#panel is below the read more

[dummy-dot-exe]

by 結希シュシュ@ShushuYuki79

[crow-eyed-art]

some Harvey's from my sketchbook including a teeny tiny panel redraw

[aniseandspearmint]

Forget about giving a victorian child mountain dew or whatever, this should be your measure for having too delicate sensibilities

This right wing social media influencer and former prison worker went to Fetish Con and got so so scared in her first 20 minutes she left lmao 😱

[bishovapls]

Our Little One - I think you both need Daddy, hm?

Relationships: Natasha Romanoff & Wanda Maximoff & Reader

Summary: When Carol asks you out in front of Wanda, she snaps. She takes you home, desperate to claim you, to mark you, to own you. But it’s not just her bed you belong in, and when Natasha comes home to find you both absolutely lost in the scene, she makes one thing very clear: if you’re going to be ruined, it’ll be by both of them. Together.

Warnings: 18+, Mommy Kink, Daddy Kink, Age difference, Older WandaNat/Younger Reader, BDSM, Dom/Sub, Strap-on, fingering, Cunnilingus, Punishment (kind of), Safe word/gesture check-ins. Aftercare, but also idk if it counts because it happens, and then they start up again like the feral animals they are.

A/N: There was never meant to be a part two to this, but after a request from @tomy5girls, who am I to say no? I know this isn’t exactly what you asked for, I may have taken a few liberties and run with it a bit, but I hope you still enjoy it!

I think there’s enough context to catch you up on what’s going on, so you don't need to read part one. But if you want to, the first part is here.

As I mentioned last time, smut isn’t something I’ve written too much of before, but the reaction on here to the first part was crazy. Thank you, everyone, for being patient and supportive as I step a bit out of my comfort zone!

Word Count: 10,143

Anywaaays, sorry for the yapping. NSFW below the cut, you can also read on AO3.

The café was warm and quiet, with sunlight streaming through the windows and spilling across the wood-panelled floor. The clink of mugs and the occasional hiss of the espresso machine created a soft, rhythmic background hum, while indie music played quietly from the speakers overhead. You were tucked into your usual corner seat, your laptop open in front of you, a half-empty latte sitting forgotten beside it. Across from you, Carol was scrolling through the shared project document, her brow furrowed in concentration as she absorbed the final bits of the work.

It was your last study session with her. After two months of grafting, revisions, and back-and-forths, this was it. The project was finished. And you were proud of what you’d done together. The project was solid, clean, well-written, even a little brilliant. Maybe even an A.

Carol had been more than tolerable during the process. She was smart, dry in her humour, and easy to get along with. You’d laughed, found a rhythm, and she never made you feel stupid for missing something or needing more time. But that wasn’t what had your skin buzzing, you weren’t thinking about the project. Not really.

What had your attention was Wanda.

She moved around the café with quiet grace, her apron snug around her waist, hair clipped back but a few strands escaping to frame her face. She hadn’t looked directly at you for a while, but you could feel her eyes on you, her presence heavy in the air.

Every time Carol leaned in a little too close, every time she gestured to the screen or shifted in her seat, you felt Wanda’s gaze flicker over to the two of you. You could sense the tension in the room, even without looking up from your work.

Your girlfriends hadn’t approved of the arrangement from the very beginning. You’d tried to be reasonable, explaining how it was strictly academic, that Carol was nothing more than a project partner. You reassured them, over and over, but it never truly landed, not with either of them.

Wanda’s eyes would darken every time Carol’s name passed your lips, her jaw set just a little tighter. Her touch would change, no longer casual or gentle, but possessive. A hand curling firmly around your waist, or fingers digging into the softness of your thigh like a silent warning. 

And Natasha? Natasha didn’t say much. She didn’t have to. The shift in her body was enough, the rigid line of her spine, the way her mouth pressed into a tight, unreadable line. You’d catch the flick of her gaze, sharp and calculating, as though she were already cataloguing the best way to make Carol disappear.

You weren’t naïve. You knew what it looked like when they were on edge. And with Carol, they weren’t just on edge, they were poised, barely leashed. Jealousy burned hot in both of them, but it manifested differently. Wanda clung to you like you might slip through her fingers. Natasha watched like a predator, calm and still, but lethal just beneath the surface.

They didn’t trust Carol, not because she had done anything wrong yet, but because they knew how easy you were to be taken. They knew how easy you were to corrupt. After all...they’d done it first. They knew the way you softened under attention, how you craved approval. They knew exactly what it looked like.

And they weren’t about to let anyone else try.

—--

The first night you’d gone to Carol’s to work on the project, they’d summoned you to their place the moment it ended; it didn't matter that it was late, or that you had an early class the next morning. There hadn’t been a choice, and you obeyed, of course, you always did. Because when they gave you an order, it wasn’t a suggestion. 

You’d barely stepped through the door before Natasha had you pinned against it, the sharp click of the lock still echoing when her hand curled around your throat.

“Get undressed,” she had commanded, her voice low and steady, like it was taking everything in her not to snarl. “Mommy and Daddy need to see if anything’s been taken from us.”

And they’d checked everything. Every inch of your skin, your scent, your breath, your neck, your breasts…your thighs. Wanda had traced the inside of your legs with her fingers, like she could feel if anyone had dared to touch you. Natasha had knelt before you, her gaze laser-focused on your pussy. She stared as if trying to figure out whether you were still truly hers, before leaning in to taste, just to be certain.

Some might have called it toxic. Obsessive. Overbearing. But you’d discussed the boundaries long ago. This was part of it. You weren’t afraid of their jealousy.

You needed it.

Before them, you had been quiet. Ordinary. Invisible, almost. But now, with them, you were something worth claiming. Protected by two beautiful women who saw the world as full of thieves trying to steal what was theirs. And what was theirs was you.

Three sessions at Carol’s were all it took before they’d reached their limit. Every time you were at her apartment, they were climbing the walls back home, restless, pacing, barely keeping it together until you walked through the door and they could get their hands on you. 

You remember that conversation clearly. You were lying in bed, your skin still flushed, marked, every inch of you thoroughly inspected, claimed all over again. Wanda had been the one to speak, her tone deceptively gentle as she tucked herself beside you, fingers dragging slowly over your hip.

You had two options: Natasha could pull strings, lean on her department contacts, and get you reassigned to a new group entirely. Or you could keep working with Carol. But only under Wanda’s roof, in her café, where her eyes could stay on you the entire time.

You’d chosen the café. And now, when you came home, there was no need for the checks. No demand to strip or let them inspect you. Wanda could see everything. Every shift of your body, every glance. She knew, without asking. She always knew.

—--

Your thighs pressed together under the table as you thought about them. About the possessiveness, the way they made you feel like you were something to be desired, something that belonged to them. 

Carol was still talking, but you were still only half-listening, lost in the anticipation. Eventually, Carol’s voice broke through your thoughts, her tone softer than before. “Hey, I was wondering…if you wanted to keep seeing each other, even though the project is done?”

You stiffened, but you tried to remain casual. There was no way your girlfriends would allow this. You gave her an apologetic smile. “I’m sorry, Carol, I don’t think I can. But I’ll see you in Professor Romanoff’s lectures.”

Carol’s expression faltered, the corners of her mouth dipping into a subtle frown before she masked it with a casual, almost cocky smirk. “Why not?” she said, her voice dipping slightly, trying to sound playful. “We have chemistry, don’t we? We click, we laugh…Let me take you out. Just once.”

“I’m taken, you know that, Carol,” you said, keeping your voice steady, even as that familiar flicker of nervous energy crawled up your spine. And she did know, because Natasha and Wanda had made damn sure you’d told her. Had made it clear that you weren’t available. That you weren’t free to be taken.

Carol chuckled, but there was something more confident about her now, a playful lilt in her voice. “Oh, come on, baby. I bet I could treat you better. You haven’t even told me your girlfriend’s name. Can’t be that serious, can it?”

You wished you could’ve told her the truth, that the woman behind the counter was your girlfriend. That Wanda, along with Natasha, loved you in ways you’d never even known to dream about. 

That they touched you, ruined you, worshipped you, and made you feel things you didn’t think were possible. But you couldn’t. You couldn’t tell Carol that you belonged to Wanda, because everyone knew Wanda was Natasha’s wife. And if you were with Wanda…then you were with Natasha too. And that was a line you could not admit to crossing. Not without consequences.

The only time you were allowed to blur those lines was when the three of you escaped the city, trips to quiet towns or distant coasts where no one knew your names, where eyes didn’t linger and gossip didn’t follow. 

Or on rare nights when they brought you into their private circle, introduced you to the few friends who didn’t flinch at blurred boundaries. Friends who didn’t care that you were sleeping with your professor, only that Natasha’s smile came easier with you beside her, and Wanda’s eyes softened whenever you curled up in her lap like you belonged there. 

You’d gone quiet for too long, lost in the swirl of your thoughts, still reeling from Carol’s boldness and the weight of Wanda’s gaze. The sharp crack of glass hitting tile jolted you back to the present. Wanda had dropped the coffee pot, the sound slicing through the café like a warning bell. 

You looked up, and the moment your eyes met hers, you knew it hadn’t been an accident. The tightness in her jaw, the deliberate stillness of her posture, this was a message. A command. You scrambled to your feet without thinking, moving to her side as quickly as you could, heart thudding, because you understood exactly what she wanted: your attention, your obedience.

“I’ll, uh…I’ll text you, Carol,” you said quickly, kneeling to help Wanda clean up, the tension in your chest growing tighter.

Carol, unsurprised by your quick retreat, nodded as she picked up her bag. “Think about my offer, darling,” she said, flashing you a small, almost knowing smile before she left.

—--

Wanda was eerily silent as the two of you cleaned up the broken coffee pot, but the sharpness of her breath was impossible to ignore. Her hands trembled ever so slightly, and it was clear she was fighting something. Some dark desire that had taken root inside her, a simmering need she was trying to control.

You glanced quickly around, relief washing over you when you saw the place was clear. No one to witness whatever was about to unfold. You moved to the door, flipping the sign to closed as if marking the boundary between the world outside and whatever was waiting for you inside.

When you returned to kneel beside Wanda, paper towels in hand, the glass was in the bin, but her eyes were still fixed on the spill of coffee. Every inch of her body was taut, coiled, like a tightly wound spring ready to snap.

You wiped up the mess, taking extra care to get every last drop, even though you knew she wasn’t paying attention to that. She was watching you, studying every movement, every shift in your posture. You hesitated for just a moment, then whispered, "Mommy?"

Your voice came out softer than you intended, trembling slightly, betraying the nervous excitement that rushed through your veins. 

You knew exactly what kind of mood she was in. This wasn’t the woman who caressed you to sleep or soothed you with gentle words. This was the side of her that demanded everything and took what was hers with a force you could never deny.

She didn’t respond right away. The silence stretched, thick and oppressive, but you could see it, the tightening of her fist, the tension in her jaw. Wanda was struggling to hold herself together, not to give in to whatever force was swirling inside her. It was both terrifying and...thrilling.

"Mommy…I’m yours. All yours," you said, a little breathless, your words coming out almost like a plea. You needed her to hear you. To feel your devotion, your submission.

She finally looked up at you, and your breath caught in your throat. Her eyes were cold, unrecognisable. There was something in them that made your pulse spike, a jolt of fear curling low in your stomach. For the first time, you felt a rush of real fear, the kind that made your knees weak, and your breath shallow.

"Mommy, please…please," you whispered, your voice barely audible, a tremor in your words as your body reacted to the mix of fear and something else, the something inside you that wanted this, craved this. Loved this. 

Wanda’s voice broke the silence, low, smooth, and terrifyingly calm. "Get your things, little girl. We’re going home."

—

The drive back was consumed by an uncomfortable silence. You didn’t try to make conversation. Wanda’s presence in the driver’s seat seemed almost too quiet, but the energy she radiated spoke volumes.

Her hand said everything. It was firmly planted on your thigh, fingers gripping tight, the pressure almost unbearable. You swore you could feel her nails through the fabric of your jeans, a constant reminder of the simmering tension. 

The moment the car stopped and you stepped inside the house, the door barely clicking shut behind you, she was on you. Her body pressed into yours with a heat that knocked the breath from your lungs, pinning you against the door so firmly it rattled in its frame. 

Her lips found your neck immediately, and there was nothing soft about it. The first press of her mouth was hungry, almost desperate. She didn’t leave room for you to react, her lips closing around the sensitive skin of your throat, sucking hard, leaving a bruise in its wake. 

The sensation shot through your entire body, a mixture of heat and pleasure laced with a sharp twinge of pain that made you tremble.

Her hands were everywhere, gripping your hips, your waist, pulling you even closer. She was marking you, claiming you with each kiss, each bite. There was no hesitation, no gentleness, just raw possessiveness. 

She moved to the other side of your neck, the pace never slowing, her teeth grazing your skin, her lips locking onto every inch, every vulnerable spot she could find. You couldn’t escape it. You couldn’t even try.

She was determined to cover you in her marks. And she was succeeding.

Her hands slid up, cupping your face as she angled you just the way she wanted. You felt the sharp pull of her mouth once more, and this time it was even harder. She sucked at your neck until you moaned, the sound strangled as she left another mark, darker than the last. 

You couldn’t stop the shudder that wracked your body, couldn’t stop the way your knees threatened to buckle beneath you. 

She pulled away for a breath, her eyes narrowing as she studied you, searching for something that only she could see. “You didn’t defend me,” she whispered, her voice low, almost a growl. The words felt like a physical blow, and they twisted your stomach into knots. “She said she could treat you better…and you didn’t tell her otherwise.”

You swallowed, feeling the weight of her words sink in. Before you could respond, Wanda’s hands were on your shirt, ripping it from your body with a kind of frantic desperation. You gasped, her actions both shocking and thrilling in their intensity, leaving you breathless in more ways than one. Her lips found your collarbone in an instant, her bites sharp and insistent.

Your heart raced, your thoughts scattered in a whirlwind. “I…I got lost in my thoughts,” you finally managed to stutter, your voice trembling.

She paused, just for a moment, her eyes flicking up to meet yours, and the tension between you crackled in the space that remained. “Oh yeah? What were you thinking about?” she asked, her voice rough and demanding, as though she needed you to confess something.

You swallowed, the fear and excitement mixing into something potent. “You, Mommy,” you whispered, the words spilling out before you could stop them. “I was thinking about you.”

“Not her?” she growled, her lips brushing over your skin like she was tasting your response. “Your needy little pussy didn’t get wet at the thought of her taking you? Using you like the little whore you are?”

“No, Mommy,” you breathed, your voice shaky. “I was thinking about you and Daddy, how well you treat me, how good you make me feel.” You could feel the heat of her breath against your chest, her teeth scraping against your skin, each bite pulling you deeper into the tension that threatened to consume you both.

Her lips curled into a dark smile, but she didn’t say anything. Instead, she leaned in again, her mouth brushing against the raw, bruised skin. 

"You’re mine," she murmured, the words sending a thrill through you. "And I’ll remind you of that every chance I get."

You nodded quickly, your throat dry, the weight of Wanda’s gaze still heavy on you. She stepped back just enough to give you space to pass her, but the moment you moved, she was on you again. 

Her hand slid to the back of your neck, firm and unyielding, guiding you forward and up the stairs with a force that left no room for hesitation. 

When you finally reached the bedroom, she released her hold on your neck. You felt the absence immediately, the air growing colder without the heat of her touch. 

But before you could gather your thoughts, she spoke, her voice low, controlled, but still carrying that dark, possessive edge. “Strip."

The command was simple, but it sent a rush through you, a tight knot forming in your chest as you quickly obeyed.

You could feel her eyes on you, watching every movement as you undressed. And the second you were done, she spoke. "Get on the bed. Arms up, legs spread," she commanded, her voice dark and unwavering as she undressed too.

Once again, you complied, your body responding to her authority as if it had no choice.

She approached with measured steps, a quiet authority in every movement. Her hands were steady as they guided you into position on the bed. She took her time securing your limbs, each secured with practiced precision. 

Her fingers brushed over your skin afterward, double-checking each restraint, making sure you were held but never harmed. The care in her touch was unmistakable, control, yes, but wrapped in a kind of reverence.

Even in the grip of her possessive rage, Wanda was measured, deliberate. She ensured your safety with every touch, her care never faltering. 

Her eyes, which had burned with jealousy moments before, were now steady, focused, scanning you for any sign of discomfort. 

“Colour?” she asked, her voice quieter now, gentler but still laced with the simmering remnants of her earlier fury.

The weight of the scene clung to you, every nerve alight, every sense overwhelmed. But beneath it all was something deeper, trust, safety, the grounding memory of how careful she’d been. How her anger never once translated into recklessness. You loved this. All of it. Especially the way she’d handled you like something precious, even as she claimed you.

“Green, Mommy,” you said, clear and steady, no hesitation in your tone, only devotion.

Her lips curled into a small smile, dark and approving. “Good girl,” she whispered, the praise both soothing and possessive, before her eyes darkened again, the storm of her desires never far from the surface.

When she finally climbed over you, it wasn’t lust that drove her, it was obsession, a force bigger than her body, bigger than her fury, something relentless and consuming that had nothing to do with pleasure and everything to do with possession. 

Her fingers skimmed your sides, reverent but firm, her touch dragging goosebumps in its wake, and her eyes locked on yours, dark and unblinking, daring you to look away. 

Something about the way she held herself above you, barely restrained, seething with intent, made it impossible to breathe, and yet you didn’t want to move. You wanted this. You needed this.

And then she began again, just like downstairs, her mouth returning to your skin with a single-minded purpose. Her lips pressed against your collarbone, soft at first, almost deceiving, and then her teeth followed. 

You gasped, your back arching slightly off the bed, your fingers twitching uselessly against the restraints. Her touch ignited something low in your belly and high in your chest all at once. 

