the ugly, bitter anger is turned inside out. Flipped.
He thinks about lines again as his sticky, wet balls glue to the slick skin of your ass, peeling off in a way that has pleasure peppering along his spine, spooling in his lower back. He did that, caused it. Made you so fucking wet that his knees slide in the messy spill of it leaking all over the table. The loud squelch of him slamming into your cunt echoes in the room—shrill and bone-melting. Ego-feeding. Enough to gorge his pride on it until its belly threatens to burst at the seams. Overfull.
Simon grunts. His face is soaked. The damp fabric of his mask is too drenched to even mop it up, sticking to his skin as sweat rains down from his shorn hairline, misting over his eyes. His upper lip. The dip of his chin. He's more water than man. Liquid. Melting into you.
The heat is unbearable. “Gonna cum in this pussy,” he snarls, and it sounds like a threat. Is one. He's going to burst inside of you, molten and thick. Been a while, he thinks, and feels his balls draw up. Tightening in a promise as he fucks himself into a syrupy stupor above you.
The inside of his ears are wet, and he thinks it might be his fucking brain leaking out—
The tight coil of his body snaps before he does, giving out in a heavy groan. He catches himself before he crushes you beneath him, still mindlessly thrusting into your cunt, cock pulsing, throbbing. Growing thicker, thicker, as he heaves into your temple, breathing in the pine scent of your skin. Loam, sea. Sweat. You smell like Price beneath it all—leather and smoke; scotch and wood—and his lips curl into a vicious snarl, teeth bared at the man in the corner, silent observer to this blasphemous confessional where he spills his guts inside of you, and you eat them up like they're made of gold dust.
It rushes him. A kick to his soft stomach, a boot crushing his ribs. The force of it hurts when it hits, surging up from the base of his spine, too fast for him to brace for. Tensing, coiling. The pressure knocks the air from his lungs, makes his hips stutter. Joints whining, twinging with pain.
He moans low and brassy, mangled deep in the rot of his chest, and cums deep inside of you. Sloppy, mindlessly rutting into the spread bracket of your thighs as pleasure burns across the back of his neck, his spine. His hips roll, shaking. Melting as he spills, spits thick globs of cum out, cockhead bullied tight against your plug.
All you can do is heave beneath him, whining at the molten spend he pours into you. Poor fuckin’ thing—
His lips are sticky, slick with sweat. He rubs them against the tacky skin of your temple, your cheekbone, babbling nonsense out on a purr—
Breedin’ this tight little pussy right in front of your old man, birdie. Got ‘im watchin’ his little girl take my thick fuckin’ load inside o’her. Fuckin’ hell—
—things that leak out between the cracks in the armour. The thick veneer. Made worse, his personal hell, when he feels your hips bump into his, taking his cock deeper inside as you squirm under the heavy weight of him. With your thigh flexing, squeezing his hip, it almost feels like you want more. All of him. For him to crawl deep inside of you, cocooned in the bracket of your ribs—
“Needy fuckin’ thing,” he rasps, words slurring. Eliding into mush. Nonsense he'll come to crush between his teeth later when he buries himself back inside of you over and over again, feeding blood to this vicious seedling inside of him.
Through the pounding in his head, your gasping little hitches in his ear, the undeniable silence from Price weighs on him even as the aftershocks of his release mute the noise in his head. A dense, hazy fog clouding over all thoughts.
It doesn't feel angry. Jealous. If anything it reeks of victory—
He grasps through the blanket, the murk, with lazy hands until he finds what he's looking for, and—
Oh.
Right.
(“Got a proposition for you, Simon,” the man says, and Simon snorts.
He reeks of the same brand of cheap cigarettes as always—stale smoke, day old tobacco; acrid and unpleasant. It makes his skin itch.
“an’ I told you already, Price. I ain't interested in a team—”
“Not a team, Simon.” The look he levels him with is nothing short of malicious. Dangerous. “Got something else in mind—”)
Then through the door was you. Pretty as a picture—
He stares down at you now. The base of his cock is soaked with your slick, flesh throbbing, pulsing, as he cums inside of you.
It's this—you, crying over the feeling of him spilling so deeply inside of you while your old man watches from the sidelines, unable to do anything but sit there as Simon fills his baby girl up—that he wanted. Wants. Needs, he thinks, more than the stale, humid air he breathes. A place of his own. Home. Even if it's made of paper mache, carved inside of someone else, someone who already has a collar. A brand—
But that's the point, isn't it?