Another mark, lower now, then another just beneath it. Wanda was painting a story across your skin, one bruise at a time, and every single one echoed with the same word: Mine . 

The heat of her mouth was matched only by the fire burning inside you. When her teeth grazed just beneath your ribs, sharper this time, a heavy moan escaped you before you could stop it.

It trembled out of your throat, like your body was pleading for more even as it trembled under the weight of what it had already been given. 

Between every bite that still throbbed and the sting of the one currently being delivered, you could feel your cunt begin to ache. Soft whimpers slipped from your lips, your body aching to move, to beg, to chase more. But you didn’t. 

This wasn’t about your pleasure, not right now. Wanda needed this. She needed to mark you, to own you, to feel you give yourself over without asking for anything in return. So you offered her your stillness, your obedience, your surrender.

You caught her gaze again, her pupils blown wide, her breathing uneven, and for a flickering second, something shifted in her. Not softness. Not even calm. But relief. A raw, aching flash of gratitude that you were still here, still hers, still letting her claim you like this.

She leaned in again, slower this time, her lips dragging beneath your navel, warm breath ghosting across your skin, shaky, uneven, trembling with the weight of what she was holding back. “Mine,” she whispered, hoarse and low, like the word itself was a vow and a warning wrapped in longing. “Only mine.”

It wasn’t just a claim, it was Wanda pleading with the universe, needing to believe it. Needing to feel that she hadn’t lost you, that even in the wild, blurred aftermath of everything, you were still hers. Her hands gripped tighter, possessive, grounding herself in the feel of your body beneath her.

But beneath the burn of her touch, the worship in her voice, a flicker of something deeper pulled at you. Natasha. You knew you belonged to her, too. And yet Wanda didn’t speak her name. She didn’t leave space for her. Her world had narrowed until you were the only thing in it, and Natasha had been pushed outside it entirely.

You wanted to say it. You wanted to remind her. But the weight of Wanda’s devotion crushed your resistance, the sheer need in her pulling the words out of you before you could stop them.

“Yes, Mommy,” you whispered, voice shaky but sure. “Only yours.” Even as guilt curled warm and quiet in your stomach.

When she finally pulled back just enough to take you in, her eyes swept over her work like a woman on the edge of something unspoken. There was nothing untouched now, your neck, your chest, your hips, your stomach, your thighs, even your arms. Every inch bore her claim. Every inch screamed hers .

“So fucking pretty like this, printsessa (princess), ” she said, her breath hot against your thigh, her lips barely brushing the freshest mark, her voice ragged, torn from somewhere deep inside her chest. “Mine. All mine.”

You nodded instantly, your eyes wide and glassy. You could feel the ache she’d left behind, all over you, and you needed her to know you welcomed it. “I’m yours.”

Her smile returned, that slow, dangerous curl of her mouth that promised she was far from finished. “Say it again,” she murmured, her voice low and breathless, barely even a command this time, it was breathless and hungry, like she needed it to live.

“I’m yours,” you repeated, stronger now, even as your breath hitched, even as you squirmed beneath her.

She tilted her head, assessing, and you knew it wasn’t enough. Not yet. “Louder,” she commanded. 

You swallowed, your throat dry and tight, but you forced your voice through the tremble in your chest. “I’m yours, Mommy,” you said, louder now, loud enough to fill the room, to echo off the walls, to blot out everything else. “Only yours. Always.”

She must’ve been at least partially satisfied, because after one final glance at the marks she’d scattered across your body, she shifted, rising off you, and the loss of her weight made you whine, high and broken, a sound pulled from somewhere deep. 

Your skin felt too bare without her, your chest too open. Everything in you was aching now, not just with need but with dependency, your senses lit up and stretched tight, every inch of you focused on her. 

She had pulled you so far down into a space where nothing existed but her voice, her hands, her mouth, and now, without them, you felt unmoored, trembling. You needed her. You needed her. 

Her eyes caught yours, and for a moment, just a flicker, her gaze softened, something quieter slipping through the crack in her control. “Just going to the closet, Little one,” she murmured, her voice dipping into that gentler tone she only used when you were already falling apart. And even though the warmth in her voice was slightly forced, it was enough. 

She disappeared into the closet without another word, leaving you alone in the thick, buzzing quiet, your breath shaky, your body still thrumming with heat. When she returned, it was with her strap, a deep scarlet colour, the sight of it enough to make your breath hitch, and your mouth water, the anticipation knotting low and tight in your stomach. 

Your thighs shifted instinctively, trying to press together, to find even the smallest flicker of relief, but the restraints didn’t allow it, and your frustration only made the ache worse. Wanda noticed. Of course she noticed. Her eyes dropped to the movement, her gaze catching the way you writhed and failed to hide it. 

The smirk that curled across her lips was sharp and knowing, and in an instant, the softness was gone again. The Wanda who looked at you now was all shadow and fire again, dark and certain. The Wanda who would ruin you, just to put you back together again, mark by mark, breath by breath.

She crawled back onto the bed, her eyes locked on yours, hungry and unyielding. She moved between your legs and settled into place without hesitation. “Just stay still and let me use you,” she murmured, her voice low and controlled, but with that same simmering edge that had been there all night, that quiet storm of rage and want and need barely restrained. 

And then she buried her strap inside you, hard. No warning, no warm-up with her fingers, not even any gentle licks against your folds to get you ready. Nothing, as if she couldn’t bear to wait another second. As if being inside you is what gave her air to breathe. 

The sound that ripped from your throat was sharp, raw, somewhere between a cry and a scream. The stretch hit you like a wave, sudden and overwhelming, pain blooming fast and bright. 

For a heartbeat, it was too much. Your breath caught, your muscles tensed. But then, just as quickly as it came, the sharpness blurred, twisted into something hotter, something unbearable in an entirely different way. 

Wanda’s thrusts started slow, deliberate, and deep, her movements laced with restraint, but it was a fragile kind. 

But you could feel the tension winding tighter in her limbs, in the way her breath hitched, the way her jaw clenched. She was holding back, barely. She was trying to stay composed, to be gentle, or at least gentle enough, but it was written in every shaky inhale, every flicker of heat in her eyes that she was close to losing it, again. 

With every thrust, her desperation climbed higher, simmering just beneath her skin until it bled into everything she did. There were no soft praises, playful degradations, or the coaxing, honey-sweet lilt you’d come to expect; just raw, consuming need. 

Your body arched beneath her, straining hard against the restraints, every muscle taut, your thighs trembling with the effort of keeping up. You were gasping now, breath hitching in sharp, uneven bursts that never seemed enough, stolen too quickly as she thrusted again, deeper, rougher, like she couldn’t help herself.

“Such a pretty little fuck toy for me. Mine, my pretty whore, Mine,” she whispered the words into the crook of your neck as she sank into you again, barely audible over the thundering of your heartbeat and the rush of sensation unravelling you from the inside out. It didn’t even feel like she was speaking to you, more like a reminder to herself.

You whimpered, your hips twitching helplessly, straining for more. You had heard the word ‘mine’ more today than ever, and it hit something raw inside you, something so deep it felt like your soul reached out for her in response. Yes. You were hers. You wanted to be hers.

And then suddenly her rhythm shifted, less controlled, more frantic, every thrust and motion sharpened by her unraveling restraint. Her mouth was everywhere again, biting, branding, her lips dragging across your neck, your chest, down your stomach, as if she couldn’t decide where to leave the next mark.

Her hands tightened at your hips, fingers digging in with a bruising kind of need, anchoring herself to you like she might fall apart without the contact. She was slipping, further, faster, into that frenzy of need, of fury, of desperate, aching possessiveness that she'd tried so hard to cage since attaching the stap to her hips. 

But now with her cock slamming in and out of you, your moans and whines gracing her ears, it surged forward, unfiltered, dragging her under. You could feel it in the way she clung to you, in the way her breath hitched and her nails pressed harder. She wasn’t trying to hold back anymore.

And then she was chanting. “Mine. Mine. Mine. Mine.” Over and over again, like it was the only word she remembered, the only thing that mattered. She was barely even present now, barely aware of the room, of anything but you. 

Your entire body shook beneath her, your lungs struggling to keep up with the broken sobs and gasps that kept clawing their way out of your throat. Her voice was low, hoarse, and relentless as it poured over you like a spell, dragging you deeper under with every breathless repetition.

And you didn’t fight it. You couldn’t. You just let go, let yourself be hers. Be claimed. Be ruined.

—-

You had no idea how long it had been, but you were both so far gone you didn’t hear the door open, didn’t register the familiar creak of the floorboards or the call of “I’m home” echoing down the hall. Nothing existed beyond the frantic rhythm of Wanda’s body against yours, the relentless chant spilling from her mouth, her teeth grazing your skin, her hands branding you with every touch.

It wasn’t until you heard a sharp, animalistic growl, low and guttural, torn from Wanda’s throat, that your hazy focus shifted. Your eyes blinked sluggishly through the haze, breath catching, and when you managed to look past her, you saw Natasha standing in the doorway.

Her arms hung at her sides, her expression unreadable. But her eyes dragged over you like a blade. Every bruise, every mark Wanda had left behind, every shiver and tremble of your overstimulated body catalogued in a single glance. Her jaw clenched, the muscle ticking once, like she was biting back something sharp.

Wanda didn’t stop. Didn’t falter. She kept chanting under her breath, a broken, breathless litany of “mine, mine, mine” spilling from her lips like it was the only word left. She was lost in it, lost in you. Her hips were steady, relentless, as though Natasha’s presence didn’t even register.

But you felt it. The air went taut, almost brittle. Natasha’s silence carried weight, thick with jealousy, with hunger, with a cold, simmering possessiveness that was entirely her own. She stepped forward, slow and measured, her gaze locked on yours, and something inside you fluttered and clenched all at once. You didn’t know what she was going to do. Punish? Claim? Interrupt? Join?

And yet, even with her rage coiled under her skin, even with her dominance thrumming off her in waves, her first move was exactly what you needed.

She shifted to your side with quiet purpose, her presence grounding as she reached for one of the wrists Wanda had bound. Her fingers ghosted over the edge of the restraint with precision, double-checking its snugness. 

The tenderness of it made something flutter deep in your chest, a soft ache blooming in contrast to the intensity you’d been caught in. And then, without a word, she laced her fingers through yours, anchoring you with that simple, intimate gesture: A single squeeze.

Because no matter how tightly jealousy coiled in her gut, no matter how fiercely the hunger flickered in her eyes, Natasha’s instinct was always the same. 

Just like Wanda earlier, she put everything else aside, possession, dominance, the sharp edge of being left out, and she checked on you first. 

That was who they were. That was what it meant to belong to them. Your safety, your wellbeing, your headspace…All of it came before anything they might want for themselves. 

The squeeze said everything she needed to ask: Are you okay? Are you still with us? Do you feel safe?

She didn’t bother to use words. She knew you couldn’t answer like that, not now. Not with your mind fogged and your breath stuttering and your body twitching with every slam of Wanda’s hips. She could read it all, your eyes, your moans, the pitch of your breath. So you squeezed once in return. Green . 

She knew what that squeeze meant: Yes. I want this. I want her. I’m safe. And something else, less clear, buried beneath the rest. I want you too. I miss your hands. Your voice. 

Her body eased, just barely, the tension rolling back a single inch. But the hunger in her never dimmed. It sharpened instead, focused and precise as she looked back down at you, at the mess Wanda had made of you.

After a beat, Natasha’s focus finally shifted, her eyes dragging away from you and locking onto Wanda, taking in the sheer, unhinged desperation driving every thrust of the strap into your battered pussy. She saw it immediately, the way Wanda had spiralled, and Natasha knew it couldn’t go on like this. 

She moved without hesitation, stalking around the bed with quiet authority, climbing on behind Wanda, one hand fisting in her hair and yanking her back just enough to make her spine arch. “Yours, huh?” she bit out, voice low and edged with something dangerous. “Just yours?”

But Wanda didn’t falter. Didn’t even slow. She snarled the word like it was a war cry. “Mine.”

The scene throbbed with tension. Wanda was still pounding into you despite Natasha’s hold, her chant relentless. “What the hell happened?” Natasha asked, voice tight but controlled, like she was clinging to the last shred of calm.

You couldn’t speak, your mouth too slack, your body too gone, and Wanda didn’t answer either, not until Natasha gave another sharp tug, pulling harder, her tone slicing through the fog. “I said,” she growled, “what happened?”

Wanda whimpered, her breath catching like the question had torn through something raw. Her voice came in pieces, ragged and splintered, every word punctuated by a desperate thrust. “Carol. Tried. To. Take. What’s. Mine.”

Natasha’s gaze snapped back to you. It was cold and brimming with something territorial. You braced yourself, expecting her to descend with that same consuming intensity, to tear through Wanda’s marks and press her own into every inch of you until her claim was carved just as deep.

But she didn’t. The sharp edge dulled, tempered by understanding as her eyes swept over you and then her wife. 

Wanda wasn’t just fucking you. She was holding on for dear life. Natasha saw it clearly now, recognised it for what it was. Wanda had lost too many people, too many pieces of herself over the years. The fear of losing you had cracked her wide open.

Natasha could’ve taken what she wanted. Could’ve made her own claim in kind. But for now, instead, she exhaled, letting her dominant instinct soften just enough. You needed grounding, and Wanda needed pulling back. And Natasha would be the one to do it. Even if every part of her still ached to take.

She reached around, her hand locking firm around Wanda’s waist, stilling her movement with ease. “What’s ours,” she said evenly, the correction deliberate as her grip tightened. Wanda whined at the restraint, hips twitching against Natasha’s hold, and you whimpered too, aching at the loss of friction.

Wanda’s control began to splinter the moment Natasha kissed her, slow, grounding kisses against her cheek, tender in a way that cut through the haze like a balm. 

Her head lolled back against Natasha’s shoulder, her body still tense, but wavering now. “Do you need to safeword, Wands?” Natasha murmured against her skin, the calm, coaxing cadence unmistakable. “You seem... out of control, lyubov' (love). ”

Wanda shook her head, a near-frantic movement, “No! Need to cum, wanna cum!” Neither of you had cum yet despite how long it had gone on, despite the desperate grind and the bruising rhythm.

Hearing that desperate plea fall from Wanda’s lips while she held so much power over you felt dissonant, but it lit a fire in you all the same. She usually took what she wanted, came when she wanted, without a second thought, but now it was clear she was floundering. 

The scene had shaken her, and no matter how hard she had been trying, she couldn’t do it alone. That crack in her composure did something to you. It slipped under your skin, tangled in your chest, and before you could stop it, a moan fell from your lips, needy, involuntary, betraying just how much it affected you.

Natasha turned to you at the sound. “If she hasn’t,” she murmured, voice gentle now as her eyes found yours again, “then I’d wager you haven’t either, have you?” You shook your head, breath still coming in shallow bursts.

Something in her expression changed again the moment she realised you’d been holding back this entire time. The flicker of pride came first, swift and searing, lighting her eyes with approval. “Good girl,” she murmured, and the praise landed like a reward you didn’t know you’d been waiting for. 

But then her gaze gentled, the pride ebbing into something softer, sadder, closer to regret than triumph. Like she could see how much you’d given, how much you’d endured, and how long you’d waited. “I think you both need Daddy, hm?”

It wasn’t often that Wanda submitted to Natasha, twice, maybe three times since you’d all been together, and only ever when she wasn’t fully in control of her headspace, when she needed grounding but needed to continue. But Wanda nodded slowly, the fight draining out of her body as she leaned back into Natasha’s hold, surrendering.

Natasha’s hands moved, settling on Wanda’s hips, allowing her to move again but slowing her movements with firm, steady pressure. “That’s it,” she murmured low against Wanda’s ear, her voice soft but commanding. “She’s been so good for you, Detka (babe). Took everything you gave her, didn’t she?”

Wanda shuddered, still panting, still half-lost, but she nodded, her body giving into Natasha’s lead without resistance. 

Natasha kept her tone gentle, coaxing, like she was taming something raw and shaking. “How about you let her finish now, hm? Let her cum for us.”

Wanda didn’t speak, she didn’t need to. She just followed, pliant under Natasha’s hands, her breath catching as she thrust her hips in rhythm with the guidance she was given. And Natasha, her mouth brushing Wanda’s temple, praised her low and warm, “Good girl.”

Wanda whimpered at the praise, her body trembling and her mind still fogged with the frenzy that had consumed her, but Natasha’s presence gave her something to hold on to, something solid to ground herself against. 

You could feel the shift, the difference in how Wanda moved now. Her thrusts lost their wildness and turned into something more intimate, more focused, like she was being taught how to feel again.

And god, you felt it too. Every inch of it. Your breath stuttered, hips jerking involuntarily with each movement, your body already so close to the edge it ached. The pressure coiled tight in your core, a simmering burn that had been denied too long. Natasha’s eyes were on you, catching every flinch, every gasp, every tremble.

“She’s close,” Natasha murmured into Wanda’s hair, her voice rich with heat and reverence. “Can you feel that? I bet her cunt is so tight around your cock.” Wanda let out a broken moan and nodded, her pace faltering for a moment under the weight of Natasha’s words.

Natasha’s hand left Wanda’s and slid up to her throat, not choking, just holding, grounding, a firm reminder of presence, of who was in control.

Her other guided Wanda’s towards your clit, silently reminding her to provide the stimulation you needed, and it shattered you, the added touch stealing your breath as you cried out.

“That’s it,” she purred, low and commanding.. “Let us have it, Little one. Let go.”

And you did. It crashed into you like a wave, hard and fast and all-consuming. Your back arched, the restraints biting into your wrists as your body bowed under the force of your release. 

You screamed and whimpered, and they were both there, holding you through it, Wanda clinging to you like she could anchor herself to your pleasure, Natasha murmuring praise that bled into your skin like balm.

With Natasha’s guidance, Wanda stopped thrusting and began to grind, the base of the strap finally giving her the stimulation she needed. She came not long after you with a desperate sob, body trembling violently. Natasha’s voice, a blend of filthy praise and affection, slid into her ear, coaxing her through it. As Wanda’s body went limp, attempting to collapse against you, Natasha caught her effortlessly, aware of the soreness you’d likely feel.

Wanda whimpered at not being able to snuggle into you, and Natasha pressed a kiss to her temple. “She’s right here,” she murmured softly, before gently laying her down beside you. Wanda instinctively curled into you with a sigh, seeking the comfort of your warmth.

Natasha pressed another gentle kiss to the top of Wanda’s head before shifting her attention to you. Her movements were practiced, instinctive, and soft as she moved to unbuckle the restraint on your wrist.

The second the leather came loose, your arm dropped like dead weight, boneless and sore. Natasha caught it gently, guiding it to rest over Wanda’s back. You curled your fingers into her skin instinctively, craving the contact, the reassurance.

The other restraint came next, then your legs, Natasha working with slow, deliberate tenderness, her hands steady and reverent. Every time you winced, she soothed it with a murmur, a stroke over the inflamed area or a kiss.

Wanda wasn’t moving much now. She was pliant, completely surrendered, clinging to you with the last threads of adrenaline. Natasha knew that look, knew Wanda had dropped deep, and you weren’t far behind.

Her voice softened even further as she pulled the blanket up over both of you, tucking it around your bare limbs like armour. She leaned down, her hand brushing tenderly over your cheek, her thumb tracing the line of your jaw. “There’s our girl,” she whispered, her voice low and thick with pride. “You did so fucking well. Mommy really used you, huh?”

Your throat was too raw for words, your mind still floating in that hazy space between pleasure and exhaustion, but you nodded. 

Natasha kissed you once more before slipping away from the bed. You assumed she was going to get water, and you were right; she was back within seconds, moving with her usual calm efficiency. 

She guided your head gently, coaxing the glass to your lips until you took a few slow sips, then shifted to pry Wanda up just enough to do the same for her. Neither of you drank much, but it was enough to get you at least a bit hydrated.

Wanda exhaled, her breath hitching before she whispered, “Didn’t mean to lose it like that.” A pause, a stillness between you, broken only by her unsteady breathing. “Carol wanted you...said that...that she could...treat you better.”

Her voice cracked slightly, the words filled with vulnerability, and your chest tightened at the pain in them. 

Then her tone shifted, rising into a whine, hurt lacing her every syllable as she clung to you tighter. “She tried to take her from us, Nat,” Wanda whimpered, her eyes flicking to Natasha even as she clung to you like you were the only thing keeping her anchored.

Natasha’s jaw tensed, her eyes flicking up for a moment, but she said nothing. Instead, she settled in behind Wanda, wrapping herself around her wife like a shield. Usually, you were in the middle, the one cocooned in their arms, but it was clear Wanda needed that security now. 

Natasha began to stroke her hand gently over Wanda’s spine, her touch slow and comforting. She didn’t forget you either, though. Her other hand reached across the space to where your wrist was still faintly marked, fingers brushing the bruised skin in slow, soothing circles.

Time passed in a slow, syrupy kind of stillness, thick with warmth and the quiet hum of three heartbeats finding their way back into sync. Wanda lay curled against your side, her face pressed into your collarbone like she could disappear into you, her breath evening out in slow pulls that softened with each minute. 

You felt the shift in her, how the tension bled out of her muscles with every exhale, how her fingers that had clutched you with bruising desperation earlier now merely rested, featherlight and unmoving.

Natasha’s hand never stopped. She trailed her fingers lazily up and down your arm, over Wanda’s spine, keeping you both tethered to the present. 

Eventually, Wanda stirred. Not much, just a shift in how her legs tangled with yours, a blink that stretched long enough to signal she’d returned to herself. She looked up at you, her cheeks still pink, her hair tousled from earlier. But her eyes, they were clearer. Worry creeping back in.

“You okay?” she asked, her voice hushed. Her gaze scanned your face like she expected to find something broken.

You gave her a tired, lopsided smile. “Course I am. I don’t break that easily,” you said with a wink, even if your voice was still a bit scratchy from earlier. 

She looked relieved. Kissed your forehead, then your nose, then your lips, a soft, fluttering press that made you giggle as her breath brushed against your skin. “Good,” she whispered against your mouth, and you could feel the last of her tension ebb as she rested her head against your shoulder again.

“Alright,” Natasha said eventually, propping herself up on one elbow and glancing down at you both, her voice light but edged with unmistakable command. “Time to soothe those marks, you must be sore, hm?”

You groaned immediately, flopping back onto the pillow. “Do we have to?” you whined, dragging out the syllables like a sulking child. “Can’t we just stay here? Forever?”

Wanda let out a sympathetic sound and buried her face back in your chest for a second. “She has a point…”

Natasha raised an unimpressed eyebrow. “You two are impossible. Yes, we have to. Wands, you went feral. She's covered in bruises and bites.”

You couldn’t help but laugh, even as you rolled your eyes. “You make it sound like she mauled me.”

Natasha sat up straighter, grabbing the lotion bottle off the nightstand. “She did maul you. Look at this—” She tugged the sheet down just enough to expose your chest, your stomach, the inside of your thighs. The marks were everywhere, hickeys darkening by the minute, deep, vivid bursts of colour in the shape of Wanda’s mouth. “You’re a goddamn work of art. Or a crime scene.”

Wanda peeked down at your skin and let out a low, sheepish laugh. “Oops.”

“‘Oops,’” Natasha repeated dryly, her tone somewhere between fond and chastising. She gave Wanda a light nudge with her shoulder. “You’re lucky she likes being ruined.”

“I love being ruined,” you chimed in helpfully, grinning as both their eyes snapped to you with matching looks of exasperated affection.

Wanda leaned down and nuzzled your jaw, her voice a little lower now, velvet-soft and sincere. “I do still feel bad. I got...swept up. Possessive. Jealous. Like I had to prove something. I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

“I know,” you said gently. “And you didn’t. I promise.”

Still, she dipped her fingers into the lotion and rubbed them together slowly to warm it, her movements suddenly careful. She started at your wrists, your poor, bruised wrists where the restraints had bitten deep, and touched you like she was handling something sacred. Her fingers glided over your skin in slow circles, whispering apologies into every motion. 

Natasha joined in a moment later, taking your other side. She pushed the sheets down further, exposing more of your bruised body to the soft lighting, and began to work the balm into your sore muscles. Their hands moved over you in tandem, smoothing across the worst of the bruises, ghosting over the places that still burned faintly from overstimulation.

And for a while, no one spoke. The only sounds were your soft sighs, the quiet slick of lotion on skin, the muted creak of the bed as they shifted around you.

Once they were done, Natasha glanced down at your neck and snorted. “There is no way you’re going to college looking like this,” she said with a laugh, dragging a fingertip lightly over a particularly brutal hickey under your jaw. “You look like you tried to join a vampire cult.”

You snorted softly, still squirming beneath their slow, soothing touches. “If Wanda were a vampire, I’d definitely let her bite me.”

You thought it was harmless. Wanda certainly looked pleased. Her eyes glinted, teeth flashing as she leaned close again, brushing her lips along your throat. "Careful," she breathed, her voice low and smooth, “I might take you up on that.”

A shiver ran through you at the sound, your breath hitching as her words sank in, stirring something deep inside. Your body responded without hesitation, already aching, already yearning for more despite the evening you’d already had. 

And just like that, Natasha froze, her eyes locking onto Wanda, as she once again threatened to claim. But now, as she saw the way you were reacting, the way you were craving more, Natasha’s restraint faltered. It was different from before. You were ready, and that knowledge twisted something deep inside her, making it harder to hold herself back.

“I better be allowed to bite too,” Natasha murmured, her voice low and simmering with tension. It wasn’t loud, but it had a sharp edge to it, a warning wrapped in something darker. “You’re lucky I’m not already. Wanda stole you, made you hers, and hers alone.”

You opened your mouth to speak, to deny it, but she was already moving. Her fingers left your skin only long enough to catch Wanda’s chin in a firm grip, tilting her face up, forcing her to meet her eyes.

“You ever forget that she is ours again,” Natasha said, quiet and razor-sharp, “you will regret it.”

Wanda swallowed hard, the flush on her cheeks deepening, her pupils dilating wide as she whimpered under Natasha’s hold. Her legs squeezed together as if that could do anything to stop the ache building between them. Her body instinctively allowed Natasha to take the lead again, as if it knew that was what Natasha needed. She nodded once, quickly. “Yes, Nat.” 

“Good girl,” Natasha praised, brushing her thumb across Wanda’s cheek with maddening softness. But she didn’t let go. “You don’t get to take her like that without me, ever.”

She finally released her chin and turned back to you, eyes darker now, warmer, but hungrier.

“And you,” she murmured, smoothing both palms down your sides, fingers slipping over your hips and between your legs, “you were very good letting Wanda use you, weren’t you? Letting her get drunk on jealousy and ruin your pretty little pussy without even thinking to let me join.”

You gasped as her fingers brushed over your slick again, slow and unhurried. You were soaked already. Every part of you felt raw and needy, but Natasha was in no rush.

“But you are ours,” she said, sliding two fingers through your folds, not yet pressing in, just letting you feel the threat of it, “Ours .”

Wanda let out a soft, broken noise, eyes fixed on where Natasha’s hand was between your legs. Her hand moved as she was about to reach for you, but Natasha caught the movement without even looking.

“Don’t you dare touch her,” she said, like it wasn’t up for debate. “You don’t get to help until I say so. You had your fun.”

Wanda whimpered, chest rising and falling fast, her cheeks glowing with shame and lust.

Natasha finally slipped a finger inside you, slow and shallow, barely enough to satisfy, but your back still arched up from the mattress. Her other hand splayed across your hip, holding you still.

“You’re so fucking wet,” she murmured with a smirk, leaning down to kiss your inner thigh. “You like this, don’t you? Being good for us. Letting her make a mess of you, and then letting me put you back together.”

Wanda’s breath caught as she watched, her hands fisting in the sheets beside her thighs. “Natasha—”

“Shh,” Natasha interrupted. “You don’t get to speak unless I tell you to either.”

You whimpered at the sound of Wanda’s submission, it added fuel to the fire burning through you. Natasha added a second finger, pressing deep this time, and you cried out, your whole body tensing around her.

“That’s it,” she cooed. “Such a good girl. Ours. Not hers. Never just hers.”

You nodded frantically, brain already fogging under the slow, relentless pace. “Yours, yours, yours. Daddy, please!”

Natasha smiled, pleased, eyes gleaming as she leaned in to kiss your jaw, your ear, her tongue darting out to taste the sweat there. 

Wanda’s hands were trembling as she watched, the heat between her thighs unbearable. She couldn’t stand the fact that she had to watch.

Each sob, wail, moan, and sigh that left your lips only deepened the ache in her chest, reminding her of what she had done, of how she had left Natasha out when she should have known better. 

It was the perfect punishment, but Wanda couldn’t help but try her luck again. “Please, Nat,” Wanda whispered, her voice thick with need and desperation. “Please let me—”

Natasha turned her head, eyes flashing. “No,” she said simply. “Not yet. You want her? You earn it. You wait.” 

And then she curled her fingers just right, again and again, dragging you higher with each pass, her thumb barely brushing your clit until you were trembling, too far gone to do anything but moan.

The room pulsed with the sound of your breathing, with your soft cries and the wet sound of her hand moving in and out of your cunt. Every stroke, every whispered word sent a rush of heat through you, the world narrowing to nothing but the feeling of her fingers inside you. 

Even as the waves of pleasure crashed over you, Natasha never let up. Her movements were unrelenting, rhythmic, a steady push and pull that kept you coming without giving you so much as a chance to truly catch your breath. 

You didn’t know how many times you’d screamed in release, each one blurred into the next, an unending rhythm that left you gasping, skin slick with sweat, your body trembling under her control.

Eventually her pace slowed, and your eyes fluttered open, the world around you a haze of soft light and warmth. You turned your head slightly, and your gaze found Wanda. Her eyes were wide, her breath equally as erratic. She was flushed and panting like she’d been the one writhing beneath Natasha’s hand.

“God, look at you,” Natasha murmured, eyes still on you, even as she addressed Wanda. “So fucking needy, you only had her an hour ago. Pathetic.”

Wanda whimpered as her hands twitched again, and this time, she couldn’t resist; she reached out, just enough to brush her fingertips against Natasha’s arm. “Please,” she begged again, her voice barely a whisper, but it was a plea nonetheless. 

“Fine, but only because I’m generous,” Natasha murmured as she kissed your temple, and then your cheek, her fingers never stopping. “I’m not cruel. I share.”

She tilted her head, her gaze soft yet commanding as she finally looked over at Wanda. “You want to taste her?” Natasha’s voice was low, deliberate, as if she already knew the answer.

Wanda's breath hitched at the words, her entire body tense with yearning. Her eyes flicked to Natasha, wide and pleading, before they dropped to you. 

Your skin was glistening with sweat, your chest rising and falling in the haze of pleasure still swirling through you. She nodded, the movement almost frantic, her voice trembling with need. “Yes, yes, please, Nat! I want to please!”

Natasha’s lips quirked into a small, wicked smile, a brief flicker of satisfaction passing across her face before she leaned down, her kiss slow and deep. It was a kiss that said she was still in control, even if she was letting Wanda in. She pulled away just enough to speak, “Then come here.”

Unlike her usual poised self, Wanda wasn’t graceful as she moved, urgency in her every motion. The moment she reached your legs, her gaze lifted, her eyes locking with Natasha's. 

Natasha moved her hand, slowly, so slowly from between your folds, her fingers glistening with your cum. “Open your mouth.”

Wanda obeyed. Natasha pressed two fingers past her lips, watching her take them in eagerly, greedily. 

“Good girl,” Natasha praised, eyes softening just a little. “Now you can touch her. You can thank her. And you can show her just how sorry you are.”

She shifted to one side, but not far, not giving up control, just…allowing space. Letting Wanda kneel between your legs, hands shaking as she lowered her head.

Wanda’s tongue slid over your folds and your clit gently before diving in fully, like a woman starved. It was as if the act of watching had only intensified her need, making it raw and undeniable despite the fact that she had already claimed you so thoroughly. 

“That’s it,” Natasha murmured, stroking your stomach, watching Wanda devour you. “She’s ours. Not yours. Not mine. Ours.”

Her hand slid up to cup your breast, squeezing gently, her thumb brushing over your nipple, squeezing and teasing in perfect time with Wanda’s mouth. 

Every touch sent waves through you, every whisper tangled around your spine. Natasha’s voice wrapped around you, her praise both tender and unrelenting, while Wanda’s lips and hands moved like a vow, her remorse bleeding into every lick and every suck as she drank you dry, bringing you closer and closer.

You couldn’t hold yourself together. The intimacy, the intensity, it was too much. You splintered under it, unravelled into the space between their bodies, between their worship and their claim. And this time, when you broke, it wasn’t just your body giving in. It was your heart, your trust, your submission. 

And through it all, Natasha's voice, low and reverent at your ear, became the centre of everything, grounding you even as you soared.

“That’s it, Little one,” she murmured, almost like a prayer. “That’s what you needed. That’s what we give you, together.”

[vadlings]

Represention of Autistic Frustration in Laios Dungeon Meshi

Like many other autistic people, I related strongly to Laios Touden while reading Dungeon Meshi. This post isn't going to spend time disputing whether he displays autistic traits or not—while I could do that, I want to focus on why specifically his portrayal struck a chord with me in a way the writing of most other autistic-coded characters has not.

Disclaimer: as the above suggests, this post is strongly informed by my own experiences as an autistic person, as well as the experiences of my neurodivergent friends with whom I have spoken about this subject. I want to clarify that in no way am I asserting my personal experience to be some Universal Autistic Experience. This post is about why Laios' character feels distinct and significant to me in regard to autistic representation, and while I'm at it, I do feel that I have interesting things to say about autistic representation in media generally. This also got a bit long, so I'm sticking it under a read more. Spoilers for up to the end of chapter 88 below.

The thing that stands out most to me in regard to Laios' characterisation is the open anger he displays when someone points out his inability to read other people. This comes up prominently in his interactions with "Shuro" (Toshiro Nakamoto):

The frustration pictured above (Laios continuing to physically tussle with Toshiro, using crude language toward him) becomes even more notable when you remember that this is Laios, who, outside of these interactions, is not easily fazed and often exists as a lighthearted contrast to the rest of the cast. Then we get to Laios' nightmare.

In Falin's words: "Nightmares love emotional wounds. Wounds you hold in your heart. Things that give you stress, or things that were traumatic for you. They aggravate memories like that and cause the dreamer to have terrible dreams." (chapter 42, page 10.) (damn. i'm properly citing for this post and everything.)

Thus, Laios' nightmare establishes an important fact: even if he is unable to recognise social blunders while he's making them, he's at least subconsciously aware that other people operate on a different wavelength to him, and that he's an outsider in many of his social circles (both past and present). His dream-father's disparaging words stress the impact this has had upon his ability to live up to the expectations set out for him, and we also get a panel of kids who smirk at him (presumably former bullies to some degree). Toshiro's appearance only hammers home how much Laios is still both humiliated and angered by his misunderstanding of their relationship.

I've thought a lot about anger as concomitant to the autistic experience. When autistic representation portrays ostracization, it's generally from an angle of the autistic character being upset at how conforming to neurotypical norms doesn't come easily to them; as a result, they express a desire to 'get better' at meeting neurotypical standards, a desire to become more 'normal' (whether the writing implies this is a good thing or not). In contrast, not once does Laios go, "I need to perform better in my social interactions, and try to care less about monsters, because that's what other people find weird." His frustration is directed outward rather than inward, and as a result, it's the people around him who are framed as nonsensical.