A sick feeling curls over his shoulders as he thumbs the slim vibrator off of your clit, staring down at the swollen nub at the apex of your mound. Sore and sensitive and flushed bright. Bruised like an apple. Abused for hours. Poor thing, he thinks, even as he rubs the flat of his finger over it.
His cum seeps out around the softening plug of his cock. But it's still thicker than anything you'd ever taken before, he's sure. Sick with the deep sense of satisfaction that rolls over him at the thought.
It's worth it, then, even as the dawning realisation trickles over him like hot oil—
“What d’you like, Simon?”
A pretty bird in pale pink chiffon. Too good for the likes of him. Afraid of him, too. Cowerin’. Cryin’ somethin’ awful when he sinks his ugly, fat prick into them—
Price hummed. Curled his index finger over the top of his cigar, tapped the thick wrap twice with the tip of it, and then brought it to his lips. A flash of teeth beneath his beard—nicotine-stained; crooked in the low light—before they sunk into the butt.
There was something measured in his stare. Predatory.
Victorious.
And—
He gets it. You were a dangling lure in the deep, dark of the abyssal layer. A glimmer of light in thick murk. Iridescent. Dazzling. He was always meant to sink his teeth into you, wasn't he? Always meant to take a bite—
hook. line—
—sinker.
Or—
It would be if the fish Price caught wasn't a leviathan.
—in the scorching trail the oil leaves behind, something bestial, primordial, inside of his cocks its head in consideration. he can make a feast from this, it says; and so, he does—
“Need my help, Price?” Simon drawls, arms crossing over his chest as he stares down at him, quietly amused, and John feels the pulse between his temples starting up again the same way it had all those years back when he bumped into the man with you on his arm.
He grunts. “Sendin’ you to Mexico.”
“Tha’ so? I might be busy.”
He sucks in a deep breath, reaches for his cigar. The itch claws behind his eyes, in his gums. There's a headache, too. One he knows won't be soothed over with the numbing bliss of nicotine or a shot of scotch. Not when he'll have to slink home afterwards, this massive behemoth nipping at his heel, and deal with the aftermath of what happens whenever he sets Simon loose on you:
an icepack pressed tight against your aching cunt, a glare fixed on your face as he dotes on you after you made him clean up the absolute mess Simon left behind with his fingers and tongue—
“never again,” you'll hiss, wincing with each pull of his knuckles on your sore, bruised walls. “I mean it—”
(you always say that but the look in your eye whenever he pulls out the silk—the new assortment that Simon bought for you himself—tells him otherwise—)
He presses the heel of his palm into the crease between his eye and bone, rubbing until he sees phosphenes spark behind his eyelids.
“She'll be in silk,” he grouses, sucking his teeth in irritation. “And you'll be on fuckin’ plane to Mexico the next morning, Riley. Do I make myself clear?”
“Crystal, sir,” he draws lazily with a half-hearted shrug, but Price can see the mutt inside of him panting with glee. He pretends to huff. Then: “I want her in white this time.”
The fuckin' prick.
—Price’s gamble of using you to lure the big, bad dog in works. but maybe a little too well. because now his sergeant expects one every time he's sent on a mission. and they send him out a lot.
—he now has a key to his captain's house. lets himself in whenever he wants. finds you exactly how he asked for it. usually tied up in silk, crying, and struggling to get away when he stalks inside the room. on your knees, begging him so sweetly not to fuck your throat too hard. you have work tomorrow. or fighting him off as best as you can until he pins you down, works his cock inside of you.
—in full view of the cameras, of course. non-negotiable. Price gets to see everything his brutish sergeant does to his pretty bird. everything.
—Simon is the one who keeps you company when Price is sent off to work with the CIA. keeps you stuffed full of his cock in the bed you share with Price, his little girl sobbing into the pillow that reeks of smoke and leather and sex as Simon forces every inch of his stupid fat cock inside you
#simon riley x reader#ghost x reader#my first time writing baby Ghost lmao i headcanon him as unhinged and sloppier than his older counterpart#ghost x reader x price#kinda??#price x reader#john price x reader
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Nico referring to his mom as "Mama" implies he most likely at least used to refer to Hades as "Papa" and i 100% headcanon he still does but mostly in the manner of him having the entire Underworld wrapped around his finger for being the baby of the family
#pjo#riordanverse#nico di angelo#headcanon#my art#nico flexing youngest child privilages by pulling out the most pitiful expression he can manage#anyways i find it fun to explore character word choices#cause yknow no two characters are going to select their words the same way#or even necessarily think about it to the same degree#i like to think Nico thinks about his word choice a lot#so of course every time he uses ''papa'' he fully knows he's pulling the Baby Of The Family card#Hades definitely knows this too but falls for it every time anyways#cause Nico hasnt called him ''papa'' regularly since getting his memory wiped - just detached ''father'' or at best ''dad''#so it just reminds Hades of How Much He Just Wants His Children To Be Happy Like The Old Days#and how much poor Nico has been through and he's just the baby of the family and-#cue Nico smugly staring at the camera cause he knows how much power he holds#also i say Nico is Hades' only son cause mythologically even when Zagreus *is* Hades' son (rarely) he's. dead.#a major part of Zagreus' mythology is that he died#and im p sure every other deity said to be Hades' children are all goddesses and also are like 50% of the time not his#theres also only like 3 of them. and as far as we know in riordanverse canon one of them is implied to not be his daughter#so Nico is Hades' only son and also youngest in the family (cause Hazel is older by a month chronologically or 1 year biologically)#(and everybody else is a deity if children of hades at all)
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Izumi (steambaby) sketches.
#zutara#atla#avatar the last airbender#steambabies#atla izumi#zuko#katara#atla art#atla fanart#zuko x katara#katara x zuko#fire lord izumi#atla oc#fire lord zuko#katara of the southern water tribe#steambaby#Hello Izumi!#She's got her dad's dry sarcasm and her mom's Stare of Judgment™#Uncle Sokka's perfectionism and Auntie Toph's tendency to give nicknames to anything that moves#Auntie Suki's Kyoshi Warrior training (because of course) and Uncle Aang's love for animals#Auntie Azula's poker face and Uncle Iroh's stragetic mind! And love for tea. And wisdom (which is overruled by her awkward self)#She's a daddy's girl and momma's best friend. They'll all braid each other's hair and go to terrible plays and do vigilante stuff together#She's got blue fire and a blue baby dragon named Tui and an arctic wolf named Agni. And yes that's the right name order. Deal with it.#She probably has a nonbender baby brother. Lu Ten is a swordmaster and the most lovable human being on this planet#Maybe another baby sister. Waterbender. Absolute MENACE. I'll think about it.#Or maybe she's an only child#Who knows!#I'm just here for the vibes and drawing pretty people#You guys come up with headcanons for her. I'd love to read them!#I don't think I'll do anything with her any time soon so...
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kendall, six months later, cradling shiv's baby in his arms: okay yeah I did kill that waiter
#succession#he's not actually talking to the baby he's talking to shiv and roman on the other side of the room and they roll their eyes so hard#people in the tags adding in cute wholesome headcanons fuck off#kendall's gonna have to clarify that he was lying to the sibs eventually and this would just be the funniest possible time to do it dfjkskj#also YES they are gonna be in each others lives again they have nothing else no one else
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Crosshair, bitter youngest child: Are we seriously going to let Hunter keep Omega?
Tech, not looking up from his work: We let you keep Echo.
#when you were the baby for a long time but now there’s an unexpected new baby#he’s one of those kids who ask mom to return the new baby to the hospital#but then they become besties and partners in crime#I strongly headcanon that Crosshair was the one to first suggest asking echo to join their squad#I’ve seen it in fics a few times and it’s just so sweet and so dear to me#Crosshair just saw echo and immediately imprinted on him like a duckling#star wars tbb#star wars the bad batch#tbb crosshair#the bad batch#incorrect bad batch quotes#arc trooper echo#tbb hunter#tbb echo#tbb incorrect quotes#tbb omega#tbb tech#tech and crosshair are twins#batch twins
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king merlin after meeting lady guinevere and sir lancelot’s baby and falling in love: arthur. i want a baby.
king arthur, not looking up from his paperwork: …what?
merlin: give me a baby.
arthur, sighing: merlin, you studied to be a physician. i don’t think i have to be the one to tell you how impractical that is.
merlin, rolling his eyes: this is why i’m the brighter side of the coin
arthur, finally looking up: wha-
queen merlin using magic to transform her body: i. want. a. baby.