The Winged Lion starts delineating Laios' anger, and Laios' reaction is to think to himself, "It can sense all my thoughts, huh?" (chapter 88, page 16.) This is the scene that really resonated with me. I'm not saying I have never felt the desire to conform to neurotypical norms that is borne from insecurity, but primarily, I know that I don't want to work toward becoming 'normal'—I don't want to change myself for people who follow rules I find nonsensical. It's the difference between, "Oh god, why can't I get it," and, "WHY CAN'T YOU GET IT?" (phrasing here courtesy of my friend Miles @dogwoodbite). And for me personally, Dungeon Meshi is the first time I've seen this frustration and the resultant voluntary isolation from other people portrayed in media so candidly. Laios' anger is not downplayed or written to be easily palatable, either.

The culmination of Laios' frustrations in this scene wherein we learn that Laios has fantasised about "a pack of monsters attacking a village" drives home just how alienated he really feels. I need not go into his wish to become a monster himself, redolent of how many autistic people identify/have identified with non-humans to some degree as a result of a percieved disconnect from society (when I was younger, I wanted to be a robot. I still kind of do.)

Obviously, wishing death upon other people is a weighty thing, but the unfiltered nature of this page is what deeply resonated with me. The Winged Lion is laying Laios' deepest and most transgressive desires bare, and they are desires that are a product of lifelong ostracization by others (whether intentional or unintentional). This is the brand of anger I'm familiar with, and that my neurodivergent friends express being familiar with, but that I haven't seen portrayed in writing so explicitly before—in fact, it surprised me because most well-meaning autistic representation I've experienced veers toward infantilisation in trying make the autistic character's struggles easy for neurotypicals to sympathise with.

Let's also not neglect the symbolism inherent to Laios' daydream. "A pack of monsters attacking a village". Functionally, monsters are Laios' special interest—he percieves everything first and foremost through his passion for monsters. His daydream of monsters attacking—killing—humans, is fundamentally a daydream of the world he understands (monsters) overthrowing the world that is so illogical to him, that has repeatedly shunned him (other people). I joked to my friends that it's an autistic power fantasy, and it actually sort of is. And in it, his identity is aligned with that of the monsters, while his anger manifests in a palpable dissociation from the rest of humanity. This is one manga page. It's brief. It's also very, very raw to me. I think about it often.

To conclude, I love Laios Dungeon Meshi. This portrayal of open frustration in an autistic character meant a lot to me, and I hope I've sufficiently outlined why. Also, feel free to recommend media with autistic representation in the notes if you've read this far—I would really like to see if there is more of this nature. Thank you for reading. I'm very tired and should probably sleep now.

[lynxgriffin]

Eldritchrune - The World Revolving

1 | 2

Story Setup Eldritchrune Masterpost

While exploring the ruins of Card Castle, Kris stumbles across a bound god of chaos hiding just under the surface...a foe way more formidable than any they've faced yet!

PHEW I swear, it feels like I've been working on this particular scene forever! Been distracted by many things...other comics, continued wrist troubles, winter break, etc... but finally, it's done and here! This one is probably the most gnarly one yet in terms of body horror, so heed the warning tags!

The latter half will be out tomorrow!

Alt text for these pages is under the read more:

Page 1

Panel 1 - A wide shot as Kris, Ralsei, and Susie make their way through the card kingdom castle…a wrecked ruin, with half-broken towers and ripped banners fluttering in the open air. Lancer sits happily on top of Susie’s head. “Are we there yet?” asks Susie. Lancer replies with a simple “No.”

Panel 2 - Closer on Kris as they look downwards. Something has caught their attention. In the background, Susie and Lancer repeat the exchange: “Are we there yet?” / “No.”

Panel 3 - Kris notices what looks like a trail of parchment torn into different shapes, leading down into a lower level of the ruins. 

Panel 4 - Kris begins to follow the scrap paper trail across large stones, straying off of the pain path through the castle ruins.

Panel 5 - Ralsei notices that Kris has wandered away from them. Susie and Lancer also look on in the background. “Kris? Where are you going?” asks Ralsei.

Panel 6 - Kris points at the scrap trail leading down into the rocks, still focused on it. “The old shopkeep, Seam…they mentioned something about a path cut from pages…”

Page 2

Panel 1 - Side view of Ralsei as he watches Kris descend down, and cautiously holds up a hand in warning. “It’s not wise to wander too far off-course, Kris!” he says. 

Panel 2 - Kris doesn’t seem to pay attention to the warning. In a wide shot, we see them following the trail down a series of large stone steps that seem to be shaped into a spiral. At the bottom of the spiral is another stone with unknown markings on it. “They said there could be something useful to us at the end of it…” Kris says.

Panel 3 - Wider shot of Kris now at the bottom of the spiral. Ralsei, Susie and Lancer watch warily from above, back on the main path.

Panel 4 - Kris approaches the stone at the center of the spiral. It seems to be covered in moss, but something else catches their attention first–

Panel 5 - Closer on the stone, it shows that it has markings on it: a cross, divided up into the four card suits. Kris leans in closer to observe and brush the dirt from the stone. “There’s something here…” they say.

Panel 6 - From high above, Ralsei sees Kris focusing on the stone in the spiral. “Kris? Hang on just a second…” he says, holding out a hand in warning.

Panel 7 - Closeup on Kris’s hand as they brush against the marked stone. Their thumb touches a trigger hidden on the side of the stone, which gives a sharp ‘CLICK’.

Page 3

Panel 1 - Kris lets out a surprised yell as very suddenly, they plummet down beneath the stone–

Panel 2 - Their yell continues as they vanish into what is revealed to be a sudden trap door, opened right below where they were standing. 

Panel 3 - The remaining Fun Gang look on with shock and surprise, and call out as Kris vanishes. Susie gives a shocked “Woah!” and Ralsei cries out “KRIS!”

Panel 4 - A vertical panel as Kris plummets down into open darkness, their limbs flailing. Light from above shines on them as they fall.

Panel 5 - With a grunt of pain, Kris lands on what appears to be a sandy hill–

Panel 6 - And continues to tumble down the hill, sand trailing behind them–

Panel 7 - Very wide shot as Kris’s fall continues, showing that they are sliding down an enormous sand hill, like the inside of an enormous hourglass. Only a single shaft of light shines from where they fell. Otherwise the area is empty darkness.

Page 4

Panel 1 - Kris’s finally slides to a stop somewhere in the sand. They grit their teeth, and try to get back onto their feet. 

Panel 2 - Kris suddenly springs back up, eyes wide in shock, as a strange, bellowing laughter booms around them: “UUH HEE HEE HEE…”

Panel 3 - Kris looks ahead of them…at the very bottom of the sand pit, like an antlion at the bottom of a pit trap, sits what appears to be a bulb, or a closed circus tent. 

Panel 4 - Wider shot as Kris gets to their feet, very wary. “Who’s there?”

Panel 5/6/7 - Multiple panels as the enormous circus tent moves, and begins to unfurl itself…showing massive hands made of bone and stretched tent material, like sinewy skin. Each bony finger is tipped with an enormous scythe. The creature lifts itself up enough to show the a jester’s head, hanging upside down from the bottom of the tent. The jester’s face sports slit eyes, multiple hoop earrings on its pointed ears, and a smile of jagged teeth. 

Panel 8 - Wide shot as Kris stands tiny before the enormous form of Jevil - a creature of bones and tent skin and scythes, balanced precariously upside-down over what appears to be a bottomless pit. Jevil looks at Kris and declares, “WELCOME, WELCOME, LITTLE LOST HUMAN! YOUR FREEDOM IS WITHIN REACH!”

Page 5

Panel 1 - Kris looks up in fear and confusion at the giant creature, and tries to step back. “What are you?!” they ask.

Panel 2 - Focus on Jevil’s upside down face as he grins back at Kris, and says, “A GOD, LOST HUMAN! A GOD OF CHAOS, CHAOS!”

Panel 3 - Kris stands small against the chaos god as he continues to grin down them. “COME CLOSER, AND WE SHALL ENGAGE IN SUCH MERRIMENT!”

Panel 4 - Kris eyes the enormous scythes at the end of the fingers, and continues to step back, extremely cautious. “A god, is it? I think I’d prefer the rest of my party be here for any ‘merriment’,” they reply.

Panel 5 - Jevil twists his head to the side with curiosity and glee, and replies. “I INSIST! I SEE YOUR SOUL DESIRES CHAOS! WHAT EXCITEMENT, WE ARE KINDRED SPIRITS!”

Panel 6 - Focus on Jevil’s scythe fingers as they begin to move through the sand, creaking with the effort. He is beginning to spin.

Panel 7 - Shot from above on Jevil as he spins faster and faster, the tent body and splayed scythe fingers blurring into a hypnotic spiral. The wind howls around him with the spinning.

Panel 8 - Kris jolts forward as the winds pick up around them. The spinning is creating a gyre, drawing them in closer.

Page 6

Panel 1 - Kris tries to slow their slide as Jevil continues to spin and spin, drawing them in closer. The winds and movement are hard to resist. “LET US PLAY, PLAY!” Jevil cries in delight. “TRUE FREEDOM AWAITS YOU!”

Panel 2 - Kris looks up at the revolving god, unable to stop their slide through the sand. The winds whip their hair and cowl around them. However…

Panel 3 - “If I can get past those blades and make the jump…” Kris thinks to themself, as the scene shows Jevil’s smiling face through the whirlwinds.

Panel 4 - Closeup on Kris. They grimace to themself as the wind continues to buffet them and pull them in, and finish the thought: “...One good swing should sever the head and end this!”

Panel 5 - Kris pulls out their sword as they continue to slide closer to the edge of the gyre. Jevil looks on as they say aloud, “I don’t know that I trust a bound god’s concept of freedom.”

Panel 6 - Jevil tilts his head down at them, still smiling as always, and replies, “BOO HOO  HOOEE HEE! AND DOES YOUR SOUL KNOW IT?”

Page 7

Panel 1/2/3 - Multiple panels as Kris slides down the sand, holding their sword at the ready. They ready their sword in another panel, back to the camera, facing down a laughing Jevil. The final panel includes a closeup of their hand gripping the sword, although their hand is shaking. Across all panels, Jevil continues to taunt them: “IN THE BELLY OF A ROAMING BEAST, IN THE OWNERSHIP OF A DEMON PRINCE, IN THE RIGID RULES OF YOUR LIGHT WORLD? IS IT THERE?”

Panel 4 -  The scythe fingers swing by in a blur as Kris slides into the gyre, and pulls their arm back, ready to strike with their sword–

Panel 5 - A black and white abstract panel - something sharp slices through the darkness, and strikes home.

Panel 6 - Closeup on Kris’s face as they look shocked into silence–

Panel 7 - And the camera pulls out to reveal that their sword arm is gone, sliced off completely at the shoulder. They can only look down at the stump where their arm once was in horror.

Panel 8 - Kris screams as they’re thrown helplessly into the center of the whirling gyre, blood streaming behind them from their severed arm. Jevil faces them with glee and declares, “NO, NO! YOUR FREEDOM IS HERE!”

Page 8

Panel 1 - The panels are jagged now, coming apart along with the world itself. Kris is trapped in the searing whirlwind, orbiting around Jevil’s spinning head. The world is a blurred tornado. Jevil cries, “A SIMPLE CHAOS IS ALL YOU NEED! UNRAVEL MIND, BODY AND SOUL!”

Panel 2 - Kris is subjected to the god’s command. They scream into the void as their body is unraveled in the gyre, starting at the stump and spreading out to the rest of them in strips of cloth, flesh and bone. 

Panel 3 - A massive panel as Kris is completely torn apart at the seams. Their glowing soul is revealed as their body is peeled away in stips from them, leaving only a few bones and muscles trying to stay together. 

As Kris is pulled apart, Jevil’s voice rings out: “SEE, SEE HOW ALL THE RULES AND ORDERS HAVE TRAPPED YOU? HURT YOU AND KILLED YOU?” In the strips of Kris’s body pulled apart are scenes that seem to confirm Jevil’s worldview: Empire guards chasing down Kris as a young child. Toriel kindly shooing Kris away from a pie they were interested in. Asgore keeping Kris from plants he knows are dangerous. Kris on the altar as they are sacrificed to the demon. Kris giving up their soul to Ralei. Kris being devoured by Susie. Kris trapped at a door by Mr. Society and Mr. Elegance, keeping them from advancing with rules. Kris being revived, again and again, by Ralsei’s control over their soul. “BUT HE HAS SHOWN ME, IT ALL MEANS NOTHING, NOTHING!”

Page 9

Panel 1 - The panels continue to be jagged and harsh as the rest of Kris’s body is completely obliterated in the whirlwind, leaving only their soul spiraling in the gyre. Jevil’s voice continues: “NO RULES, NO HURT, NO PRISONS FOR YOU! SHARE YOUR JOY WITH ME!”

Panel 2 - Kris’s soul begins to break under the strain of Jevil’s version of joy: a swirling mess of eyes, teeth, claws, screaming faces, beasts and sinew and armor. They all close in on their lost soul in a mess of chaos and madness.

Panel 3 - As the winds turn to pure darkness, Kris’s soul begins to dissolve in the gyre as well, broken in the relentless chaos. Jevil’s voice rings out once more: “SHARE YOUR SOUL WITH ME, A TRUE CHAOS, CHAOS!”

Panel 4 - As Kris’s soul is nearly dissolved and lost in complete blackness, another voice cries out: “KRIS!” From the darkness, Ralsei’s glowing eyes and fiery claws reach out to grab Kris’s soul before it’s lost. 

[yumeka-sxf]

Well, seems like something that was just a theory before has come very close to truth...

Because of this major revelation, I wanted to take a deep dive into what we know about Donovan so far and how hints throughout past chapters could indeed indicate that he can read minds. While we still don't have concrete proof for this other than Melinda's word, I don't believe there's anything that discredits this idea, either. In fact, many things throughout the series support it.

First we have Loid's encounter with Donovan way back in chapter 38. I always found it strange that we never got insight into Donovan's thoughts throughout that whole exchange. We always get to know what characters are thinking, even without Anya's mind-reading support. It's not an uncommon storytelling mechanic in general after all, especially for manga. Yet, Endo chose not to give us any insight into what Donovan was thinking. I figured this was simply to avoid spoiling anything about what his exact plans and motives are for future stories (also why Anya was absent for this). But now it seems like this could have also been to hide the fact that he can read minds. If he can read minds, certain things he said during that exchange take on a more ominous meaning. For example, what he said below about how people can never truly understand each other.

It's been a headcanon of mine that the reason why Anya, and perhaps Donovan, were given mind-reading powers, stemmed from the desire for world peace...the idea being that if people could read each other's minds - in other words, always know what others are thinking and feeling, sympathy and understanding would abound.

We learn later on that Donovan had ideas like this even as a kid when he made a similar comment during his debate competition speech. He said that it's impossible to know the true intentions of others so people will forever doubt each other, thus war is inevitable.

We also have the little detail in today's chapter that Donovan did not have the scars on his head during Melinda's flashback (of course, he didn't have them as a kid in chapter 99 either).

Now this is totally my theory, but if we take Melinda's words as the truth, without any misunderstanding, then sometime in Donovan's adult life after he married and had a child, he was experimented on and was given mind-reading powers, perhaps by force but most likely by choice. Now that he has these powers, his laments about people not being able to understand each other are no longer true, at least not for him. Perhaps the experiments done on Anya were preliminary tests that he put together to perfect the mind-reading implementation science before actually doing it to himself. Again, totally just speculation, but not out of the question.

Then we have Demetrius...we learned in chapter 93 that Anya has trouble reading his mind.

If we put that together with Melinda's comment in today's new chapter, that Demetris also took note of Donovan being able to read minds...

...then perhaps Demetrius conditioned himself to think in ways that would make it difficult for his mind to be read, specifically to thwart the "alien" that's impersonating his father. I mentioned last time that I don't think Donovan is actually an alien, and that this description is the only explanation Melinda could come up with to explain his mind-reading powers. If this is true though, it really does make the Desmond dinner scene all the more telling...that throughout all those panels without dialogue, Donovan was absorbing the deepest inner thoughts of his family members (and again, no insight into his own thoughts, just like in chapter 38).

But if the "Donovan can read minds" theory holds true, then the most disturbing idea of all is that Donovan knows that Twilight is a spy. He knows that he's the target of Twilight's mission, and that Twilight seeks to thwart him. Not only that, but depending on what he's read of Damian and Melinda's minds, he knows that they're fond of Anya and Yor, respectively - people who are close to Twilight. Mind-reading powers in the hands of a child are one thing, but in the hands of a shrewd and power political figure...I'm both excited and anxious to find out what Donovan's next move will be!

[todays-xkcd]

Thank you to linguist Gretchen McCulloch for teaching me about phonetic assimilation, and for teaching me that if you stand around in public reading texts from a linguist and murmuring example phrases to yourself, people will eventually ask if you're okay.

Fluid Speech [Explained]

Transcript

[Above the panel:] Fun fact: Experienced speakers constantly merge, drop, and alter sounds when talking at normal conversational speed to optimize for efficient mouth movement.

[The panel shows four labeled side profiles of a mouth with paths of sounds made in different parts of the mouth. There is a label "More fluid" with an arrow pointing to the right.

From left to right:] [Label:] Going to /ɡoʊɪŋ tu/ [Path:] (G O >> I >> NG >> >> ) ( >> T >> >> O)

[Label:] Goin' to /ɡoʊɪn tə/ [Path:] (G O >> I >> N)(T >> >> O)

[Label:] Gonna /ɡʌn.ə/ [Path:] (G O >> NN >> A)

[Label:] How fluent speakers actually say it when speaking rapidly /ɡə̃/ [Path:] (G >> >> ə̃)

[Below the panel:] If you think you don't do this, try to use "hot potato" in a sentence and fully pronounce the first "t" without sounding like an alien impersonating a human.

[swampjawn]

Dungeon Meshi Episode 7 was super interesting from an adaptation standpoint - this'll be a little different from what I usually write about (though I do still talk about the animation in the full video).

Studio Trigger have never done a straight-up manga adaptation before - and led by Yoshihiro Miyajima, a big fan of the manga who pushed hard for the adaptation to get made, and who has never directed a full series before, it was unclear if they'd be able to find the right balance between a simple panel-for-panel recreation and making something that's completely different.

And in the first few episodes, you could really feel the tension between the influence of a cautious young creative with great respect for the source material, and a studio with a unique established visual style. It kinda seemed like they were ping-ponging willy-nillily between the two sides of that spectrum.

But this episode showed that Miyajima (and series writer Kimiko Ueno) can take 3 chapters, slice them up and rearrange them into a cohesive-feeling episode while taking into account the differences between screen and page, and using them to their advantage.

Starting with the way the water looks. This line from the manga describes a faint magical glow to the water in this lake and you can see that the cavern fades into darkness above, but Kui's illustration style doesn't really define lighting and shadows very much compared to the cel-drawing style of animation. So the animators took the opportunity to use the water as the light source, and make a whole episode that's lit almost entirely from below. It really gives an otherworldly feeling to this area.

Particularly when the Kelpie shows up, that under-lighting works wonders to define its anatomy within the relatively simple line art.

What do you do when you can't show the immense fuck-off scale of a monster with a beautiful full-page spread like this?

Well you use what you do have: the ability to move the camera instead. This is such a great way to communicate the scale of this thing, AND such a great way to show some of Senshi's anime-original butt-cheeks!

This is one of my favorite shots from this episode - this whole sequence is super hectic, cutting quickly from character to character, but they use tricks like this to keep you from getting confused. This is framed much like it is in the manga, but with the moving image, they're able to use the trajectory of the fish head in the background to lead your eye directly from Chilchuck, right to the point where Senshi pops up in the foreground and transition seamlessly from one character to another!

Now, it's not all good - I am a bit disappointed that they removed Marcille's own Senshi-style soap-making montage, which was the perfect visual representation of the culmination of the character development and understanding built between Senshi and Marcille.

It's a shame to see it go.

I get more into that, what else was cut, and much more in this video where I broke down the entire episode!

Check it out if you feel like it. If you don't, jump in a ditch, cover yourself in leaves and jump out at people as they walk by.

Thanks for reading!

[snailfizz]

I need to draw the mystery twins more they're so fun to draw and cute and I love them 🫶🏼 (transcript below in case my handwriting is hard to read)

Panel 1:

Bill: Can you not stand so close? You’re making me claustrophobic.

Soos: What does claustrophobic mean?

Mabel: It means he’s afraid of Santa Clause!!!

Dipper: No, it doesn’t.

Soos: Ho, Ho, Ho! Haha.

Bill: Soos-

Panel 2:

Dipper is rolling his eyes.

Mabel: Stop it, Soos, you’re scaring him!

Soos: Haha. Sorry, dude.

Bill: I hate it here.

[sparklemaia]

my friend Liam and I just released a mini-zine to celebrate being two years post-op from top surgery! This little zine is free to download here or you can dm me and I'll mail you a physical copy for free (free shipping within the US!).

[Image Descriptions: sequence of 5 images, with a hand holding a printed zine in front of green plants, progressively turning pages for each image. Art is inked in a simple style, and shaded in greyscale.

Image 1: Zine cover. Title text reads: "two friends, two years since top surgery!" Metallic scissors snip through a curling ribbon decorated with the words "two friends, two years," the word "since" is a script font centered below, and "top surgery" is inside a speech bubble coming from illustrations of the artists in the bottom corners. Maia, on the left, has one hand up and is wearing a t-shirt with a bicycle graphic; Maia has short hair that's slightly longer on top, earrings, and glasses. Liam, on the right, is wearing a plain t-shirt and has buzzed hair with a long topknot.

Image 2: Pages 1 and 2 of the zine.

Left page: Text at the top surrounds an illustration of Maia as a bust, with twisting smoke covering her chest. Top text: "I didn't hate my chest, exactly. It just never felt like it belonged." A rounded black rectangular section with white text reads: "Dysphoria manifested as a disconnect between my brain and body." Chains break on both sides of the word "disconnect." Below, Maia walks down stairs, holding books tightly to her chest. Text reads: "Repeatedly encountering the reality was an unpleasant, jarring surprise--like missing a step."

Right page: Maia, wearing a striped t-shirt and smiling with one hand on her chest, holds up her phone to take a photo. The rounded black rectangle behind frames the white words: "Top surgery has given me a peace that's hard to articulate." Grey steam spirals from beneath this text into the bottom of the page, coming from a mug that a seated Maia contentedly holds with two hands. Text to the left: "It's like taking a hot shower and then putting on the softest, coziest pajamas that fit just right. It's a quiet 'yes'-ness, a joyful resonance."

Image 3: Pages 3 and 4 of the zine.

Left page: Three illustrations of Liam as a young kid with long curly hair, implying the passing of time from left (youngest) to right (oldest). The first two look down with discomfort, while the third is typing at a laptop, frowning. Text on the page splits across the illustrations and reads: "I wanted the weight off my chest long before I knew that the word for the knot of feelings living there was dysphoria." A black squiggle covers the chest of each iteration, scrawling down the page beside the text and becoming the word "dysphoria" at the end of the sentence. An older Liam with short curly hair holds the end of the unraveled line, eyebrows raised.

Right page: At the top is an illustration of Liam in a side profile view, hunched forward with their fist curled towards their chest, over a dark background made of zigzag lines. Text at the top reads: "I hadn't truly realized how loud that dysphoria was--until it wasn't." The last part of the text breaks into the light section of the panel, alongside a zigzag shape that leaves the large mass above and slowly disappears as it reaches another Liam, standing upright and holding a hand to their chest. They smile in relief. Text beside them reads: "Now it is quiet, every breath a connection with my body."

Image 4: Pages 5 and 6 of the zine.

Left page: Maia holds a pair of scissors and a set of four cutout hearts. She says, "Top surgery for me was less about my gender identity and more about my body feeling like mine." The word "mine" is written across the hearts. Maia continues: "Even though my experience doesn't align with a 'typical' f to m transition, top surgery was 100% the right choice for me." Beside this text is a Sharpie marker and a name tag. The name tag reads: "Maia she/her" with a smiley face. Below is Liam as a floating head, above five cutout people in different skin tones holding hands. The middle person has lines across their chest and is surrounded by tiny cutout hearts. Liam says, "For me, it was both about my identity and about crafting a more comfortable space to exist in."

Right page: Top text reads: "We believe access to top surgery is fundamentally about the right to bodily autonomy." Maia and Liam hold either side of a large pair of scissors, cutting through a ribbon with the text "bodily autonomy" on it. Below, more text reads: "Though we each have different relationships to gender, we both chose top surgery to feel at peace in our bodies."

Image 5: Back cover of the zine. Text at top: "While we recognize our privilege in being able to access top surgery, it's not fair that it requires privilege!" Beneath this, Maia and Liam defiantly hold bricks in their hands while standing behind a crumbling brick wall, saying, "We will fight for your right to do whatever you want with your own body!" Under the wall is the text "Everyone deserves access to medical care that helps their body feel like home" with a heart symbol to the right of the last word. At the bottom are the artists' links, with cartoon heads beside their respective info. For Maia: "linktr.ee/sparklemaia" and instagram account "sparklemaia.art". For Liam: "linktr.ee/LMPerttula_design" and instagram account "LMPerttula_design". Beneath is a creative commons license symbol, dated June 2025.

End image description]

[zephyrchama]

This is a piece for @obeymevents's Obey me! Prompt Roulette event! We submitted random prompts, and received a random prompt in return. The prompt for this piece is...

Too Many Beds

It's longer than most of my pieces so it's hidden below the read more (but it's fully SFW!). I tried to include every character, and there is a handy chart of where everyone is sleeping. Hope you enjoy!

🛏️🛏️🛏️🛏️🛏️🛏️🛏️🛏️🛏️🛏️🛏️🛏️🛏️🛏️🛏️🛏️

“I can’t thank you enough for agreeing to test out our new overnight package.”

Diavolo was in high spirits. He walked with a pep in his step down the quiet carpeted hallways of the latest Corvo hotel. Everything smelled faintly of fresh paint and there wasn’t a speck of dust to be seen.

The group following him was only half listening. Some were so far back, engrossed in their own idle chit-chat, that even Diavolo’s vigorous voice didn’t reach them. The modern, dim hallway lighting was exactly opposite of the large ballroom they had just been in, wherein massive glitzy chandeliers reflected off of polished champagne glass towers. There had been no shortage of indulgences. Fine food prepared by professional chefs, a wide open dance floor with a live band, and the best of company that you had the pleasure of personally inviting.

Diavolo left the guest list for this exclusive party up to you, as there are few beings he trusts so unconditionally. Not wanting to disappoint him, you thought it best to keep invites limited to your closest friends at RAD. Sixteen people, including yourself, was a good, round number and you were confident the company would never be dull. It made for a memorable night of partying.

Now that the ballroom had been thoroughly christened and you were extremely tuckered out from dancing, your group moved as one to their accommodations for the night. Diavolo, leading the pack, guaranteed it would be an experience like no other. The hallway had few doors, each spread noticeably far apart. The rooms inside must be large. You wondered if they were suites fit for royalty. Past the vending room, past the ice dispenser, your group finally came upon a simple set of double wooden doors.

“Here we are!” Diavolo exclaimed. “Again, this is something new we’re offering only at this hotel. I’d appreciate your feedback in the morning.”

There was no lock. Barbatos demonstrated that it could recognize a guest’s handprint, requiring no key to open. He waved you in with a smile.

The room was massive. You were greeted with a sophisticated wood paneled wall with lights installed around the floor and ceiling. Next to the entrance was a locker room of sorts for luggage. Your possessions had already been carried up and neatly stored away.

Next up, a communal bathroom with multiple rooms for baths, showers, and toilet facilities, all attached to a powder room with floor to ceiling mirrors.

The bedroom itself rivaled the ballroom in size and it was filled, from corner to corner, with beds. Queen sized bunk beds. Each expertly made up in fine silk sheets. Chocolate mints wrapped in gold foil sat atop the fluffy pillows and folded robes sat squarely at the foot of each bed.

You paused in confusion to take in such a unique sight, but people were filing in one after another behind you. Solomon put a hand on your back to safeguard you from the parade of tipsy non-humans. You moved forward. Beelzebub followed with a half-asleep Belphegor latched to his side.

“This setup is for large groups. We took inspiration from days of old, when travelers would all reside in one common room. There are more than enough accommodations for everyone,” Barbatos explained. “Perfect for the budget-friendly school trip, work retreat, or group celebration. Wouldn’t you agree?”

You squinted. There was a reason people didn’t sleep together in giant rooms anymore. A good reason.

“We’re all sleeping here?” you confirmed. Barbatos’ coy smile affirmed it. This was going to be a headache.

“There are no assigned arrangements,” he confirmed, “so feel free to pick whichever bed suits your fancy.”

Multiple hands grabbed your arms. Mammon, Asmodeus, and Luke exclaimed, “I wanna sleep with you!”

Leviathan followed their enthusiasm with his own, “I-I-I also want to s-s-s-sleep w-with you!”

At the same time, Mephistopheles could be heard, “Lord Diavolo! I’d like nothing more than to sleep beside you! Just like when we were kids.”

Diavolo was already half-shouting, “I want to sleep with Lucifer!”

You faintly caught Satan snickering, “yeah, I bet you do.”

“You guys reek of alcohol,” Luke complained as he pinched his nose. He waved his hand towards Mammon and Asmodeus. “Nobody wants to sleep near you!”

“Does this hotel even allow pets?” Mammon snarked. “Who let this chihuahua inside?”

Luke kicked Mammon in the foot. While the two squabbled, Beelzebub offered, “it will be quiet with me.”

You were pulled back and forth in a nauseating three way tug-of-war. Even those who weren’t making physical contact had their eyes on you, their intentions clear.

“Nobody is sleeping with anyone.” Lucifer raised his voice above the din. It was getting late and he would not tolerate a stupid fight. “There are more than enough beds to spread out. One person per bunk bed. Nobody is allowed to sleep in a bed directly next to anyone else. I don’t want any funny business happening tonight. That’s final.”

Multiple sighs could be heard, ranging from relieved to annoyed to straight-up disappointed. Mammon could be heard saying, rhetorically, "Who said you get to make the rules?"

“That’s the most fair option,” Simeon stated. “On the bright side, we also get matching pajamas. That makes it feel less lonely”

“Come now, Lucifer. We can’t even sleep in adjacent beds?” Diavolo asked sadly. That defeated half the purpose of sleeping in a big room together.

“What about diagonal?” Raphael asked. He had his hand on his chin. Despite the room being massive, it was unlikely there were enough beds for all sixteen beings present to sleep with multiple beds in between one another.

Lucifer put an end to the discontentment once and for all by announcing, “Diagonal is fine. I want you all in a bed in ten minutes. If anyone doesn’t like it, you’re free to sleep in the street.”

Barbatos showed his full agreement with a smile that gave you chills. He had such a way of expressing himself without really changing his expression at all. It was enough to get everyone moving.

Beelzebub carried his twin over to a bed at random and placed the dozing Belphegor in a lower bunk, then took his pillow mint as compensation. It was a hefty treat coated in chocolate, larger than your typical pillow mints, one that befit the luxury status of the Corvo hotel.

People began milling around the room. Barbatos mentioned something about a lilac scent on the pillows to make falling asleep easier. They inspected the beds but didn’t actually claim one. Many side glances were thrown in your direction.

Thirteen had been quiet, refusing to get tangled up in everyone’s petty bickering until now. The reaper boldly pushed past everybody loitering in her way. Upon reaching the farthest, most isolated corner of the room, she turned and announced, “I’m sleeping here. If any of you come near me, I’m going straight home and blowing out your candle.”

The room went silent as everyone stared. She continued, “Well… except one. If there’s an emergency, you know who to send as your representative.”

With a cute wink in your direction, she turned her back and disappeared up a ladder to a top bunk.

“Ooh, scary,” Solomon laughed.

Thirteen’s manicured middle finger poked out from the edge of her bunk in response.

Solomon responded with another laugh. Though, this wasn’t the time to poke fun at Thirteen. He had more interesting things to focus on.

He asked you, “Have you decided where to sleep?”

It was obviously the question everyone was dying to know. You didn’t care. All of the beds literally looked the same. They were so sparkling new, even the metal screws holding the mattress frames together had the same shiny luster, without a speck of rust. It looked like someone copy and pasted the same bed in a repeating pattern until the room was full. You wouldn't doubt if this were a low budget VR game.

Any show of preference would start a war. You decided it was best to choose at random. “I’m going to take… this one.”

“Then, this one’s mine!” Mammon declared, diving into a bottom bunk as close to yours as Lucifer would allow.

“No fair! I wanted that one!” Luke anxiously balled his hands. While paralyzed thinking about what to do, Solomon happily claimed the bed opposite of Mammon's. Options near you were quickly running out.

“This diagonal space looks open,” Simeon remarked. He and Lucifer chose beds directly diagonal to you, giving Luke the idea to jump headfirst into the other open diagonal space before Asmodeus could take it.

Diavolo began climbing a bed close to Lucifer. As unofficial chaperones, the two of them in top bunks would be able to keep an eye out for any late night funny business. Leviathan followed suit, scrambling into a top bunk in the hopes of being able to spot your sleeping figure several rows away.

Finally, everyone had a bed to call their own.

There was a minor scuffle to the bathroom while the tired group performed their nighttime routines. Teeth were brushed, pajamas were donned. Shirtless glimpses were stolen from a select few who couldn't be bothered to change in private. Simeon helped you figure out how to get warm water when the sink spout wouldn’t budge. Asmodeus came out wearing a nourishing face mask that garnered some stares.

“I’ll be turning the lights out now,” Barbatos announced after some time had passed.

Leviathan and Diavolo were leaning on top bunk edges, engrossed in a mighty battle on their handheld games. “Hold on a moment.” Diavolo was rapidly mashing buttons as he explained, “we’ve almost got him down to half HP.”

“How’s your ult? Is the meter filled?” Leviathan asked. His eyes did not stray from the screen. He was a master at work.

“This thing on the side? No, it keeps going up every time I land a hit. Is that good?”

“As soon as that’s filled, get close to him and hit R2! With the gear I gave you it will take out at least another 20% of-”

“I’ll be turning out the lights now,” Barbatos repeated. He turned the lights out.

The night had officially begun.

“Satan, would you mind turning that off?” Raphael’s whisper carried through the dark. “It’s hard to sleep.”

Satan was making full use of the bed’s built-in reading light. It was tiny yet powerful. Unlike Leviathan’s handheld game console, Satan couldn’t hide it under the covers.

“Is this any better?” He tilted it down further, so the light shone directly on the page. So much so that the letters were hard to see, the light reflected right off of the ink. It remained a burning beacon in that otherwise dark half of the room, made worse by the fact that Satan was on a top bunk.

“It’s not much better,” Raphael said.

Satan huffed and adjusted his light again. “How about now?”

“No.”

One low growl later, Satan adjusted his light for a third time. “Better?”

“Now it’s in my eyes,” Asmodeus whined. “I can see it through my eye mask. Can’t you just read in the dark?”

“Can’t you get a higher quality mask?”