arthur:
arthur:
arthur: *stands up from his desk so fast his chair topples over, multiple parchments flutter to the ground, his tunic is already off*
#genderfluid merlin#the real genderfluid experience is answering ‘shapeshifting’ to that ‘which power would you pick’ question#every. time.#merlin is lucky enough to have magic to accomplish this#i am Envious#merthur#i am a firm believer in top!merlin#but i am also a believer in emrys being the incarnate of nature and longing to make life#all the people hes killed#all the death hes caused#he wants to balance it out with children#obviously thats not the only reason but yk#all of their kids have birthdays in the winter bc merlin really really REALLY wants a baby in spring#for SOME reason 👀#(psst its bc hes connected to nature and has a (i dont want to say heat but) heat)#(and bc dragonlords are like part dragon so that animalistic quality to him absolutely does not help with the heat allegations)#queen merlin#king merlin#merlin emrys#king arthur#arthur pendragon#incorrect quotes#bbc merlin#incorrect merlin quotes#headcanon#head canon#hc#fic#fanfic#fanfiction
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baby pokemon trainers 🐣
#pokemon#trainer leaf#trainer lyra#rival silver#rival blue#trainer ethan#pokemon frlg#pokemon hgss#headcanon post#kashart#blue oak#green oak#rival green#this is my headcanon of their appearnce when they were 5 or 6ish hahaha#green and leaf were a pair of trouble makers#the metapod is a stolen lab pokemon lol#he is the caterpie's big brother; somehow caterpie got the impression that her brother was kidnapped by evil men in white coats#in actuality her brother went theyre willfully lol#now caterpie managed to drag two human kids into rescuing metapod....his lil sister always causes him trouble...#ohh and i suppose i hc baby ethan as a bit of a crybaby#esp before he got marill haha#he was a prime bully target too;but lyra always stuck up for him! she protecc her friend!#in this case however he tripped and fell because 2 pokemon knocked over him#they are very sorry too as you can see#oh and as for silver#i guess this is after (REDACTED) happened#or maybe during it#much later he finally (REDACTED) and spent some time (REDACTED)#and then later he finally decided he was going to steal a pokemon
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You know that trope where Person A thinks Person B is just being nice but they’re actually flirting. What about the opposite? Person A misreading their behavior and being the only one falling impossibly in love.
Clumsy in Love part 4
Eddie rubs his hands over his face and presses the heels of his palm into his eyes.
Im such a piece of shit. God, how could I just do that.
He’s pissed at Steve for not saying something sooner, for waiting until Eddie had something good in his grasp. But he’s angry with himself too.
How stupid is he, really? Did he really not notice until it all came face to face?
He has Adiel’s number memorized, but he knows which of Steve’s beauty marks form constellations.
Mostly, hes confused. His feelings are a jumbled mess and he’s never been good at sorting them out. Naturally, he turns to music. Dio has serenaded him these past few days. Wayne has steered clear of his shit show.
How do you feel right now?
What do you see?
Where would you be right now?
Hey angel what about me?
Jesus fucking fuck. He attempts to run his hand through his hair only it doesn’t get too far, rings snagged in his tangled hair. He can feel the oil built up on the strands and knows it’s time to get his ass out of bed. He doesn’t.
“Angel, Angel, angel. You were my angel. Just not anymore.” He mutters to himself long after the track has finished and another song plays. He’s learning to let go still, even after he’s ended it.
You know what really makes him feel like a dickhead? That Adiel got hurt because of him. He didn’t deserve to get caught in Eddie’s bullshit.
Guilt eats him alive.
His conscious hurts and his heart trembles, tumbled in his chest, but he doesn’t feel the heartbreak the way he should. That world-on-fire and breath burning feeling. He can’t find it.
Like a masochist he wants for it, desires it, deserves it like sinner.
Those last few weeks were enough for his feelings to settle, for his heart to make a decision with or without his input. He tried—god fuck I tried—to feel that skipped-beat flutter when Adiel smiled his way. Could almost convince himself he could. That Adiel’s interlocked hand in his still felt an extension of himself instead of something foreign.
It used to feel like I belonged at his side. Why did it have to stop?
He’s wronged a friend who trusted him to keep his heart safe. A friend who had already been through so much. And Eddie added to that lifetime of hurt because he couldn’t figure it out himself.
Because he was too stupid to see and too stupid to know.