There was the shrill whistle of a projectile flying through the air, followed by the shattering of glass. Then there was no more light. “Hey! Watch it!” Satan roared. He was met with a colorful chorus of “shh!”, “shut up!” and “quiet!”

Asmodeus chucked a pillow towards his angry brother.

Raphael whispered, “That’s better.”

Just as his head found its way back to the pillow, Barbatos could be heard. “You will need to pay for that in the morning.”

Satan was left to seethe quietly. Instead of counting sheep, he counted the different ways he could curse Lucifer to vent his frustrations. He didn’t get very far. There was another loud disturbance, this time from the back. An ear-splitting buzzing sound preceded a deep shout.

Thick smoke filled the air around Thirteen’s corner.

“What is going on now?” Mephistopheles demanded. He was cranky, with a massive frown plastered across his face as he lifted his silk sleep mask. This was the most testing night he had ever experienced.

“I told you not to get near me!” Thirteen huffed. She waved her arms, clearing the air to see who was stupid enough not to heed her warning.

“Sorry.” Beelzebub was stuck coughing under a massive electric net. Miss Soaring Buzz Buzz Junior wasn’t a very painful trap, but the static shocks and heavy smoke were an unpleasant sensation even for the strongest of demons. There were a trail of foil wrappers that once contained mints pilfered from the empty beds, and they lead up to the paralyzed Beelzebub. This supported his case when he claimed between coughs, “I got hungry.”

“Haha, I should have known.” Diavolo was finding this whole ordeal to be very exciting. One unexpected event after the next. He had no intention of sleeping to begin with, lest he miss out on all the fun of spending time with his friends. It was a good thing Leviathan was also a night owl. The otaku helped the prince stay busy in between bouts of chaos with highly recommend handheld role playing games, to be enjoyed under the thick covers.

“Can you let me out? This net is really uncomfortable.” Beelzebub wiggled like a worm. The net didn’t budge against his strength and his arms were pinned against his stomach. “Also, are you going to eat your mint?”

“I’m saving it!" Thirteen exclaimed, "and I’ll let you out in the morning.”

“I’ll get you out,” somebody yawned. Belphegor plodded over to his twin, half asleep with eyes half closed. “Consider it thanks for carrying me into bed.”

“Belphie, thank you.”

Undoing Thirteen’s trap was not easy. It was clearly going to take a while, especially with Belphegor fighting sleep every step of the way.

“Can we all be quiet now?” Mephisto was exasperated. “Please? Thank you.”

“Now you see what I put up with every day,” Lucifer muttered. He was staring up at the ceiling, reconsidering his life choices. Was it a mistake to have adopted all of these buffoons as his brothers? No. Lucifer was never wrong about their potential and greatly enjoyed seeing them grow. They were just idiots.

This was further proved around half an hour later. Half an hour of blissful silence, during which a few members of your entourage were able to doze off. Things were finally calm. Asmodeus sat up. He slid out of bed, tugging at the belt around his robe to ensure it was properly tied and would accentuate his beautiful waist.

Asmodeus tip toed towards your direction, dancing lightly on his feet as he imagined how happy you’d be at his little midnight rendezvous. Lucifer might’ve said you couldn’t sleep near each other, but he never said you had to stay apart all night long.

“Whaddya think you’re doing?”

Out of the dark, Mammon thrust an arm in front of his younger brother, allowing him no further.

“Just a trip to the bathroom,” Asmodeus sang with a quiet lilt.

“Bathroom my foot. Get outta here,” Mammon spat. “I’m on to you. No one gets past me. Go on, shoo.” His command was accompanied by the classic hand motion, shooing Asmodeus back from where he came from.

“Hmmph! You could be a little nicer about it.”

Mammon stood guard at the foot of your bed until Asmodeus was good and settled, albeit sulking, back under his sheets. Mammon then turned and promptly began to crawl right into your bed. He was slow, careful not to make much noise. His full attention was on safely completing this mission. You would make for a top tier prize once that hurdle was cleared.

“Hey, were you up waitin’ for me?” he asked in a low whisper, careful not to be too loud.

“Actually, yes,” Lucifer whispered in response, lowering the covers away from his face. Mammon shrieked, leaped up, and crashed onto the ground in a scramble to get away from his older brother.

“Oh, for crying out loud,” Mephistopheles complained. “When will it end?”

Mammon stammered, pointing a shaky finger at Lucifer, “You were supposed to be over there! Where’d-”

Lucifer cut him off. “They are in bed. Just like you should be.”

“Yeah, but which bed?”

The question went unanswered. Lucifer sat up, swung his legs over the side of the mattress, and slipped a pair of complimentary fuzzy slippers onto his feet. “Let’s go. I’ll tuck you in.”

“No thanks!”

“I’ll be sure to do it very snugly.”

Mammon was unable to protest as Lucifer grabbed him by the collar and dragged him back to the proper bed. Mammon’s belt would make for a suitable chain to tie his hands to the metal bedpost, ensuring a repeat of this incident would not occur. A teary and frustrated Mammon caught your eye for the briefest of seconds as you peered over the top bunk of what was originally Lucifer’s bed. You gave him a little wave. With bound hands, Mammon opened his mouth to say something, but the space was quickly filled with a small accent pillow from Lucifer. 

From your new top bunk perch, you looked around to see how everyone else was fairing. Squinting in the dark, you could make out a few people. Beelzebub had successfully escaped Thirteen’s trap. You noticed his feet going right up to the edge of his bed. Diavolo was grinning like a kid in a candy shop. Beyond him was the still figure of Barbatos, laying face up with eyes closed and his hands crossed over his chest. On the opposite side, you craned to see Simeon. It was hard to see what he was up to. Same with Belphegor behind him.

You wouldn’t find out until morning that Lucifer’s no bed-sharing rule was broken. Belphegor, in a sleepy haze, couldn’t properly find his way back after helping Beelzebub. He wound up in Simeon’s bed, clinging to the angel’s side, pinning him down with an arm and a leg. Simeon would have found it pretty adorable if only Belphegor wasn’t so heavy. No amount of wiggling, prodding, or whisper-shouts would get the Avatar of Sloth off of him. Simeon did not want to risk texting you and waking you up if you were already asleep, so he resigned himself to his fate underneath Belphegor.

It wasn’t long before another large sound woke just about everybody in the room up. You jumped. It sounded like someone threw their suitcase from the ceiling. There was a small commotion on the other side of the room.

“Thirteen?” Solomon accused.

“Hey! Watch your tone, that wasn’t me.”

“I see… Then maybe Satan mistook reality for a dream and threw somebody across the room?” he mused.

Satan sighed, “Don’t make me come over there.”

As it turns out, Solomon wasn’t too far off the mark. Soon it was clear to all: Leviathan had fallen asleep and, soon after, fell out of his top bunk. It was impressive. He basically sleep-climbed over the low walls of the bunk bed by gradually throwing his limbs over it one by one. When the amount of Leviathan on one side was higher than the amount of him on the other side, the demon’s body slipped and came crashing down in one of the top five most unpleasant wake-ups Solomon had ever experienced.

“Aaaaaahhhhh.” Leviathan’s voice was surprisingly weak for the strong blow he’d just received. He curled up on the floor and rubbed his aching head while Diavolo and Solomon watched.

“Leviathan, are you alright?” Raphael asked.

“Aaaaaaaaahh,” he repeated. He was more in shock than anything.

“He sounds fine,” Satan turned on his side and pulled his blanket up.

Leviathan shakily stood to his feet. This was not his beautiful room, and this was not his beautiful bathtub. It was a room of judgement. An introvert’s worst nightmare. “Wow, thanks for the concern.”

He crawled back into bed, into the bottom bunk this time. He grabbed the covers, swirling them around himself in a protective cocoon. “I’ll be just fine, don’t you worry about me,” he complained.

“Good to hear!” Diavolo responded with sincerity. “Good night, Leviathan!”

“Oh. Uhh, good night?” Leviathan mumbled back. He was caught off guard by actual good will and snuggled his embarrassed face into the blanket.

“Good night, Lord Diavolo!” Mephistopheles called out, not one to be outdone.

“Why, good night Mephistopheles. And good night, Lucifer.”

“Enough.”

[bettystonewell]

There Were Only Two Beds

Read on AO3 || Main Masterlist

Dean Winchester x Reader

If you steal the blankets from your charming, adorably cute and sexy best friend with whom you’ve shared more than just a kiss with, then, well, you might get quite a fright, and perhaps never live it down. 4.1k words

Tags: Smut, Fluff, Vulnerability, Friends to Lovers, Mutual Pining, Sexual Tension, One Night Stands, Casual Sex, Cunnilingus, P in V Sex, Motel Sex, Dean Winchester Doesn’t Do Too Badly With His Feelings, Dual POV MDNI 18+ Only

The sex was—it was great sex. The kind you gossip about with your girlfriends over every single detail. 

Was he big? Was he wide? Did he curve in the middle?

Dean was a yes to all three. He was long, thick as a trunk, and he had a way of hitting all the right places. Places you could still feel where his round tip had hit thanks to his ingenious angling. 

Your clit was…well used. He strummed you like an instrument. Plucked and brushed the sensitive bundle with both fingers and tongue. It stung a little when he wiped you over with the warm cloth. Felt the cool air when he retreated to the bathroom again. 

You’d go there yourself, only your legs are jelly, also thanks to the angles he put you through, except when he came. That was by simple missionary. Your hands in his, his eyes on yours. 

Dean Winchester was gentle then. His face contorted but euphoric. Mouth half smiling, making a rounded “oh,” with creased brows and a chuckle unlike any other you’d heard before. The moment captured when he stilled, all but down below. 

The sounds he made were god given. Like his touch, his taste, his smell. 

Like the leather from his father’s jacket hanging off his shoulders, giving him a shadow you’d liken to that of Yogi Bear; to the cheap whiskey he insists on drinking even though you swear it’d keep Baby going on a single drop. The Impala herself, with whatever oil change and wax he’s given her throughout the day while you weren’t looking. 

His musk is musky like the earth itself. Full of the things you’d find in nature if nature was a thing you liked to surround yourself with. 

It’s in the sheets. It’s in the room, and it’s only been two hours. 

Your bags are on the table in the corner. His shot gun pokes out of the hole made by the zipper. The light from the street outside spills through the thin fabric of the ghastly curtains. Makes the silver of his colt sparkle.

The door does little to house you from the world. Trucks passing the motel on the nearby highway rattle the foundations, and wooden paneling opposite you. 

You can hear Dean gargling beyond the walls of the bathroom, though that door is ajar. 

What a charming place for your first tryst. Really sets the mood after the gruelling day of monster guts and dental-floss stitches, but you’re alive. And you had that really great sex to ease the tension. All thanks to Dean’s needless worry and martyrdom.

You stretch your limbs, crack your toes. Raise yourself up on your elbows and take a peek at what’s taking him so long. Should probably try to move. Get up and take a leak or cover yourself. How is this going to go down when he returns?

Fuck it.

You’re upright, standing, two feet on the ground. Tits out, panties remain…somewhere, so you reach for his flannel on the edge of the bed where you left it and slip it on. The worn material is soft, and the Dean smell only intensifies. 

Great sex. Great smell. You could get used to this if this is to become a thing.

“You done in there?” you say, trying your best to put on your most normal voice. Let’s not let him catch on that you’re scared shitless of the after effects of what you just did. 

You can keep telling yourself how wonderful he felt inside of you. How delicious the stretch still is as you take a tentative step. 

The man just gave you aftercare, what little he could, but it was something, for fuck’s sake. For someone so hellbent on not wanting a relationship, his courtesy for a bed partner is wasted. 

And that’s the problem, isn’t it? You want this again. Give him his refractory period and you’d let him fuck you, here and now. Tomorrow? Next week even? Oh god, don’t fuck this up. You’ve gotta play it by ear.

At the bathroom door now you call his name, and there’s no way he can’t hear you. You hear the faucet being shut off and his face with its huge grin appears. His eyes look you up and down.

“Nice shirt,” he says. 

You don’t miss the linger when his gaze falls where your bra would be, but you don’t cover yourself. Don’t hold back the tug in your own mouth either, going for the playful, sultry lip bite. Making sure your lower lip plumps out just right. 

“You done?” you’re asking again.

Dean nods. “Yeah.” His voice, just as practiced as yours was.

He’s under the covers of his bed when you return. His because there’s technically two. That one, where you fucked, and the one you didn’t, that’s yours because of its proximity to the main door. 

His head’s nestled in his hands that’re nestled in the pillow. The white crisp sheets, full of too much starch, a blanket, no doubt scratchy, and the duvet cover his lower half. 

He’s grinning at you. His eyes travel the length of your body once more, and if that’s not an invitation to slip under the blankets with him, you don’t know what is.

Still, you ask, “Care for some company,” keeping it cool and suave, of course.

“Haven’t had my post sex snuggle yet. Even a guy like me needs one of those.” And there’s that chuckle of his again. 

“You’re an idiot. You know that?” you say, but you’re lifting the pile of bedding and slipping in underneath it all the same. 

Dean lets his arm down and pulls you closer.

“Might be an idiot, sweetheart, but you just slept with me. What does that make you?”

“Thoroughly fucked.” 

You can’t tell whose grin is bigger.

There’s an ease to this, and for the most part, what butterflies you had when you got up before are gone, but there’s still the unspoken hanging over your head. The what now? What do we do come morning?

You need to know.

Tentative as your steps were, you raise your knee and drape your thigh over his. Nothing unusual about that. This is a post coital snuggle after all. He used the word first, not you. This is just what you do with your partners. 

You just don’t normally hold yourself still as a statue, waiting for them to flinch or move away.

But Dean grabs your hand. Intertwines his fingers with yours and even goes as far as bringing them up to kiss your knuckles.

“Thorough, huh?” He hums. The cracks of his crow’s feet, prominent so you know he’s smiling with his eyes. “It was good sex.” 

“Damn good,” you add, ignoring the hammer in your heart that comes with like-minded thinking.

Your foot strokes his leg - the closest thing to a tail wag, were you a dog. It does that. During usually. Grounding your body further into the one you’re with. 

His hair is soft. He doesn’t have much covering him in the scheme of things. You learnt that when you fell into bed, all but your underwear discarded.

Your legs were locked when the real kissing started. Like an involuntary action, spurring you both on. Your lips parted, tongues swiped, your calves caressed each other. 

Ankles wrapped ‘round ankles. Your thighs wrapped ‘round his torso. There was that way he angled his hips and just…went for it. Pounded into you.

Women in the movies call it a jackhammer or something of the like. The speed, ungodly, you’d think him a vamp or wendigo, yet somehow he still hit that sweet spot inside again and again without slowing down the intensity. Your muscles pull from the bruising, most likely up in there. 

He did it with his mouth, too. Well, his lips and tongue. You don’t really know what it was. besides, he had you begging for it. The pressure of his suction teed with his fingers dipping in and out of you just as fast. Your cheeks feel warm just thinking about it. 

As does your cunt.

“Is that, ah, thing you did? Is that like a signature move or something?” you say.

Dean huffs through his nose. “What thing?” His bared teeth tell you he knows what you’re talking about.  

“You know.” You raise yourself up on elbow and palm and look down at him. “What you did with your mouth?” 

“Ah. That thing.” He chuckles. “I did good, huh?”

Your free hand drags his arm up, lays a faux punch to his cheek. You’d do it for real, but then you wouldn’t know where you stand, and you really need to find out. So, “Guess so,” you say, keeping the peace without giving him a big head. He has one of those already. Everything about the guy is big, and for a fleeting moment, you wonder what Sam might be like. 

Lol - you just had sex with Dean - you’re lying in bed with Dean, and that’s where your mind goes? 

Squash that quick smart. This has been a long time coming. The flirting. The looks. Arguments just ‘cause it’s more fun to rile him up. And let’s face it, “I wouldn’t complain if you did it again,” you say. 

No time like the present, right?

It’s got him interested. At least he shuffles and turns to face you, letting go of your fingers to drape his arm over your waist and splay his hand across your back. 

“Yeah?” He squeezes.

“Yeah,” you breathe and the world shifts so that all you see and hear is him. Sure, there are still the street lights with their fluorescent glow; the same rattling semi trailers screeching past, but there’s no place you’d rather be. 

His eyes flit over your face, and he scooches in closer. The legs of his underwear brush against your own, and it’s him placing his thigh over yours now, his thing stirring behind them. 

His breath is minty from brushing. The leather, the whiskey, the earth is there, too. 

Moisture from the tip of his tongue leaves a trail when he plants generous kisses over your lips, cheek, jaw and into the dip by your collarbone. It cools your skin and sends shivers up and down your spine, but you’re not complaining. 

No. Wait. You are.

“De?” you say. First time for everything. Voice caught in your throat when he sucked the crease made by your shoulder. 

His answer is to hum, and that just sends more signals south, and it’s not what you want—no, yes, it is. 

It’s exactly what you want, but you need to know the conditions, ‘cause you want more than just one more roll between the sheets.

Your, “No. Dean. Stop,” is said between pants. Takes everything in you to do so. Every touch, every nip, every graze electrifies your nerves, and, “I mean, I wanna keep doing this,” pushes through. “Not just tonight.” 

Your fingers find his bicep. It’s firm. Nice. Stong. The way your hand fits ‘round it is fascinating as it is grounding. Yeah, you definitely want this again and again. 

Your body tenses like it’s made of stone or steel, though glass is more fitting. You will break depending on what he says, and fuck - you’ve screwed it up, haven’t you? You can’t move forward and you can’t take it back. Friends being friends again never works out. Not on TV, not in real life, and Dean doesn’t do commitment.

He’s dangerous, he’s lost too much, and he’ll spiel some self righteous crap to keep you safe and distant. 

So when he props himself back up. When he doesn’t let you go, doesn’t run straight for the hills or the bathroom ‘cause it’s closer, he stares at you instead. 