He thinks of Steve’s lips, like he has now for days. Weeks. His heart twists, rung out. That skipped-beat flutter that betrays him.
Fuck. Fuck, man.
He has to stop yanking at his hair like he can train himself out of feeling it.
Do your demons, do they ever let you go?
When you've tried, do they hide, deep inside
Is it someone that you know?
You're just a picture, you're an image caught in time
We're a lie, you and I.
“I’m so fucking sorry,” he tells no one because he needs to say it until he can forgive himself a little. Until he can make himself believe that Adiel will forgive him, in time.
“I’m so sorry,” this time says it to himself, covers his face with his hands and finally cries.
Against his fucking will he cries, can’t hold onto it anymore. Ugly retching sobs that can only come from mourning an almost.
Finally, after days of like solitude, Wayne creeps in un-intrusive as a shadow. His hand on his shoulder may be the only thing that keeps Eddie from disappearing.
“I could’ve loved him, Wayne. I could’ve—I did. I think I fucking loved him and I didn’t know until—until I didn’t anymore. And then—and then I just couldn’t again.”
I wish he got to know that. That even for a short time, I had loved him.
Wayne, ever a man of few words, sits with him and lets him have his silence.
———
It’s a little over a month after that that Steve pays him a visit.
He’s smart enough to show up when Wayne isn’t home, looking sheepish as he shuffles on his front step. At least he has the gall to look him in the eyes.
All this is because of you, he thinks. His dark under eyes, his pallid skin. The rage in his blood. The almost that he had.
“Why are you here?” He looks taken aback, almost shrinks in on himself.
“I… the boys said that you, well.” Steve rubs the back of his neck, his hair longer than when Eddie last saw it. It slips through Steve’s fingers. “You never came by again and I wanted to see you. To talk? Can we talk? Can’t… can’t I come in?”
Having Steve in his home, in his space, is dangerous.
Those eyes are deep, soften by tired shadows.
“No,” his swallow is audible and steels himself, “Why should I want you in my home, Steve?”
Steve stands there lips parted and hands clenches at the bottom of his sweatshirt, eyes shined over. Eddie takes the chance to step forward. Everything inside him is too much.
“Don’t you understand what you did? I was happy. And you, fuck, you ruined it! Steve! You!” He out of the door way now and Steve steps back, back, back.
Steve’s face is red in shame. Eddie’s in anger. His pointed finger jabbed at his chest, accusing.
“You couldn’t just let me be happy? Why? Why did you kiss me, Steve? Why then? Was it because you couldn’t stand that I finally had someone? Say something!”
Steves eyes overflow, “Yes! I could stand it because I love you, asshole! I thought, I don’t know—I thought you loved me, too. Okay? Me. We both felt it—tell me you felt it too, Eddie? It wasn’t just me, right?
“You were everywhere and everything. You’d smile at me and it was the sun. So close, always right there and it was like we were—we were teetering on the edge of something amazing. And I was so happy, Eddie. So happy that day ‘cuz I thought, it was just us, right? Me and you. Just us. Together.
“But then you saw him and your weren’t even listening to me. You didn’t hear a word I said, did you? You only had eyes for him. You left me there and I didn’t know what to do with myself ‘cuz suddenly all you’d talk about was him. Every day and every minute we were together. After thinking, after thinking you loved me too.
That I had you.
So yes! Okay? I kissed you because I was selfish and I needed to know. I needed to know if any of it was real. If there really was nothing there.”
Steve’s breathing hard by the end of, words a wavering wet string of rawn vulnerable pulled out of his chest. He’s looking at the floor, hair covering his eyes, and shoulders trembling as he hiccups.
Then, everything feels still. Calm inside. For the first time in ages, Eddie feels like he can take a deep breath and not fall apart. He closes his eyes for a second and just breathes. The fight escapes him with the last breath.
“You ruined me, Steve. You ruined me in a way that even I didn’t understand. I didn’t know, not until that night, about how you felt. And I’m sorry if it was my fault, if I did and said things to make you feel that way, okay? But I didn’t… I didn’t feel that way about you. Not then. Not when you kissed me.”
“And now? Eddie? Do you… could you feel that way for me, now?”
“If it weren’t for you,” he begins, “Adiel and I… we could’ve had something great. But then you—and I— I couldn’t stop thinking about it. I wondered so much on why you kissed me that night, replaying every moment together, to see what you saw. And ended up feeling… feeling what you felt.”
He takes the chance to move forward the last bit of space to reach to him, have him look him in the eyes. Both of them mirror images of despair.
“You ruined me, Stevie. Everything was different. It wasn’t perfect anymore, I couldn’t make it perfect again. And I couldn’t be who I had been with Adiel knowing that I couldn’t find in me what we had before. That maybe, this has the chance of being something amazing, too.
I stopped seeing you everyday, so I saw you in everything. I stopped speaking to you, and you became the voice inside my head. It was maddening.”
Eddie laughs and wipes away the tears from Steve’s eyes, they fall faster when he smiles a weak and small but real thing.
“Adiel and I, we fit together; we were good together. But despite that, I didn’t want him anymore. I didn’t know why, I think I still don’t, but… I don’t need to know. I just need feel it, Stevie. And I feel it. I want this. Me and you. You have throughly ruined me, for anybody else.”
This time the kiss is different. It’s shared elation, wet and salty on the tongue, and clumsy as they try to fit into each other. Disappear in one another.
“Are you still mad?”
Those brown eyes don’t resemble gems of green, but they’re filled with incredible warmth and Eddie sees home in them,
Sees a life with them,
It’s own kind of precious.
And he laughs.
“So much, Stevie. I’m mad and heartbroken and falling jn love and happy and so so sure of us. I think, I think I still need some time, I’m really fucked—no, no, shouldn’t cry anymore,” he says as Steve’s face scrunches and it’s so unbelievably cute if he wasn’t blaming himself for it all.
“I just want to make sure I do this right this time. And if I, if I invite you in… I won’t be able to.”
Steve rests his forehead against his, there is heat between them, “But I have you, right?”
“Yeah, took me a while to figure it out but… yeah. Yes. You have me, Steve. God, and I have you. And tomorrow, tomorrow you’re going to come over and pick me up at 6 in the evening so we can eat shitty pancakes at the diner.
And then we’ll figure this out together.”
Part 3 <💛 End, thank you for reading and for all the feedback!
#so yeah they got some shit to work through but they’re all in baby!#the number of times I started writing it in on pov and then delete it for another pov and then again#but Eddie hadn’t had a turn to speak his truth so I think this was the right choice#a lot of dialogue in this one with is my Achilles heel 💀#might be another part depending how yall feel#or a short one shot of adiel finding happiness so so many of you felt for him#steddie#bee speaks#steddie headcanon#steddie prompt#steddie ficlet#steddie fic#steddie drabble#clumsy in love
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You can't tell me she wasn't the cool babysitter for at least some time
#Warning headcanon dump hahahah#megumi got into fights at middle school all the time and shoko was the one patching him up#he always called her ieiri because he's shy like that and shoko just always pinched his cheek for it#the mcdonnalds one is inspired by a fic called heartbreak soldiers disappointment junkies by bby_rabbit#just megumi telling gojo he's lonely and shoko snikering at that#also hc that tsumiki wants to become a doctor just like shoko#and on her graduation day in middle school shoko braided her hair#plus the kids saw shoko go though med school and she was such a bad influence lmao#but shoko also stopped smiking because she spent more time with the kids#and shoko knowing megumi in baby size and suddenly he gets a growth spurt and is taller then her#ugh my heart#there is not enough shoko & megumi fanart out there#listen#they are baby#shoko ieiri#gojo satoru#megumi fushigoro#tsumiki fushiguro#jjk#fanart#jujutsu kaisen#IPMSSA_FoundFamily!Fanart
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Full House
Day 29: Circus | Drabble Challenge 2024
CW: Levi x fem!reader, civilian!reader
A/N: Takes place in the same universe as Letters from the Other Side. Part of Drabble Challenge 2024.
It’s been six years since the Rumbling.
The Ackerman home feels full. A babbling child can be heard and the smell of something delicious wafts through the house.
“It’s like a damn circus in here,” Levi mutters, eyeing the toys scattered all over. His gaze shifts to the source of the babbling, but his expression softens as your daughter bursts into fits of giggles.
“Yeah, I look funny to you?” He picks her up, her hand meeting his scarred cheek with fascination.
You smile, hand resting on your pregnant stomach. “Dinner’s almost ready.”
Despite his grumbling stomach, Levi feels full.