Those green eyes of his flit again, and soon his mouth joins them. 

It’s not quite a smirk. The corners raise just enough to mark the dimples on the sides. His top lip twitches and there’s a flash of white teeth beneath. It’s breathtaking. 

Why does he have to do that?

“Me, too,” he says, and nope. Nope. That line’s the real breath stealer. “Least I wanna try. Maybe every second week?” He snickers, and the butterflies return. Warm you from within. 

“Asshole.” You pat his cheek with your entire hand, hard. The soft slap reminds you of others you’ve made together during the night. When he had you from behind and his crown jewels slapped against your lips. When him above you made pockets of air that escaped on impact. 

As does his hand, striking your rear. He soothes it and stretches the surrounding flesh. “Well, I have one. You do, too. Seemed to like it when I—”

“Dean.” Your voice is chastising to start, but it calms, grows uncertain. Jaw tenses, and your cheeks puff out when you say, “You really wanna?” 

His do the same through his, “Yeah.” 

It’s you who kisses him this time. Hand still on his cheek holds him in place as you press firm on his lower lip, tongue presses further into his waiting mouth. 

His fingers roam the skin beneath his shirt. Hips bump and grind against your naked core. His hardness glides over your stomach. He’d be right up in there if it weren’t for the thin barrier keeping him shut away and his leg still over yours. 

You weren’t expecting things to happen so soon. Well, you hoped, but as he bends and dips lower into the one between your boobs, questions, more troubles than they’re worth, come to mind.

Your hand moves to thread through his hair. Your fingers scratch over his scalp, and soon you’re tugging and bringing him back to look up at you.

“Does this mean no more girls at the bar?” you say, and his plump lips purse. 

You’re at just the right angle to see his jaw tick when he swallows. See his eyes change from lust blown to deep in thought. And then his brow quirks, and the smirk is back. “Could say the same for you, sweetheart,” he teases.

“I’m serious.” You pull to turn away, but his thigh squeezes you. 

Hands find yours and he rolls until you’re pinned and staring up at him. He lingers on his elbows above you. 

“So am I.” His forehead nuzzles yours. “You’re gonna need to keep the short shorts and mini skirts home, darlin’.”

“What?”

“I can’t fight off every guy that looks at ya. Gotta save my strength for the real monsters.”

“But I don’t—”

It doesn’t matter when he kisses you again, attentive, slow. 

His pelvis rocks against you and his fingers thread through your hair and you’re enveloped. He almost cradles you. His lips on fire, your lips, both sets, on fire, too.

“You want me, you got me, alright? We’ll make it work,” he says when he pulls back enough to hover inches from your face. “What do the normal people say? Exclusive?”

“We are normal.”

He snorts, and you can taste the mint still on his breath. “We just ganked a pack of wolves.”

“And then we came here and had sex.”

“No. We came here, and you stitched me up.” He smirks and his brows wag. “Then we had sex.” He dips and pecks. “‘Bout to have more.” Another. “If you can handle it?”

Your smile tugs at the corners, a thin line for someone being kissed. But all your blood has gone lower, and the ache between your legs makes itself known. 

Your muscles are sore as his hands glide over them. The swell of your chest, tightened abdominals, and pangs in your lower belly that still throb when you shift. But his fingers caress you. Move, loving and tantalising. They make their way to your pillowed mound, where they breach your seam, and though you’re hissing at the contact, further in, you squeeze and flutter. Need everything he’s giving.

However long it lasts.

“You didn’t answer me,” he says even though he’s gliding through your wet heat. Eyes bore into you when he finds your entrance, and breaches it, too. You feel him twitch on your stomach at your surprise. “Gonna sing my name again when you come?”

His face is straight-laced, but his lips part when he twists and strikes. Adds another finger and he’s pulling at those crow’s-feat once again.

Deliberate and slow, he stretches you all over. Whispers more words, more encouragement. Speaks the dirty talk like it’s going out of fashion. You just won’t tell him he’s good at it. 

You respond to it, of course. Encourage him to continue. All discomfort, replaced with longing the second his kisses move over you again.

Your hands are in his hair and you’re shoving him down. Anticipating the first strike of his tongue and it doesn’t disappoint. Who knew Dean Winchester was so willing to give head? You’d return the favour, but you want that thing he does again, and you ain’t afraid to beg now that he’s there.

“Whatcha need, darlin’?” he says against your lips. Gives you another swipe before pulling away. His hand is still there, though. His fingers coat more of you in your own slick. Slips his thumb down lower and places light pressure there.

You can just see his eyes looking back up at you behind his arm, holding your pelvis down. Hear the confidence when he adds, “You like it when I do that, huh?”

Dean knows you do. He sees it in your eyes. 

But he also sees the hesitation, the nervous breath you keep dragging out that rattles your stomach muscles under his touch. The way your thighs try to creep in on him on instinct to cover yourself. 

He’s not letting you. He won’t fuck this up. He’s already had you once, and he means what he says when he says he wants to make it work. He’ll try just as hard, if not harder, to keep you close by. Keep you safe. 

He didn’t jump in front of you without reason. Would never take the fall for the hell of it, regardless of what you want to believe. No. He wanted to protect you. Needed to. Unaware that this right here is what he needed more. What was to come.

Dean moves his thumb. Slides his fingers back through your sweet cunt and brings his nose and lips down to treat himself again. 

It’s you. Plain you, and nothing’s ever tasted better once he fights through the initial remnants of latex and lube.

“You want me here?” he says between tentative licks. Puckers his mouth over your clit, sucks, then looks right at you. “Tell me like you did before.”

He grins when you say, “There.”

His mouth is sore, if he’s honest. He’s been grinning since the first kiss. Whole body’s had a workout, but his dick is still rearing to go. So hard it’s almost painful, but he won’t wrap and tap until you coat his fingers and chin again. He sees your shift in movement. He knows what he’s doing alright.

Fingers curl and move in and out of you, searching for that spot each time. Doesn’t take long for your fingers to leave him. They grip the sheets and tug while his tongue laps and swirls. Increases in speed. Strains those muscles, but it’s worth it just to hear you cry.

“De—” you say. He loves it when it gets cut off. Knows he’s done right before your back even arches. 

He pushes you down and presses his mouth firmer into you.

You reward him with more juices. Makes his slit leak and his stomach tighten. Fuck. He’s gotta make this quick.

He works you through it, albeit painfully slow. Then pulls away to rid himself of his damn boxers and grab another rubber. 

He’s sheathed up, covered and back up top in no time. Well, he coulda been more graceful. But he’s here now, and you’re beneath him, and fuck - think unsexy thoughts.

“You okay?” you say. Your grabby hand has left him, but the other still rests on his cheek.

“Yeah.” He huffs. Counts backwards, four, three, two, one. “Just ah. He’s oversensitive. Wanna give ya a good time so you don’t change your mind.”

“You think I’m that shallow?” you ask, and shit, he’s done it now. But you’re grinning wider than he is and his attitude turns back to cocky.

“I’ve just been deep clam diving.” He cringes. “You’re perfect.” He saves.

Your brow quirks, but he’s capturing your lips. Pulling you close and rolling. 

Dean’s head hits the pillow, and he stares up at you. Grabs your hands and looks on in wonder as you sink down and ride him for all he’s worth.

His hands grip your hips, he falls asleep still gripping them, but when he wakes, you’re not there.

He’d be happy about it normally. He would. His morning wood is the last thing you wanna feel if you’ve left him during the night, but as his heart takes in the aches and pangs of his body, and his eyes adjust, he’s also somewhat relieved to see your lump under the covers of the other bed.

You haven’t left the room at least. He’s not so high and dry. Guess you woke up with your senses. Must realise he’s not all you thought he was. 

He thought you were going to make things work, but he must’ve got it wrong.

He sits up, looks around the room and narrows in on his underwear. Dives for them, coordinated as the sheet wrapped around him allows. He has to wriggle his hips a little to pull them up over his legs and around the bedding, but he soon stands covered, no longer naked inside and out. He could face the world. Just not you.

Dean dresses. Tucks and folds his dick into his jeans. Shirt over that. Flannel…wait.

You’re still wearing yesterday’s. He spots the sleeve peeking out under the blanket. Fingers curled, hand relaxed, light snores and steady breaths that move the shadows the morning light outside casts over you. 

You didn’t leave the room. You didn’t change your clothes. Just—changed beds. 

Why?

Should he… Should he join you? Wake you? Shut the bathroom door a little too hard when he goes and takes a leak. 

Yup. Let’s go with that. Clicks the lock a second time for extra measure.

It’s enough to wake you. At least you’re awake when he returns. Sitting up, messy bed hair. You’re beautiful. Your plump lips are so damn kissable, but he’s wary of what you’ll do. What you’ll say.

Your “Morning” comes first. A smile creeps into your cheeks second and that has to be a good sign. You had great sex, twice. Asked him not to hit on girls at the bar. 

You were thoroughly fucked. Twice!

“Hey,” he says, and you’re on to him. Your eyes pierce his. He may as well be still naked. Thank god his dick has gone down, for now. 

“Is everything okay?” you ask. You stand up and walk over to him, too. 

His flannel is still open and there’s nothing underneath, nothing except smooth skin, soft curves and warmth, care, love?

Hold the phone. Nope. He’s not going there. Not unless you say something first. He loves you like family. It’s just, regular families don’t want to kiss and taste each other and he’ll definitely have more of that 

He nods to the bed. Bides his time to choose his tone and words so you can’t contrive them for anything else, but nothing eloquent is coming. “You, ah, you jumped ship.” He swallows. Creases his brow. 

Didn’t mean to do that.

But you’re grinning at him again. Your arms stretch up and wrap around his neck. You’re pressing against him now, and he’s resorting back to unsexy thoughts. 

“You’re a blanket hog.”

His neck ticks. His hands are on your ass and he ticks there, too. Grabs a handful of the plump flesh and digs his fingertips in to stop himself from spinning. “What?”

“I got cold,” you say, and peck his lips. There’s a definite shoulder shrug because your waist is lifting and your rack is brushing against him. “I tried to wake you, but you didn’t move. Though you did mumble something ‘bout five more minutes.” You chuckle. Pull back. 

“But I’m definitely not Sam.” You stare into his eyes.

Yup. His cheeks are hot and his gut is doing flips. His lower stomach and the contents of his sack pull tight. “No. Definitely not.” 

He presses his mouth to yours, presses you into his crotch. Feels your lashes flutter against his skin. 

The sex was great. The second round was better. But this right here is where it’s at. His heart is full, his world is bigger, and for a few more hours, he’ll keep you to himself, and the blankets, too, if you’re gonna hold him to it. 

And that’s how I spent my long weekend - besides dealing with fights from too much chocolate! Hope you liked it! ❤️

DEAN TAGLIST:

@globetrotter28 @ambiguous-avery @arcannaa @jollyhunter @zepskies

@reluctanthalfwayoptimism @supernotnatural2005 @jackles010378 @kaz-2y5-spn @applelovesposts

@jaydensluv @foxyjwls007 @deans-spinster-witch @roseblue373 @waynes-multiverse

@kazchester-fanfiction @maddie0101 @ladykitana90 @luvr4miya @amyjam78

@stoneyggirl2 @winchesterwild78 @missywinchester15 @deansbbyx @kr804573

@lyarr24 @salemslostwitch @mostlymarvelgirl @ladysparkles78 @multiversefanfics

@31miw-inkpsycho @yoursrosie @Theantisoci-alone @roseamie13 @krazykelly

@my-stories-vault @amberlthomas @levine-23 @ultimatecin73 @district447

@hobby27 @aylacavebear @stellawritesstories @middleearthlife @yeehawgiddyup13

@redwinexsupernova @artemys-ackles

If you’d like to be added, you can add yourself HERE, or if you’d like to be removed, please let me know ☺️

[januaryeyler]

Edit: THE PROSHOTS OUT NOW FOR FREE!!!

Do you like horror media like Silent Hill, Stranger Things, Twin Peaks, and I Saw The TV Glow? Do you like musicals with smooth folk rock soundscapes like Rent, Spring Awakening, and Hadestown?? Do you want a musical that stars a complicated trans-femme ingenue who makes an demonic pact with her hometown's demon???

THEN YOU'LL LOVE....

TOTALED: A FOLK ROCK THRILLER!!

“Totaled: A Folk Rock Thriller” is a musical with lyrics and book by January Eyler, with music and arrangements by Neil Mclinden. Paige Chambers stumbles back into her home town of Caelum Run and makes a deal with the towns Demon in exchange for the re-animation of her friends and her “peace”. In turn, she must kill the heir to the Redfield cult, Clay Redfield. An intense B-Movie horror inspired story accompanied by a stunning folk rock soundscape. Totaled is a treat for anyone who loves a horror musical set in a remote, rural Pennsylvania ghost town.

This is one of the first full productions of its kind to be produced, directed, written, and led by trans artists. It’s also one of the first albums to ever use an equitable payment model for cast recordings, which makes sure that all of the artists whose work is featured on the album gets paid in perpetuity! Every stream supports your favorite member of the cast and crew so if you'd like to passively support a bunch of awesome trans artists please stream our album!!

The cast album is available to be streamed right now and is embedded below with the proshot being slated for released later in april, our sizzle reels from the proshot are out and also embedded in the post below! Keep an eye on The Dunwich Dolls youtube channel for more updates, trailers and other fun content!!

We also have an official 4 panel comic series that has a bit more fun with the shows story and characters so if comics are more your speed please check out our fun little webtoon!!

Thank you so so much for reading this post and checking out my little links and I hope you like the show, it really means a lot to me and the rest of the team! Please share this post if you can and tell ur friends!!!

Thanks again,

January Eyler

[padmerry]

What people often get wrong about young Ford

Strong title, I know. By “young Ford,” I mean baby and teen Ford.

When people think of baby Ford, what kind of personality do they envision? Many times—as I can attest due to fanfic reading—they seem to picture him as shy, sweet, quiet, and, in Stan’s words, “Mr. Good Nerdy-Shoes” who couldn’t stand up for himself nor think of disobeying adult authority. Look at his adorable little face.

When they think of teen Ford, he is not so sweet anymore, true—but he still contrasts greatly with his adult self, who is so assertive and confrontational, and even with young Stan, who looks extra brash next to him. That is ostensibly why Ford couldn’t stand up for Stan in the principal’s office, even though he would have had if he had more courage.

Is this general portrayal faithful to what we’re shown in canon? My own answer would be a firm no. I’ll elaborate why, exactly, below the cut.

The first thing we have to establish, imo, is that young Ford isn’t a completely different creature, a boy unrecognisable from the man he is going to become. That even baby Ford already shared, to a certain extent, some of adult Ford’s traits, and not only the most “wholesome” of them—the endearing fascination with science and anomalies and nerdiness, that is.

We can notice, for example, his ambition (back then):

We can notice he’s apparently (from what is shown to us, which is not much) the one used to decide what the Stan twins did every day, the Phineas to Stan’s Ferb:

Stan asks him, and he answers—a perhaps unintended but still fascinating parallel to how Ford was also the one to decide their destiny in the finale, namely to hunt anomalies in the Arctic.

He’s the one who rides their bike in the two panels we see them riding it. Maybe an insignificant (and definitely unintended) detail but fitting, imo, with the pattern of Ford leading and Stan tagging along.

Despite these two observations being more my particular observations than anything else, the need to draw a visual parallel between baby Ford with his adult self was the whole point of dressing them in similar outfits, with the red turtleneck:

That said, let’s focus on two major things here...

Was Ford ever a goody-two-shoes?

I think nothing is more fitting than to start this topic with Stan’s little nickname for Ford in the comics: “Mr. Goody Nerd-Shoes.”

If you have read Journal 3—hell, if you have watched the show at all—you know that Stanford Pines is far, far from being a goody two-shoes, despite indeed being a huge nerd. (An important distinction! Ford doesn’t fit nerd stereotypes!) The guy stole radioactive waste from the government even before his portal days, became an intergalactic criminal described as “armed and dangerous,” lent a mind-control tie to a child... Stan is just living in the past and doesn’t understand that Ford changed, right? He isn’t that sweet little boy who could do no wrong anymore!

But... was he ever?

He found it hilarious when Stan mocked their teacher with an unflattering caricature, and doesn’t even bother to hide it.

He helped Stan cheat on tests/assignments (it’s not clear what exactly they’re doing here, but the fact Stan was trying hard to copy it from Ford and not from the blackboard tells us he wasn’t simply copying notes, but answers). Do notice that Ford doesn’t seem bothered, not even anxious or afraid of the teacher catching them. He’s smiling.

Both occasions seem to indicate that despite taking his studies seriously, Ford didn’t have a particularly strong fear of adult authority.

And of course—the best for last—he found it perfectly normal to impersonate two boys he mistakenly thought were dead:

Alex elaborates on the shenanigans those two would get up to in the commentary A Tale of Two Stans:

We played around with the idea that you would see them working together doing little science games or pulling little pranks. There was actually a scene that—I think some of it was even storyboarded—where they have a treehouse. And they’re in the treehouse together and Crampelter and his friends have tracked them down and are begging for their lunch money and Stan and Ford have used their jerkiness and geniusness to rig up like a water balloon throwing machine that knocks Crampelter in the head. I remember him saying, “oh no, my old-timey paper crown!” We were really hanging a lampshade on all these sort of Little Rascal cliches.

They were—both of them—an utter menace. I think Ford just happened to be way subtler about it than poor Stan, causing his misbehaving nature to be easily ignored by both the audience and, luckily, his father Filbrick.

Was Ford ever meek and conflict-avoidant?

I think many people think Stan was the protector and Ford the protected in their early years, but it was never as straightforward as this.