#i headcanon that post war levi loves how pregnancy affects you#and there’s also the baby making process that levi loves :}#therefore i had to make him have baby number 2 :D#he’d probably have to stop himself after that though#otherwise you’d be pregnant all the time D:#no more babies!#levi ackerman#levi ackerman x reader#levi ackerman x fem!reader#post war!levi x reader#post war!levi x fem!reader#post war levi#dad levi#drabblechallenge2024#letters from the other side
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I believe it is time for Tumblr to know the truth... The truth about.. Cloak-less Siffrin
This is a headcanon design I made about what is hiding under their big ass cloak :)
Do not worry, I have so many more to share
#drawing#my art#art#digital art#fanart#isat fanart#isat siffrin#isat#in stars and time fanart#in stars and time siffrin#in stars and time#Cloakless Siffrin#fan design#headcanon#god how i love them#he's so damn handsome#lil baby silly cute baby person
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hey in ur peri animatic: (https://youtu.be/OCqlRuDaXYU?si=K52WDu_vw9rg7chz) that I have been permanently obsessed over since today and have watched about 20 times by now so much that I have drawn & posted stuff based on it what was that partial bug form peri had?
I haven’t watched either of the show btw so if it’s explained in the show please tell me plsssss
OK, SO the bug thing is not technically canon to the series. It's based on my own headcanons for fairy biology, but i do have justifications for it!! Fairies have very strong shape-shifting abilities, so it would make sense that the form they show to humans isn't necessarily their true form(not to mention extreme that mimicry is very common in insects). And you want to know the visible traits almost every fairy has in common? Being very small with Insect-like wings.
The fact that their humanoid form isn't their true form in actually confirmed in the show! Cosmo and Wanda are revealed to look like biblically accurate pseudo-angels in the museum episode. (I say pseudo angels because the Flaming Sword of Eden is only debatably sentient and I don't think is considered an angel. Ophanim are also debatably not angels because they don't have wings (sorry for the angel tangent I like angels))
So wouldn't their true forms be angelic then? Well, yes. But I like bugs so. Also I have more headcanons to justify myself. I like to think that they have both a true-true form (incomprehensible to the human brain, probably exists mostly in a dimension invisible to us, that looks how we imagine biblically accurate angels), and a fairy form (which is visible to humans but is naturally very insect like and tends to scare people). So, in order to interact with humans, they have to learn to shapeshift into a humanoid form but will occasionally slip if they get too relaxed/aren't careful, hence the mandibles coming out when he yawns!
The reason they struggle so much more with human forms than the animals or objects they typically turn into is that, well, they aren't trying to convince those animals or objects. The more human they try to look, the harder it is to keep up convincingly. If you turn into a really uncanny squirrel, only other squirrels will notice. If you turn into a really uncanny human, they form a lynch mob and burn you at the stake.
#fop#fairly oddparents#fairly oddparents a new wish#fop a new wish#headcanons#ok I think I said everything I wanted to#my brain has so many useless thoughts bouncing around in there#their bright colors would also imply that they are poisonous to eat#my personal theory is that Jorgen is half human idk how else to explain whatever he is. tall. no wings. that or he's something else entirel#maybe he's a higher rank of angel#fairies are definitely a type of angel in this world#but they don't seem to line up with any specific rank as far as I can tell#they behave most like I'd expect a Guardian angel to which could make Jorgen an Archangel or Principality#but Ophanims are in the first sphere of heaven which. uh I don't think it's right#to be clear I'm not even religious im just way too into angels#Uhhhh anyway I guess the moral of the story is that I did that just because I wanted to an because nobody could stop me#Actually Im just thinking about this now#I mostly drew baby poof without bug features to keep his design uncluttered visually#but fairies having naturally very human looking larva would explain how changelings happen#something something evolution. mutualism. those parasite birds. idk#ok im out of thoughts now seriously this time youre free now#speculative biology
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osaka police department's golden boy
#hattori heiji#baby heiji#dcmk fanart#dcmk#detective conan#my art#heiji was so proud about dragging his guests into a patrol car in that naniwa serial murder case <- MOE#in the end he is proud about his position as son of chief of police#and love to abuse it#headcanon: heiji visits tokyo on average 2 times a month so he needs at least 600 dollar of monthly allowance to achieve that#im not even counting kazuha yet... actually kazuha is much more insane. spending that much ticket just to tag along with heiji (and meet ra#additional moe point i want to convey if its not obvi: osaka PD originally call him heiji-kun before eventually adopting hei-chan
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