Young Ford is very sensitive about one thing in particular: when people mock his hands or imply he’s a freak. The way I see it, it’s because he believes that, deep down. He believes he’s indeed a freak. On top of that, he cares more about general public opinion than Stan does, since Stan is only ever shown to care about the opinion of his own family.

The insecurity about his hands is something that arguably follows him to adulthood:

(Of course, Ford doesn’t blush and doesn’t demonstrate any insecurity here, but he’s gotten way better at hiding and/or suppressing his feelings. I doubt Bill would have chosen this to pick up on if he didn’t think it would hurt.)

Outside of that, however?

He was quite confrontational! Certainly way more than I remember being when I was his age, as a conflict-avoidant child.

Quite angry, too:

(Notice how, in the original idea of Stan and Ford rigging up a water fountain described in the previous topic, Ford wasn’t afraid to pull a prank on Crampelter, either, despite being sensitive towards Crampelter’s targeted mocking of his hands.)

And most interesting of all—he was not afraid of stand up for Stanley, even when it would cost him to do so (considering that the Sibling Brothers had threatened to frame him as well and let him face Filbrick’s punishment along with Stan in case he made the wrong choice):

Not even when Filbrick was involved directly, instead of being used as the Siblings Brothers’ invisible threat! Pay attention to how Stan hides behind Ford as he tells Ford, “tell ‘im, Sixer!” basically using his brother as a shield, hahah. And, by the way, subverting the common fanon perception that Stan would often protect his twin from his father while a helpless, scared Ford would only watch and let him take the punishment. This is one of the reasons why he gets angry at Stan for lying: “I defended you!”

When Stan is being kicked out, he actively asks Ford for help, once again, just like he did as a kid!

Not even their mom, Caryn, but Ford!

And Stan knows Ford like the back of his hand! Why would Stan ask for Ford to defend him, to stand up to Filbrick, if he didn’t think Ford was capable of it? Ford’s protection was something that Stan thought he could rely on, if only this once, with such high stakes and urgency... despite...

... despite Ford completely failing to defend him in front of the principal, yes.

Remember how Ford always struggled to defend himself from comments that he believed deep, deep down? I think a similar thing was happening here, in the principal’s office. Of course, he wouldn’t have thought of Stan as “a clown,” at the very least not consciously, and he loved his brother, but at that point in their lives the difference between Ford’s and Stan’s accomplishments and abilities must have been undeniable, with the world at large pointing it out more and more often.

This moment in the series was also probably inspired by the real moment in Alex’s life that inspired the scene in which Mabel overhead Ford’s proposal to Dipper, according to the commentary of Dipper and Mabel vs. the Future:

This idea of Mabel overhearing Dipper and feeling left out actually came from a real thing that happened between me and my sister. This is a weird anecdote about me and my sister but we did this kind of like, sort of competitive improv games when we were in middle school, very nerdy. And we did pretty good, like, our team made it to the international competition every year, and there was this high school team... [...] We had a pretty good team, but there was a team above us, the high school team, that was like, legendary, that we wanted to be like. And when me and my sister went from junior high school to high school, like, this is going to be our last year to do this sort of competitive improv, and I got a call from the high school team saying “hey, guess what? we already raided your team for the standout members, we’ve taken the people from your team that always do good scores and we’re combining the high school team and the middle school team into a super team and we would like you to be on the high school team. And I was like, “what about Ariel?” And they were like, “well, there’s only seven members per team—” and Ariel was listening on the conversation and I remember her like, bursting into tears because they had basically been like yeah, we got two Hirsches [and] we only want one, and I didn’t even blink. I just said, “no, I refuse to be on this team.” Like, I couldn’t, it was just like, this is so messed up, you’re breaking this whole thing apart, like yeah, it’s a great team, yeah, you guys are awesome, but I’m not gonna do this without Ariel.

Based on Alex’s immediate and strong reaction to such a proposal, it’s not a stretch to think Ford’s silence here was indeed telling—especially because in Alex’s case, Ariel was never insulted. The principal, on the other hand, calls Stan a “clown,” says “he’ll be lucky to graduate high school.”

And because Caryn (who failed to defend Stan when he’s kicked out) did react about the way the principal was talked about him/did ask about him, in the two opportunities that were given to her, basically taking Alex’s irl role in the situation:

Dipper himself also asked about Mabel, even though he was being given an opportunity to learn from The Author of the Journals, whom he admired to the point of almost worship:

A significant factor I think could have changed for Ford to stay silent as the principal badmouthed Stan is: Ford’s priorities. Before, when they were children and more carefree and naive, it was Stan > the world (such as other people’s opinions and his ambition). Now, though, with a true opportunity to finally prove himself—one unlike any other he had before, capable of earning him the approval of even their “tough as a cinderblock” father—he was clinging hard to it.

And you might also be thinking, “but the examples you gave of Ford being assertive were only of baby Ford! Teen Ford could have grown more insecure. Perhaps Stan hadn’t realized that yet, or perhaps Stan was just desperate.” To that I say... fair enough! We don’t have enough canon material regarding teen Ford to decide how he behaved.

But we do have something regarding college Ford, just as he entered college, likely just months after Stan was kicked out—when he met Fiddleford, as described by Fiddleford himself on the TBoB website:

Lines such as “[...] my room mate, a freshman from New Jersey, barged in like he owned the place [...]” and “confidently declared” are very telling here. Of course, Ford didn’t stand up for Fiddleford in front of the whole class, but I honestly think that a) it was a different situation, considering the sheer amount of people/the presence of a public audience, and, partially due to that, b) it would have been a very unintelligent move if he didn’t have anything to defend Fiddleford with (to brag about something with zero backup, even if motivated by anger, is a very typical move of cartoon characters to create conflict for the plot... and also quite annoying to me personally, so I’m glad Ford didn’t go that route, hahah). Deciding to prove that Fiddleford’s theory was accurate first to shove it in everyone’s face second is a way smarter move and way, way more in line with Ford’s modus operandi, who—well—loves shoving the undeniable truth and/or his undeniable superiority in people’s faces. (From Journal 3, when Ford was already living in Gravity Falls: “I traveled to Northwest Manor to confront Old Man Northwest with the evidence of his family’s deceit [...]” and “Imagine the look on the dean of West Coast Tech’s face when he saw that the student he refused was now the next Einstein! Imagine how proud my family and hometown would be: the ‘Freak’ would return a hero!”) Personally, the vibes I get from this seem to indicate a very confident Ford already! A Ford who would have defended Stan if he weren’t already slowly internalizing and subconsciously agreeing with the things people said about his brother, or—at the very least—asked the principal about Stan’s fate, like Alex, Caryn, and Dipper did/would have done in his place.

We also have a clear parallel between baby Ford in The Jersey Devil’s in the Details and teen Ford in A Tale of Two Stans. Both have people telling them they’re better than Stan. One defends Stan strongly, the other listens quietly. Both feel betrayed by Stan. One forgives Stan, the other doesn’t. Filbrick was involved in both situations—one wasn’t afraid of being framed if it meant standing with his brother, the other didn’t stand with his brother even as his brother was kicked out of the house.

Let’s remember the Sibling Brothers’ words to him:

“One day you’re gonna realize that you’re too good for him.” Unfortunately, that prophecy came true! Way too true!

In the commentary of Dipper and Mabel vs. The Future, Jason Ritter (Dipper’s VA) suggested that Ford believed than “you can be held back by your siblings,” to which Alex agreed. It’s not necessary to accept Word of God to understand this fact, either:

I didn’t want to end all of this on such a bitter note, since my last intention with this post is to give people more reason to hate on Ford. He is actually my favorite character and, if the parallels between The Jersey Devil’s in the Details and A Tale of Two Stans teach us anything, it is that Ford did have reasons to distrust Stan/not believe Stan was telling the truth about it being an accident. (Stan lies really, really well when he wants to! See: Not What He Seems!) It is exactly because of him being my favorite character, though, that I am so fascinated by his characterization, and I think baby Ford’s loyalty and courage deserves more appreciation. Teen Ford, on the other hand—it was never courage that he lacked.

[lynxgriffin]

Eldritchrune - Chaos, Chaos

1 | 2

Story Setup Eldritchrune Masterpost

The Fun Gang arrives just in the nick of time for Kris, and with that added strength, Kris is able to overcome Jevil and get their reward. But there's still some questions left unanswered...

Aaaand here's the final part for the Jevil boss battle! Feels good to finally get this comic done, considering how long it took to get out! Work on others is still continuing in the meanwhile, but thanks so much for checking out this crazy secret boss battle scene!!

Alt text for this comic is under the read more:

Page 1

Panel 1 - Back outside the gyre, Kris rematerializes with a quick POP just below where Ralsei is standing. They land hard on their back, but they’re alive and whole again. 

Panel 2 - Wider shot of Kris, Ralsei and Susie, now together again. Kris trembles and breathes heavily, curled up on a ball, while Ralsei hovers over them, and says “Thank goodness, I got here in time!” Susie looks on, snarling at the danger before them.

Panel 3 - Wide panel as the Fun Gang face down the enormous Jevil, who is continuing to spin around and around the bottomless pit. “The hell is THAT thing?!” Susie asks, her long hair blowing towards the gyre. 

“A bound god! This must have been what Seam mentioned to you…” Ralsei says to Kris, who is still curled up beneath him.

Panel 4 - “But I’m not familiar with how to subdue this god!” Ralsei finishes, still hovering over Kris. Kris keeps staring back at Jevil, taking quick and shallow breaths as they try to grasp being alive again. 

Panel 5 - Jevil continues to spin around wildly, and responds to Ralsei, “DEMON PRINCE, SEE, SEE? HOW THINGS TRULY BE OUTSIDE YOUR BOOKS, YOUR RULES!”

Page 2

Panel 1 - Kris manages to get back onto their feet, although they’re still trembling, and gripping at their shoulder where they just recently lost the arm. “I-if I can just reach the c-center…” they say, trying to get their strength back.

Ralsei works to steady Kris as they stand. “Courage, Kris! We’re here with you now!”

Panel 2 - Kris again faces down the spinning god, which grins back at them in anticipation.

Panel 3 - Closeup on Kris as determination sets into their face. They have an idea of what to do.

Panel 4 - Susie leans down, and Kris climbs up onto her back using her hair.

Panel 5 - Once situated on Susie, they raise their sword towards Jevil and give her the ACT command. Susie looks on, snarling and ready.

Panel 6 - Wider shot as Susie begins to carefully slide in closer to the spinning Jevil. The whirlwind is pulling them both in closer again. Ralsei stands by, watching cautiously.

Page 3

Panel 1 - The panels of the page curl around into a whirlwind movement as Susie and Kris slide in closer to Jevil.

Panel 2 - As Susie is almost up against Jevil’s orbit, she opens her jaws wide, revealing sharp teeth–

Panel 3 - And then snaps them down hard onto one of the large bone fingers as it spins by. She doesn’t bite through, but hangs on to the bone by her teeth.

Panel 4 - An overhead view as Susie and Kris are pulled along the edge of the whirlwind, with Susie hanging on by her teeth. However, they are now matching the speed that Jevil is spinning at.

Panel 5 - From Susie’s back, Kris now has a clear view of Jevil’s head at the center of the gyre. They ready their sword…

Panel 6 - Kris rears back, gripping the sword tight, clearly worried that something bad will happen again–

Panel 7 - A closeup on Kris’s armored feet as they make the leap from Susie’s back.

Page 4

Panel 1 - Very wide shot as Susie continues to hold on to Jevil’s scythe finger, dragged along his orbit. Jevil himself faces down Kris, who has jumped straight into the gyre, their sword raised to strike–

Panel 2 - Abstract black and white panel as the strike of something sharp hits its mark.

Panel 3 - A wide shot reveals that it is Kris who has struck home this time. They finish the leap across the bottomless pit with sword still in hand. Behind them, Jevil’s head has been severed from his body, and falls into the pit.

Panel 4 - Closeup on Jevil’s severed head as it falls. He doesn’t seem upset at all, but continues to grin wildly, letting out a laugh: “UUHHEE HEE HEEEEE!”

Panel 5 - Wide shot as Jevil’s spinning tent body begins to lose its balance. The spinning slows down, and the enormous hands begin to lose their standing and topple over. Ralsei watches the scene as Kris grips onto part of the tent body, hanging on during the collapse. Strange viscera begins to pour out of the severed neck, filling the pit below.

Panel 6 - Closer on Kris as they continue to hold on tight to the tent skin with one hand, and keep their sword gripped in the other. They watch the scene below them–

Page 5

Panel 1 - Reverse shot as Kris watches from above. Strange viscera pours out of the open wound and fills the pit below them: bones, skulls and entrails, animal heads and limbs, all mixed in with feathers, toys, cards, cake and candy. 

Panel 2 - Closeup as the viscera finishes spilling out, one item comes to land on top of the pile: a strange, dark shard of what looks like black glass.

Panel 3 - Above the mess, Susie continues to grip onto the large bone as the spinning slowly comes to a stop. “Whuzzat fing?!” she asks, her mouth mostly busy holding onto Jevil.

Panel 4 - Closeup as Kris leans down and picks the shard of black glass off the top of the pile.

Panel 5 - Wider shot as Kris stands on top of the junk pile. They examine the glass in their hand carefully. “I’m not sure…”

Panel 6 - Kris looks up from the pile in shock and surprise as Jevil’s voice echoes around them: “WHAT FUN, FUN! SUCH A WONDROUS ROMP, I LOST MY HEAD!”

Panel 7 - Kris turns their head to see Jevil’s severed neck spring to life, and turn towards them. Inside the wound there is only blackness…and a face looking back at them. Just a simple face of pinpoint eyes and many wicked teeth, grinning in the black. “SUCH STRENGTH, LITTLE LOST HUMAN!” Jevil praises them.

Page 6

Panel 1 - Closeup on the new, prickly Jevil face peering at Kris from the black. “PERHAPS ONE DAY, HIS BLACK HAND WILL STRETCH FROM THE PIT AND TOUCH YOUR MIND, TOO!” Jevil says. The many teeth stretch into a grin. “THEN…THEN!...”

Panel 2 - Kris takes a cautious step back, and puts a hand back on their sword. “I’m not interested in any more of your freedoms.”

Panel 3 - Wide shot as Kris moves down the viscera pile, away from the face grinning at them still. They pocket the shard as watch Jevil warily. The face in the black replies, “PITY, PITY! BUT ALL THE BETTER FOR ME, ME! TAKE MY TREASURE, BRING CHAOS TO YOUR LITTLE TOWN, AND I’LL BE FREE!”

Panel 4 - Far outside the circle, Ralsei raises his hands to his mouth and calls out to Kris. “Kris Come on!”

Panel 5 - Kris begins a steady climb out of the pit, with Susie waiting for them above. 

Panel 6 - Wider shot as Kris finishes climbing out of the sand trap, and grips onto Susie’s long hair for support. She grimaces and they climb back onto her shoulders. 

Page 7

Panel 1 - Wider shot as Kris and Susie step away from where Jevil now lays collapsed in the sand pit, completely subdued. “What was THAT all about?” Susie asks. Kris continues to examine the black shard, and says, “I found this strange object. It came out of its body…”

Panel 2 - Downshot on Ralsei as he answers: “Oh Kris, wonderful! This battle wasn’t in vain…you got a shadow crystal!” In the foreground, Kris holds the shadow crystal carefully between their fingers.

Panel 3 - Shot of Kris on Susie’s back as they look warily at the crystal. They ask, “This is what Seam spoke of?” 

Offscreen, Ralsei replies: “Yes! The bound gods of the Dark World carry shadow crystals!”

Panel 4 - Wide shot of the entire Fun Gang as Ralsei continues to explain: “We need as many as you can find…once you combine enough together, you can channel your soul through the crystal to open the Dark Fountain.” Kris continues to study the crystal, while Susie just looks up warily at the open space they’re in.

Page 8

Panel 1 - Kris looks down at Ralsei, and narrows their eyes in slight suspicion. “If I need these, why did you not mention this particular bound god to me?”

Panel 2 - Ralsei holds out his hands to Kris, and gives his explanation: “Well…some of them are more of a mystery to me. Especially when they spring from smaller creatures that have obtained godhood…they are hard to find, and even hard to defeat.”

Panel 3 - “I worry about what effect these gods may have on the state of your mind!” Ralsei finishes, looks up with concern at Kris. Kris watches him from the foreground. 

Panel 4 - Focus on Kris as they flash back to not long ago, when their body was unraveling in Jevil’s gyre. They have a haunted look on their face.

Panel 5 - Closeup on Kris as they finally respond: “I am fine.” However, they hide much of their face, and they do not seem to actually be fine.

Panel 6 - Wider shot as the Fun Gang begins to slowly move away from Jevil. Susie continues to look towards the ceiling, and says, “Ugh, let’s just get out of here! Now we’re probably gonna need a rest before we face King, anyway.” Kris continues to hide their expression. Ralsei says, “Right! Kris, let’s get you out of this gloomy basement!”

Page 9

Panel 1 - Wide shot as the Fun Gang begin to slowly trek back up the sandy hill that Kris slid down in the first place. It’s going to be a long way back up. For a moment, they are silent, with Susie just kicking up sand behind her as she steadily treads uphill.

Panel 2 - Focus on Kris as they glance back at Ralsei, asking something else that has been on their mind. “Ralsei…who is this ‘he’ that the god kept talking about? With black hands?”

Panel 3 - Below Kris, Ralsei waves the question off, looking dismissive. “Oh, it’s clear that that god wasn’t in a sound state of mind…it could have been anyone.”

Panel 4 - Extremely wide panel as the Fun Gang makes their way back up the hill towards the single shaft of light where Kris first fell. All around them is just a thick, empty darkness. However, from the panel borders themselves, something like black fingers stretch out just at the edge of their perception.

“Nothing for you to worry about, Kris,” Ralsei says.